Blogging on the Powwow

Can you believe it? I wrote this post on Thanksgiving weekend and before I knew it, Christmas was here and over. But, since I wrote it, I'd like to post it, even if it is late...and it's all still true! -------------------------------------- It has taken me a while to get around to writing a blog post about being thankful. I am thankful. Of course, I am thankful, is my most common response. I am thankful for all the things that I should  be thankful. I love and I am loved in return, by humans and my canine. I have a home, and even better, a home that I like and cherish. I am warm. I have a job and an income to cover my basic needs, and then some. I am healthy and no one in my life has a chronic or life-threatening health condition. I can go about my business without interference from law enforcement or government. This is the condensed version. The expanded version addresses the aspects of my life for which I am most thankful weekly, if not, daily. I am most thankful f...

The answer is no. Did you have experiences as a child that made you miserable at the time, but served you well in adulthood? I did. I went to Girl Scout camp for four years as a child, from ages 9-12. My sister also went to this same camp. As the older sister she went before I could attend and came home full of stories, camp songs, and plans for me to attend when I was older. She would greet us at the bottom of "killer hill"--tanned, happy, and healthy with huge bicep muscles from swinging her ax, building unit kitchens, and canoeing all over the camp's pond. She would sing camp songs throughout the school year and pine away for summer when she could return to residential camp. I couldn't wait  to go to summer camp, just like my sister. I went to camp, but unlike my sister, I was miserable. I cried every day. It was a little too rustic for me at the time--both in living style and in the expectations of the campers. No flush toilets, sleeping in platform tents, no ...

We all have memories or scenes from our childhood that bring us a rush of pleasure, right? Remembering our mothers in the kitchen, fathers reading bedtime stories, grandparents waving as we drove in the long camp drive. It's really the simple, every day activities that when remembered today seem magical and draw us back to the days of yesteryear.  For me, it's seeing butter set out in the sun to soften. My mother would place a stick or two of Blue Bonnet margarine in the huge picture window in our living room or maybe on the window sill over our kitchen sink -- to soften for baking. This was always a welcome sign. It represented the relaxed pace of the weekend, the pleasure of baked goods, the warmth of our home, and spending time in the kitchen with my mother while she baked.  I don't bake nearly as often as my mother did when I was a child, but when I do, it gives me great pleasure to set a stick of butter in the sunlight or another warm place in preparation for bakin...

If you follow me on Facebook, then you know that things have gone south with my running injury. In fact, there is some evidence that things may have gotten worse, despite the fact that I still have not run since Thanksgiving.  So, on Friday when my doctor told me that I had to revert to the dreaded surgical shoe and that I couldn't use the elliptical machine or a stair climber, I knew that I had to find a way to swim. I couldn't face 8+ more weeks on the stationary bicycle. I just couldn't do it. I like to think of myself as a pretty simple person. I prefer older cars, I don't have the latest technology, we have a modest-sized house in an even more modest neighborhood, I hardly ever wear make-up, and I don't use any special products that promise to improve my aging body. Hence, I like Planet Fitness; $99 for the year and all the basic cardio and weight equipment that I could ever need... until now.  Since there is no YMCA nearby, I hauled myself and the surgical s...

In the coming week, I will turn 40 years old. Finally . I think that I have been waiting almost forever  to be the age that I have felt most of my life. Even when I was a young girl, I just wanted to be "grown up." To add fuel to this instinct, from the time that I entered my early teens until even last week, people have always thought that I am much older than my actual age. When I was 13, people used to mistake me to be the 17 year old in the family. They would bypass my sister and say, "So, where are you applying for college?" You can imagine the delight this gave a 13 year old and I am sure that I am made sister aware of it every possible moment.  When I was in college, we had a guest to the Psychology Dept. This individual saw me carrying around some papers and addressed me: "Are you a secretary here?" "No, I am not." "Well, then you must be a graduate student?" "No, I'm sorry." "Then...are you a facul...

It's happened to all of us. We visit the house or neighborhood where we grew up. The trees are different. The street has been repaved. There are more houses on the street and strangers living "next door." We drive past what was, in our youth, a farm. Now? A bustling strip mall. People dragging toddlers in and out of Staples, Target, and the like. No one seems to care that it was once a farm and that part of your childhood is gone. In fact, it seems almost taken without your permission. Stolen. It's true. You can never go home. I started playing the oboe in 4th grade. I wanted to play the bassoon, but it was a bit large for me. So, my mother, a band teacher, suggested that I take up the oboe and later switch to bassoon. I never made the switch. I was especially happy playing oboe. Here's a picture of me at my 7th grade Christmas concert. I was 12. My two closest friends from junior high and high school are beside and behind me: Traci Lamarre Lenzi on flute and Ka...

As many of my readers may know, Kathy Leavitt and I have been acquaintances since elementary school and close friends since high school. After a brief hiatus in early adulthood, Kathy and I re-initiated our friendship in our mid-20s and we have been in near daily contact, primarily via email, for the past 14-15 years. Kathy has been a constant source of support for me. She has heard about all of my woes, successes, and concerns. She is almost more knowledgeable about my career and life than me. In addition to sharing dog stories and tips, gluten-free eating, and our childhood, Kathy has listened to endless stories about my profession and been a constant, positive, source of support. I suffered many failures in my four-year-long search for a tenure-track job before I landed at Bridgewater. Every time I was turned down, Kathy exclaimed, Those idiots! How could they not hire you? You don't want to work for someone who wouldn't hire you anyway, right? It's their loss, no...

I'm a day late, but April 12 is associated with great memories for me. First, it is the birthday of my 3rd grade teacher, Debra Andrews (then--Debra Swinson). I have wonderful memories of being in her class. I felt welcome. She went out of her way to make each child feel special and it worked for me. I felt special. She had a bi-monthly activity where a child's name would be selected from a hat. We each then wrote something that we liked about that classmate. She would copy those statements onto card stock--in perfect penmanship, one card for each statement and hang them on a classroom wall. She also had an exercise where we would reach into a bucket and pull out a slip of paper with a word on it: lipstick, washing machine, typewriter, etc. and we would speak for 2 minutes about that item in front of the class - impromptu. I confess that my favorite memory of Mrs. Swinson (errrr....Debra) is that she let me wear my red earmuffs indoors...during class...all day long - or, tha...