(Dis)comfort food

If you know my Mom, you know how she is attached to food as the source of comfort. She loves to cook and lives to cook. I am not sure I can find the dividing line between cooking to share love and cooking to receive love.

In her younger days, she was a legendary whirlwind in the kitchen leaving the room looking like something of a war zone. She rarely if ever used cookbooks or recipes. Baking was a specialty and there’d be flour splotches all over her and most any available surface.  When not baking, country-style cooking ruled: meat, potatoes and lots of gravy, pot roast, pork chops, fried chicken, canned vegetables, casseroles and Jello salads. On creative days, she’d whip up a giant pot of spaghetti that would last for days.

When my brother and I were young, she was nearly obsessed with cooking to please our Dad. We’d eat what he wanted, or when for some unknown reason she wanted us to eat something he didn’t like, she’d prep a separate meal for him. The best example I can remember is liver — he refused to touch it and we were given no choice. I covered mine in ketchup and raced to get it over with.

By the time I hit my teen years, she was cooking for the tribe of friends who would come and go from our house. She loved it and never balked at adding someone or many someones to the table at the last minute. There were times when I was gone and friends would wander over to our house at mealtime. Neither the friends nor my Mom seemed bothered by my absence; her cooking was the reason for the visit.

When my kids were growing up, she became known as “the Cinnamon Roll Grandma.” She’d overtake our kitchen and practice her craft. Word would spread and neighbors, family and friends would stop by to “visit.” There would be fresh, hot treats for all and the favored would leave with a platter to enjoy in the coming days.

After my parents divorced, Mom worked as a sorority house director. Although not part of her job she usually had fresh baked treats for the “girls” and nearly anyone on campus who would stop by. She was passionate about caring for those she viewed as lonely or left out and her baked goods were how she’d start a friendship and keep it growing, often for many years. Security staff and delivery workers would route their daily rounds to meet her baking schedule. And she didn’t always wait for people to drop by the house. She’d often take a tray or basket to pass out her gifts of love as she’d wander the campus.

Mom eventually purchased a small house in a retirement community and remarried. Anytime I’d visit, she’d prepare what she thought was one of my favorite meals. There was always more than enough. My brother and his family live near and would usually join the meal. With aging, her skills began to drift and the quality of her efforts became unpredictable — well, actually, maybe predictable in a less-than-positive way.

Her love of food goes beyond her own cooking. She loves trips to buy groceries, going out to restaurants and talking about food. Tell her about a trip or vacation and she’ll ask about restaurants you visited and what you ate. All family gatherings are rated on some inner “food scale” for which only she knows the key.

About eight years ago my Mom had a stroke, actually her third stroke that we know of. Initially she seemed to recover well — that is, until her sight started to diminish. Now she is essentially blind.

She tried to keep cooking. She and George attempted forming something of a tag-team with her instructing and him trying, for the first time in his near ninety years, to navigate a kitchen. The results were not always pretty.

Mom is painfully aware that she no longer “has it.” She laments the loss and it only adds to her questioning the value of living.

A while back I took my Mom for a day exploring Portland. Portland was the city of her youth and my childhood. I let her guide the trip, which was a bit of a challenge because of she was never good with directions and further complicated by her lack of sight.

Mom would try to describe a place and I’d start driving. We visited former neighborhoods, homes of friends or family members and our old church. She’d reminisce and ask questions and I’d try and remember with her while also telling her the current state of affairs.

A highlight of the day was finding restaurants of her choosing. We talked about many but ended up at a fondly remembered place. She knew what she wanted and was ready to critique. At the end of the day I had tears in my eyes and a sense that if this was the last time I was with my Mom, it would be a wonderful finish.

My memory is that Mom was a bright light at most any gathering. She’d flit from person to person and conversation to conversation making sure that all were included and cared for. She introduced strangers, encouraging new friendships. She called everyone to gather for a feast or roam the crowd extending the gifts of her love.

My Mom was always about more than food. Yet food and her passionate relationship with it were indicative of her broader approach to life. Giving and seeking love, serving and caring for others were her hallmarks.

Like the proverbial fish out of water, she now thrashes gasping for some sense of hope and purpose for life. She struggles trying to find some meaning in her physical and emotional darkness.

I have no idea how I will respond when, if I live long enough, my comfort and identity are stripped away. Will I be complacent, letting others guide me into the dreaded unknown? Or will I fight like a cornered cat, trusting no one and ready to battle to the finish? It is easy to think I will handle it in some better manner. But that is all projection and reality can be a viscous taskmaster. I’ll get my turn, and as they say, “Time will tell.”

May God have mercy on us all.

also catapult magazine:  https://www.catapultmagazine.com/comfort-food/feature/dis-comfort-food

AND IT IS GOOD

I guess hormones get things started,
creating some sense of social order,
maybe keeping the race alive.
 
Something other binds us,
whispering deep within
for almost forty years now.
 
Naming seems simplistic or incomplete
but it exists, we are together,
and it is good.

published in the Bellingham Herald 2.10.14

Read more here: http://www.bellinghamherald.com/2014/02/10/3463026/herald-readers-share-valentine.html#storylink=cpy

It’s only paranoia if...

She fears that credit cards

and government servants
have replaced Santa and Jesus as all seeing,
all knowing powers to be reckoned with.

Ignore the ever-present snoops
and be labeled an out of touch fool.
Try going off the grid and
be compared to the Unabomber. 

Voicing caution
may accomplish little more than
elevating her place on some list,
that she has been assured does not exist.

Welcome to the new America,
and the global neighborhood,
the new now,
and by the way, good luck.

This poem is from the current issue of catapult magazine with the theme of Privacy. Here's the link for further reading: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/

Schmotzer’s never...

“Don’t worry Dad, I’m a Schmotzer and Schmotzer’s never quit.”

So said my four-year-old granddaughter to her dad, my son, when recently being instructed to “really” clean her room.

My first response to hearing the story was I wish my Dad could have heard it. He would have loved that his great-grandchild wasn’t a “quitter.” Dad was no nonsense. Never give up was S.O.P. I could almost hear him, “Yep, she’s a Schmotzer.”

Personally I was proud she had learned endurance from her parents and I considered that a fine legacy. Tenacity is one of my high values and I hope my family shares it. I love the idea that at a young age she has a beginning awareness of the importance of seeing things through to the finish.

I eventually got off the cloud of thinking my granddaughter had it all figured out and was ready to meet any goal and overcome every challenge that life will bring. Reality check: she’s four and probably parroting something her parents said. It’s something positive, but something that will take years to learn, and more to live out.

Then I thought about the danger of the simplistic motto, “Never quit.” Remember the whisper, “There is a time for everything…”

As I thought about quitting, and my tendency to think not quitting is the best option, I realized that my interactions with quitting have been varied in importance and value.

Here are some of my life “quitting” stories and ideas:

The real deal. My Dad was a nail biter — actually, a chewer. Chewed ‘til they bled. I followed suit, only I was more of a biter. Being filled with anxious energy, and choosing not to smoke, chewing or biting your nails seemed a good option. One day in my teens I decided I no longer wanted to continue the habit. I made a decision and quit. This might be an example of why some people compliment me on my strength of discipline. I, though, can think of too many things I have wished to quit or change that still refuse to die or disappear.

Glad we keep choosing not to quit. Personally I am thankful for numerous times my wife and I have refused the pressure to crumble or the lure of an easy way out in our marriage. I am glad Connie and I have pushed through difficulties that could have buried us. Each day is an opportunity, a challenge and a choice.

Too stubborn for my own good. From city league basketball to long distance races, I have participated in athletic activities suspecting, and maybe at times knowing, I was injured. I had good reasons. Others were counting on me, I had made a commitment or set a goal and I needed to finish what I started. Fortunately I never had a major sports injury, many minor ones — but that may be more a gift of grace than making the best choice.

Giving up too soon. Honesty indicates there are times I have quit when something better was possible. Relationships come to mind — the times I have “had enough” and walked away. Sometimes it has been overt and direct; usually it has been more of a silent drift.

Not soon enough? There are situations in which I may not have quit soon enough. I look back at certain job situations and wonder why I didn’t leave sooner. Why did I stay? Great question. It may have something to do with my inner hard wiring. I am highly loyal. When I get involved with people I want to stay involved. I want to see projects through, and there is always something in process.

My best hope in dealing with “quitting” is to learn to live the tension. There are times when emotions must be ignored and commitments fulfilled. Short-term gratification may need to be trumped by long-term goals. There are other times when quitting and letting go are the best options.

Refusing to quit can be a form of arrogance that is more about personal reputation than accomplishments and commitments. The hope is that I am growing in wisdom that enables me to make decisions and take action based more on matters of greater importance than my petty ego.

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became (an adult), I put the ways of childhood behind me.” Children are taught concrete structures and systems, black and white, right and wrong for safety and protection. These can serve us well for the start-up phase of life. At the same time they can constrain and imprison us as adults. Being adult is more about living in the muddled world of options, choices and nuance.

Life is about growing in wisdom so we can know when to go forward with tenacity and when to cut our losses. It is being able to quit, or not quit, and live with the consequences in the face of ambiguity or a lack of simplistic clarity about our choices and related actions.

May God have mercy on us all…

also catapult magazine: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/quitting/article/schmotzer-s-never

Just another year

From my limited viewpoint, nothing earth-shattering or life-changing happened for my family and me in 2013. More seemed the same than different — something like twelve months circling for a landing. It may be the impact of aging: when you’ve seen about 60 years, at times they seem to blur together. But most of life is lived in small movements, routines and commitments. So in the midst of another year I will attempt to draw out some of the special moments and happenings from my corner of Planet Earth.

1. (My) book of the year and favorite gift find. One day while filling in as an elementary school librarian, I found my favorite book of the year, The Gift of Nothing (2005) by Patrick McDonnell. The book is a short, simple, sweet reflection on life and what really matters. While I may never be able to fully live into the message, any progress along the way is worth the effort. I gave a copy to my wife for Christmas. We have often talked about what we “really need” in the way of life and gifts and the book was a perfect symbol of our shared values and journey.
2. A new volunteer opportunity. Through connections in the local school community, I was asked to volunteer with Special Olympics. I helped with basketball, bowling and soccer. The human-interest stories about kids in Special Olympics have become such common news fodder that they may have little impact for many. Do not be fooled. Through helping with Special Olympics I am able to be present for, and in a way share in, moments when athletes and supportive family and community members experience the fullness of life and joy that transcends what most of us drift through on a daily basis.
3. A new learning opportunity. I became a referee for middle and high school girls’ basketball. I have always loved basketball, I like helping kids and I thought I could benefit from the extra exercise. I went through the training, testing and began calling games. I soon found myself to be the proverbial deer in the headlights. The pace of the game and pressure of responsibility overwhelmed me. I dreaded each assignment. I learned that I am not good at refereeing and don’t like it. Not one little bit.
4. A surprise reconnection. I was asked by a denominational leader to be a coach for a church in a transformation process. I was initially matched with a church about an hour away. At the last minute, a call came requesting I switch to another church. That second church just happened to be one that I was on staff with from 1985–1997. It has been a bit surreal. I have enjoyed reconnecting with some friends and meeting new members. The congregation has become something very different and I hope I am different as well.
5. Best decision: I quit refereeing basketball! The coordinator tried to talk me into sticking it out for a second year with promises of “it gets better” and “you’ll start to love it.” I was not convinced.  I hated the pressure and the possibility of negatively impacting a game. Now every time I watch a game or walk through a gym, I am assured I made the right choice.
6. (My) movie of the year: Closure. “Closure is a documentary about a trans-racial adoptee (Angela) who finds her birth mother, and meets the rest of a family who didn’t know she existed, including her birth father.” We know Angela and her family. She grew up in Bellingham and worked with my wife for a period of time. Adoption is a significant part of our family story. Closure a great movie!
7. Two are better than one. It has happened innumerable times over the decades we have been married, those moments when Connie (my wife) and I draw together and overcome a challenge, big or small.  There were two situations in late 2013 that quickly come to mind — moments that had unforeseen beginnings, in which emotions could have been irreparably damaged and relationships severed. Together we chose to keep breathing, be proactive and avoid cheap interpersonal battles. We found time and space to process and support each other and make shared decisions. Listening and laughter replaced disastrous moves that might have derailed significant relationships and brought a shadow over our future days.
8. A lesson learned.  I work as a substitute teacher to supplement my self-employment income. Having taught middle school in the 70s, I decided to give middle school physical education a try.  Part of my teaching involved PE and coaching. I wanted to see if the current reality was as bad as I presumed. After the one-day experience I choose to honor mothers everywhere (”If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all”). I will say nothing more on this subject.
9. “You’re telling me there’s a chance.”  Sports fans in the Pacific Northwest have an inferiority complex. We believe in the east coast bias. We feel ignored (if not abused) by referees, league officials and other fans. Listen to announcers try to say “Oregon.” This year brought some vindication through the rise of a number of Northwest teams into the national spotlight. Here is an overview of “my” teams in 2013. The Seahawks came through big time (so far) and the Timbers and Trailblazers (so far) exceeded my expectations. The Ducks crushed my hopes in football (by not going all the way), but are showing promise in basketball. Lastly, the Mariners were once again…the Mariners.
10. Best moment of 2013. For about 25 years we have gone camping on Orcas Island. It started with our boys, spending days at the lake and scouting the island. As the boys grew, we invited other family members and friends, although Connie and I were the only two on the trip for a couple of years. In August 2013 all of our kids and grandkids were there, except for our youngest son. He had been through a recent job transition that impacted his vacation schedule. We considered various options that would allow him to join us, but the travel difficulties (getting to the island requires driving and a ferry ride) and time constraints (he had only one day off) eliminated the possibility. In mid-week our daughter-in-law returned from a trip “get groceries” only to surprise us with Kyle stepping out of the car. The momentary joy of being together, even for a short time, made the week and memories that much better.

May God have mercy on us all….

also  https://www.catapultmagazine.com/ten-things-7/article/just-another-year

Nod to the boys of Stephens Street

It has begun.

Doug was born 12.12.53

making him the first

to cross the imaginary line.

The rest of us were ’54.

I think I’m next.

Mid-march, eighteenth to be exact,

about two weeks before Steve.

Denny follows on April fifth.

Donnie may have been the youngest,

maybe a summer birthday.

And Lee Ann, she was the only girl,

and I don’t remember her DOB.

Logic? I’ll take football.

My heart can be pulled and tears called forth in numerous settings. Books, movies, songs and, I might as well admit, TV shows and commercials can all overwhelm me. A heartfelt conversation, whether with a friend or someone I have just met, can lead to a place of wonder.

I’m drawn in and it happens. Something whispers of something deeper: life as I hope and dream it could or should be; forgiveness, grace, reconciliation, second chances, unbelievable tenacity and peace; taste of the holy, of something more.

I think I’ve always had a sensitive side and I think it may be growing in intensity with age. Maybe I am more aware of it and have no interest in holding it back.

In 1981 I was in my twenties and I ran a marathon, which was a big deal for me. It was the accomplishment of something that I thought impossible. I trained, registered and ran. As I neared the finish line I had a sense of being overwhelmed. Satisfaction, joy and contentment filled me. I felt I was about to cry, but I told myself, “Not now. If you cry, they (family and friends waiting for me) will think something’s wrong. But I’m okay, I can’t cry now, I’ll do it later.”

Later never came and that cry never happened. That memory has been my rallying point for trying to be better about living in the moment and accepting opportunities when they present themselves.

For almost a decade I’ve shared season tickets to Seattle Seahawks games with my youngest son. As with most things I tend to overanalyze this.  It costs money, it takes time (we live about 100 miles from the stadium) and it impacts other family schedules. I, also, have cautions about the world of football. It’s violent and I’m doing my best to be a pacifist. There are the current concerns about concussions and questions related to the very survival of the sport in the future. There are issues of money: young men making more money than they will ever need at a time in life when they have limited skills to manage the trust. The flow of cash for tickets and concessions added to advertising dollars can produce budget numbers beyond my imagination.

But then it happens. Another game day arrives. We have our rituals. We make the drive listening to the sports talk guys while having our own conversation about the impending rivalry. We park in the same area and take the same walk to the stadium, buy (usually) the same lunch, enjoy the same pre-game activities and eventually make our way to our seats.

We arrive 20 to 30 minutes before kick-off. We do not want to miss the pre-game happenings each week with few changes. The flag and national anthem are the first to get me choked up. And let’s be honest, I have deeply conflicted thoughts about Americanism, patriotism and the like. But it still gets me. Next the players are introduced. The crowd is driven to a frenzy. Another reality check: I hate hype and am known for my skepticism and unwillingness to “drink the Kool-Aid.” But I’m barely able to keep from losing it, always tearing up.

There is something in the moment, in being with my son, our neighbors (Jordan, George, Sam and the others we have shared a row of seats with for all these years, and would have otherwise never known) and the entire crowd. We are about to will “our” team to win. And it is only our team because of geography and choice. And they deserve to win more than the other team because they are our team. I know this is illogical, and it doesn’t matter.

Kick-off happens and the next three hours are the proverbial emotional roller coaster. If our team is doing well we scream, laugh, high-five, hug and dance (at times with people we have never met and will never see again). When our team struggles we try to motivate them, lift them to doing better. If the wheels come off we may drop to our seats in despair, 70,000 people each praying in their own gut-wrenching way.

One team is doing all it can to make something happen while the opposition has marshaled all its resources to stop their opponents. And in each play, each moment there is the possibility of the beauty of seeing our team overcome the odds and complete the pass or force the pick six (it’s an offense or defense thing).

It’s a game, it’s frivolous and it’s unnecessary.  Yet it can provide an emotional rush that can’t be forced or simulated. It is real and in the moment. You are either there or you’re not. While in reality we are nothing more than spectators, somehow in the flash of action and crowd, we are alive and sharing in the experience and it is beautifully overwhelming.

May God have mercy on us all.

also: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/moved/article/logic-i-ll-take-football