Stories Are For Eternity

I don’t get it…

We are able to make weapons that fire accurately and remotely. We can launch into space like we’re taking a bus. We can split an atom. Why are we unable to make eyeglasses that stay clean? I know, oils from the face and blah, blah, blah. Don’t care. Just make some eyeglasses that clean themselves, please.

I began wearing glasses in my mid-40s in order to read. Soon I was wearing progressive lenses because my teaching career involved me holding books and referencing them while I was teaching. The constant motion of looking from the text to the class would have caused constant nausea if not for progressive lenses.

Here’s a thought process of mine…glasses dirty again, clean them, think of teaching, think of spring, think of stress at the end of the school year, think of one true sign we were getting close to the end. Most mornings when I drove to school I turned left to go down the road to access the parking lot behind the school. On the corner of that road were a couple of old lilac bushes. They were the traditional light purple blooms. When these showed themselves, I knew the end of the school year was that much closer.

And then, my mind would quickly flit to the words of a great epic poem. “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d/And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night/I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.” These are the first lines from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” It was written as a personal response to Abraham Lincoln’s death.

Longfellow expressed his grief over Lincoln’s loss all the while glorifying the beauty of spring. Lincoln died on April 15th, certainly a time when varying blooms of spring would be present. My memory would then skip to second grade when I recited a poem in front of the PTA. It was my first experience with Longfellow’s poetry. The poem was “The Children’s Hour,” a lovely lyrical poem celebrating family and love. All of this in the two minutes it took me to drive down to the parking lot. My purpose is not to teach these poems to you, just merely to illustrate a thought process.

School is never far from my thoughts. I spent a large part of my life in schools. They were happy times in my life, though I know it wasn’t that way for everyone. If it was a rough time, I’m very sorry for that. Naturally my thoughts about school are likely to turn to music.

Most every year at the end of the last day of classes, I’d play the joyous song “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper just for my enjoyment. This was an anthem from my school days. “We got no class and we got no principles/And we got no innocence/We can’t even think of a word that rhymes.” Youth personified, much like the Who’s “Baba O’Riley.” “Teenage wasteland, it’s only teenage wasteland…we’re all wasted.”

There are many, many songs that reference school days and school daze. Another popular anthem is Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall.” “We don’t need no education/We don’t need no thought control.” For some reason these words seem especially timely. Enough said.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll High School,” a song written for a movie of the same name, features The Ramones singing “Well I don’t care about history/‘Cause that’s not where I wanna be/I just wanna have some kicks…”. Everyone should have fun in school. It should be a fairly carefree time of life.

Times have changed so much that a parody song that was wildly funny in the 1980s now seems distasteful. I once found the song to be very humorous and that was its intent. So much has happened in the ensuing decades that it isn’t as funny. It’s a song that was sung by a gal named Julie Brown. Look it up and decide for yourself. “The Homecoming Queen’s Got a G*#” is the title. Remember it was a much different time.

I’ve traveled through lilacs, spring, poetry, music, and school gun violence, all with an image of glorious spring flowers in my head. As always, I’m left with varying levels of thoughts. Most are positive, some are downright joyous. But there’s the sadness of the loss of classmates, former teachers, and former students. And the memory of a time of innocence that can never be replicated.

I did! I did! I did write a book!

And two points on your average if you guess the inspiration for the title of today’s post. All kidding aside, today is a proud moment for me. It represents the culmination of a great deal of work over several years. And it’s almost a miracle that it came to fruition.

It’s taken a great deal of my lifetime to determine some of my strengths. I’m thankful to have been able to reach that realization, though there are more that may never surface. As strong a person as I am, I may not have the strength to permit myself to let those things shine. And, yet, I’m loathe to leave this world without shining all of my light.

In the past few years, I’ve allowed myself to see that I am stifling my own existence. I began another blog (sporadictravel.com) where it is my mission to help others overcome challenges in order to get out and live their lives. Whether a person is challenged by mental or physical health issues, each of us deserves to be able to enjoy our lives. That blog is still in its beginning stages but please check it out.

It has become apparent to me that, throughout much of my life, my actions have directly related to a specific goal. But those goals were those set by others or what I felt was expected. Due to circumstances in my early life, I was constantly seeking approval. I’ve spent much of my adult life achieving goals that were expected of me and not necessarily what I wanted.

Don’t get me wrong. At this point I’m not unhappy with the way things have turned out. Is it what I envisioned for myself? No, but neither is it unpleasant. After all, if I hadn’t become a teacher I wouldn’t have been touched by the lives of my students. I poured my heart and soul into my teaching. It took a great toll on me, leaving me literally unable to continue due to physical health issues. But I wouldn’t change that decision to teach.

In reality, it’s taken me a great deal of my lifetime to learn who I am. It sounds trite but there it is. I was a happy-go-lucky kid. I was interested in everything, especially if it involved being outdoors. Once my motor ran down enough, I’d go inside and read. And read. And read some more.

But when it came to school I found myself daydreaming constantly. While I did well in most subject areas, some were difficult and required a concentration that I did not possess. I wiggled in my seat, bounced my legs up and down, gazed endlessly out the window.

I was also the kid any teacher could turn to for help. I’d pass out papers, help another kid learn to tie his shoes, go into the girls room after the girl who ran off crying, deliver things to the office, etc. Oddly enough, despite my lack of ability to focus, I managed to leave high school in the top 20% of my class and graduated from college and grad school with honors…all the while being chirped at by my teachers and my mom that I really could have done so much better.

Deep down I knew it was probably true but when I expressed that I could not make improvements, I was not believed. The importance is in the word choice. Never did I say I would not or I chose not to improve, I said I could not. I physically and mentally could not.

Looking back I can see it’s affected most every part of my life. I was a decent athlete when younger. I should have been much better than I was. Again, I could not. Though I practiced and tried over and over, I just could not.

You know that joke about being easily distracted? It’s the one where someone yells ”squirrel” to distract another person from a task? I’m the definition of the person who has to look. I often explained to my students that I had to keep the classroom door closed because I was too easily distracted. Truer words were never spoken. My mind never stops any sort of thought process and it can change its focus at an abnormal super-human rate. And my mind’s thought associations go far beyond other people’s capabilities of understanding. I’m not slighting any one else’s intelligence.

Sometimes I wonder if it stems from my being mostly left-handed. I say that because I’m somewhat ambidextrous though I tend to perform fine motor skills (writing, eating) with my left hand and gross motor skills (sports, tools) with my right hand. I learned the hard way that I cannot successfully wield a truth brush with my right hand or I lacerate my gums.

That’s all well and good but it’s darn confusing. When being shown how to do something, I find I’m automatically translating in my head from right-handed instructions to left-handed use. But at any moment I may find myself doing something equally well with either hand…think ping pong or cross stitch. I clumsily knit and crochet right handed.

Unless I’m involved in an activity that I truly enjoy/love, I am unable to sustain any focus. And so the fact I’ve written a book is astonishing to me. Plus it’s non-fiction requiring documentation and organization. Here’s the rub…I love to research. It appeals to my squirrelly distracted nature because while looking at one thing, one finds something else interesting and needs to run that idea down only to find another…you get the drift. In the meantime you’ve thought of another idea and the process starts all over again.

That’s enough. I am going to label this strange phenomenon and some of you will take umbrage. I honestly don’t care because I once was one of you, scoffing at this. But I’m going to own it because of the challenge it has presented to me throughout my life. It’s called ADHD. I know I seem anything but hyperactive but that’s only on the exterior. My interior is running at a rate that is exhausting, but hey…I wrote a book!

Love them while they’re here…

This has been a tricky couple of weeks for me. Two different people whose paths crossed mine, and were friends at different times during my life, could no longer sustain their lives on this Earth. They left us, on their own terms, far too soon. I get it. I struggle with mental health issues and understand the darkness that breeds those decisions. It didn’t stop me from being angry, though. How dare they leave? We weren’t done yet. There were still many laughs to be had.

You heard me right. Times I spent with each gal was guaranteed to be full of laughter. They shared my occasionally goofy sense of humor. They were smart. They were fun-loving. They were friends. One gal became known to me during our school years, mainly junior high and high school. We encountered one another sporadically in adulthood and always had a smile and a greeting for one another. There were some wild sleepover memories associated with her. And in a time when we identified each other by whichever of our mother’s cars we were driving, she drove the Betty-mobile, the Demon Duster. I’m sure there were a few times the Demon Duster may have been at the red light being circled by a gaggle of giggling teenage girls. Most of the time we were back in the car (fill in any mom’s name here…Joan, Lee, Marge, Charlotte, Helen…you get it) by the time the light turned green. How would we have ever known then how life would treat us?

My other friend I’ve written about more than a few times. We had several fun trips to Cape Cod. She smoked cigarettes and I would have my annual cigarette while sitting on the beach. And that was due to the dizziness I knew would happen. So, if seated, no chance of wiping out. I happen to be good at wiping out and it doesn’t take much for it to happen. Again, we participated in so much laughter together. When I recall many of our antics, conversations, etc., I laugh all over again…out loud and by myself.

Though these two are never far from my conscious thought, they are in the forefront during the first few months of the year for reasons I won’t mention. Winter is not my optimal time of the year for excellent mental health, so it’s hard to bear some of those thoughts. I feel things very deeply, though I’m also stoic so most wouldn’t say I’m a deep thinker. But I am and I never know what’s going to trigger my emotions…a thought, a smell, a setting.

Today as I sat browsing the news, it happened. Some of my friends know I’m still an avid sports fan and have been since my early childhood. I follow different sports through television and other media. I especially admire those sports reporters who write well. Think Curt Gowdy, Mitch Albom, Mike Lupica ( though he’s annoying), Bill Ryan, Will McDonough.

There was a headline “Longtime ESPN NFL reporter Mortensen dies at 72.” My heart sank, my throat constricted, my eyes filled with tears. Chris Mortensen was one of my favorite sports reporters in the last few decades. Mort was refreshing and upbeat. He could write and was an excellent speaker. Most of all he had integrity and the respect of most of those around him, whether it was his colleagues, athletes, team owners, etc. People trusted Mort with information. I remember when it was disclosed that he had stage IV throat cancer back in January of 2016. It would cause him to miss covering the Super Bowl for the first time in a few decades, not to mention the threat to his life.

Mort managed to get back to reporting, finally stepping away in September 2023. He will be missed by many, including me. I’m just so happy to have enjoyed his work. RIP, Mort, resquiat en pace.

Chris Mortensen 1951-2024

N.B. A bit of an awkward (inappropriate?) thought related to a wacky sleepover memory…I wonder what happened to the “Kappy People” cassette tape?

“Dream on”

Dream on. Dream until your dream comes true.” This hit by Aerosmith allows one to believe that dreams could come true as long as one doesn’t lose the passion and/or sight of the dream.

I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet. Despite health issues that push me to the brink, there is a larger part of me that needs to give back. I’ve done a variety of volunteer work over the years and, honestly, haven’t found it to be rewarding. To me, it means I haven’t found my niche. But we’re talking about me, a person who rarely identifies with a niche.

Often I’ve written stories involving the cabin in my head. The cabin in my head is remotely intertwined with a fictional setting I’ve created for a murder-mystery in progress and is now more part of an unfulfilled dream. I’m great at creating dream scenarios, but far less adept at making them reality, mostly because I lack a sizable chunk of money to be used for charitable purposes.

My dream involves finding a property that has a couple of small houses, some acreage, a large barn-like structure, and a good-sized multi-purpose building. It might have housed a children’s camp at one time, something like that. Ideally we’d either find a group of skilled workers like the “Maine Cabin Masters” crew or put together our own. We’d repurpose and recycle what we could to refurbish the property.

The main purpose of such a place would be to empower the area’s kids (hopefully a rural-ish area) by introducing them to many kinds of skills that they could use for their own enjoyment or as a means to provide income. My ideas need to be refined. Old-fashioned skills would be taught like gardening and canning. Newer skills, like photography or jewelry making, would also be offered. There could also be programs involving writing, simple construction, forensic science, etc. OR sheep could be raised, shorn for wool, and various products could be made from the wool. Pipe dreams? Maybe, maybe not.

There are so many paths it could take. But I feel I know a variety of people who might be able to help me realize a dream like that. I’d really need an astute individual to find us some grant money, or I should start playing the lottery.

What skills do you have that you could offer? And I’m not talking money.

And then…

“Somewhere out in the back of your mind (somewhere)
Comes your real life and the life that you know
It seems like it was the creation of some of those same old things
It seemed to be the only thing left out in the light…”. Rooms on Fire – Stevie Nicks

Late this afternoon I had one of those “stopped me in my tracks” moments. Involved in the sameness of one’s life and then you turn the corner and then…wham! There it is. And you smile and say, “wow.” It isn’t an exuberant exclamation but rather, it slips from your mouth in spite of itself. And you’re in awe.

I like to think most of us have these moments. I’m thankful to have them. The best part is you don’t know when they will present themselves. Whether it’s spying a rainbow, watching a hawk in flight, watching the waves lapping at the shore, pulling a loaf of bread from the oven…and on and on.

These moments keep me humble. I’m reminded that I’m not the one truly dictating my life. And I’m reminded that any little thing may happen at any time. As the great Scottish poet Robert Burns once said, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” One of my grandmother’s maxims was, “man proposes and God disposes.” It’s the idea that you may plan and plan and plan but there is no guarantee the plans will work out.

The astronauts on the Challenger weren’t thinking this as their families watch them launched into space on that chilly morning. People were not thinking their lives would be changed forever when they went to work on September 11, 2001. Students went to school at Marjory Stoneman High one morning as they did each day. It was not a typical day at all.

However, many of us are lucky enough to experience far more of the awe-inspiring moments than the horrific events I just mentioned. Don’t forget to be thankful the next time it happens to you. I wasn’t expecting to be treated to an epic sunset today when I turned the corner in my car. It gave me chills, made me smile, and I whispered ‘wow’ all at the same time.

N.B. My photo does not do this justice at all.

“Another Saturday Night…”

“and I ain’t got nobody/I’ve got some money cause I just got paid/Now how I wish I had someone to talk to/I’m in an awful way.” Cat Stevens

I may have identified with this song in high school but not as an adult. I was seldom asked on dates in high school. I don’t know why and couldn’t care now. But, I cared then. It fed my insecurity at that time. It garners a smirk now.

Over the decades I’ve kissed plenty of frogs. None was a prince. Though it could be difficult to sit “on the sidelines” while old friends discussed children and grandchildren, my life was fulfilling without all of that.

Does that mean I have a chip on my shoulder? It’s a small one. I’m happy to be responsible for my own destiny. I worked hard to achieve what I have. While my lifestyle may seem non-traditional in that I’ve never married and have never had children, those are society’s expectations. I’m fine where I am, thanks.

I’ve dated, declined a couple of proposals, had a serious relationship in the past ten years. And here I sit, on a Saturday night, very happily. The football game is on, cookies are in the oven, a good book awaits, and I’m writing. Oh, and I’m humming a song in my head from back in the day.

My mom, who lives in assisted living and is 95, visits here on Sundays. The cookies are for her. As I mixed them, the recipe in my memory since my youth, it brought me back to many Saturday nights during the early years of high school when I often baked cookies on a Saturday night. And read. And watched tv. I don’t tape record songs from AM radio anymore though.

Oh yeah, have I told you I wrote a book?

High school! Happily cropped my date out of the picture.

Sad? Happy? Both?

Throughout our lives we have become accustomed to familiar pairs of items and/or concepts. Things like peanut butter and jelly, salt and pepper, macaroni and cheese, bacon and eggs, Bonnie and Clyde, etc. We simply accept them because we understand their meanings. One term, the combination of bitter and sweet is a bit more difficult to comprehend.

I’ve come to understand the term ‘bittersweet’ as that combination of happiness along with sadness. They may seem incongruous, but they are very much intertwined. It’s explained well in the following passage from Nathaniel Hawthorne:

“And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is now only a ruined chimney rising out of a grassy and weed-grown cellar?”

At a simple level, it’s that mixture of feeling happy along with a feeling of loss or regret. Similar to Nick Carraway’s advice to Gatsby that Gatsby would never be able to recreate his past. The age-old advice, “you can’t go home again,” isn’t meant literally. Physically you can return to the places of your past, but they will never spawn the same feelings you had in a previous part of your life.

Why am I talking about this again? I suppose because my mind works in ways that might be different from others. I really don’t know. But as to the concept of bitter and sweet, I find it tough to handle. It’s like an adrenaline rush that doesn’t last. Sort of like the anticipation of an important day, and then it arrives and is over in a flash.

For me it’s also a book from a favorite author that finally is in print and I devour it in two days. It’s gone and there will be a long time until the next. I feel empty. I had the sweetness of the words and the bitterness of nothing more when it’s done.

Case in point. I’ve been working for several years to write a book. I conducted interviews, did loads of intense research, and pored over the materials I could find. I searched for relevant photographs. Then came the process of organizing and planning the format of the book. Writing ensued. More research was conducted at various stages. Photos were inserted throughout the book. A bibliography was created along with a list of all of the folks with whom I spoke.

The materials fill a 3” binder and then some. My work represents my heart and soul. Though it grew to be 30,000 words and 150 photographs, it all fit on a flash drive no bigger than my thumb. I had a hard time letting go of that flash drive when I turned it in to the publisher recently.

Call it trepidation, call it perfectionism, call it bittersweet. My adventure to create a book is over. Will it be good enough? Will readers find it interesting? Will I be happy with it? Will I find a way to fill the void?

Bittersweet. The feeling of turning the product of my heart and soul over to someone else. The chase is over. But the investment of myself in the project is immeasurable. I’m fully aware that I was unable to cover all of the areas of my subject matter. It was difficult to have to decide to push things aside and hope that someone else will do that work.

Bittersweet. It’s the flutter and flip of the stomach while anticipating that long awaited date. If the date went well, it’s the reality that it will never be recaptured in the same way.

Bittersweet. It’s feeling the wonder and awe of something well done, all the while knowing it can never happen again in the same way.

Because I’m an individual who feels very deeply, this may seem a bit sad and/or gloomy. In all honesty I feel that bittersweet events, feelings, experiences, allow us to open ourselves to others that will occur in our lives. It’s transitional. We learn to enjoy and let go of each experience, thus to allow us the ability to embrace those yet to come.

“So let’s sink another drink/And it’ll give me time to think/If I had the chance, I’d ask the world to dance/And I’d be dancing with myself…”

These lyrics by Billy Idol speak about that feeling of being lonely in a crowd. It’s a good way to describe the feeling of a bittersweet moment. You’re empty, unable to connect, but it doesn’t last.

Bittersweet vine-pretty but invasive and somewhat toxic.

We just disagree…

This is a snippet from the lyrics of a song by the same name written by Dave Mason. It dates back to the 70s, an important time period in my development. It invokes a few thoughts for me and I have a feeling my writing will take shape as I think, rather than what I’ve already formed in my mind.

As is the case with many, I’ve been through many different things in my life. My life has tested me in ways I never dreamed possible. But you know what? It’s ok. My challenges have shaped me into the imperfect person I am today. Those same challenges have also gifted me the insight to recognize trauma in others. Others aren’t always happy about that.

Even when I was 15 and began teaching tennis as a part-time job, I frequently ended up teaching the “difficult” kids. You know them. They stand out by way of negative attention. The trauma of witnessing domestic violence as I grew up evolved into a gift. It allows me to see the discomfort and pain in others. And it moves me to want to help ease that pain.

No one knew, and few would guess now, what I experienced. It’s taken decades for me to recognize the PTSD signs that emerge when voices are raised, when I see someone imbibing far too much, when I see a hand raised in anger, and so many more scenarios. But it has allowed me to “stay and play” rather than run and hide.

It’s had its negative impacts, believe me. I doubt I’d be obese if I hadn’t turned to food to cope. It’s better than drugs I suppose, but being obese brings many other issues to the table. It’s a cause to sustain more abuse by way of being shunned, being looked at as lazy and worthless, being told innumerable times to “have some self control” or to “get hold of yourself.” Do you really think I enjoy looking and feeling the way I do?

I look back at my teenaged self and I wish I’d had a teacher, like I was, who would have talked to me and guided me. I wish my guidance counselor would have taken an active role. But, the reality is I probably wouldn’t have listened. In those days you kept your mouth shut and didn’t talk about troubles. How did that work out?

Please keep an open mind. If someone like me asks you questions and suggests you might want to talk to someone, don’t take offense. My intentions are good, they come from my heart. I care and recognize you live with pain that could be helped. Don’t go on the defensive and feel you’re being disrespected. It means someone cares about you.

“When your day is long/And the night, the night is yours alone/ When you’re sure you’ve had enough/Of this life, well hang on…”. R.E.M. “Everybody Hurts”

The ghost of Christmas parties past…

I enjoy the holiday season as much as anyone else. And I have as many mixed memories as most do of holidays past. It seems there’s a mix of good, bad, and ugly.

I think I might have been in sixth grade the year of the ping pong debacle. It was Christmas Day and we were hosting my grandmother, my uncle, and our aunt Agnes. My brother would have been in tenth grade. My grandmother was in her early 80’s but was never very ambulatory due to arthritis. Agnes was of indeterminate age due to (add a knowing nod and wink) her relationship with “the drink.” In reality she was only about 70, but was an old 70. She was a small, slight woman with bird-like facial features…sharp and bright. And she carried a cane.

Long story short…I was playing ping pong in the basement with my uncle. My uncle Bill was a fabulous man, good and kind, but he was not blessed with coordination. He bent down to retrieve the ball and, upon standing, rammed his head into 4×4 post. Head injuries bleed…a lot. I ran to the utility sink and wet a washcloth I found on top of the dryer. I slapped it on his head and ran up the stairs to tell my mother.

My mother had to take him to the hospital. My brother and I were left in charge of nana and aunt Agnes. Agnes was a tad confused about what was happening and didn’t like that my uncle was leaving. As my brother restrained Agnes, she began hitting him with her cane. My brother picked Agnes up and carried her back to her seat. We settled her down with a generous helping of “enriched” egg nog.

Meanwhile, at the emergency room, my mother was giving my uncle’s info to the triage nurse. The nurse’s mouth dropped open as she said to my mother, “his name is Kringle? Are you kidding?” My mother explained that his name was Pringle and the nurse looked relieved.

It turned out okay though my uncle received stitches and had a concussion. Merry Christmas.

A few decades later I began a tradition of holiday cookie parties for my fellow teachers in the English department. In my small carriage-house apartment, thirteen of us squeezed around the decorated tree and munched cookies and chocolates along with coffee, cocoa, and soda. A blissful hour or so after school to relax. I’d always done quite a bit of baking around the holidays.

As my residences grew in size, so did the parties. They began to include platters of various sizes…crackers and cheese, veggies and dip, and shrimp. At first I made them myself but quickly learned to order them. There were still cookies, fudge, and chocolates. I’d invested in a coffee urn at Kmart. That was a smart purchase.

I loved watching everyone have fun though I never had a chance to have much fun. It was my gift to them and the reward was their company and enjoyment. No sooner were people arriving and I’d turn around to find they’d all gone home. But there were always a few kind stragglers who would hang around and help clean up.

One of the best pre-party preps was the Sunday afternoon before the party when my friend Tracy would come over and we’d decorate the cut cookies I’d already baked. Neither of us was particularly creative nor were we skilled decorators. We were just goofy people who had fun and lots of laughs while inexpertly decorating cookies. Tracy’s gone now, almost eight years. I miss her a great deal, especially during this time of year.

On a funny note, over the years I discovered that people did indeed snoop through my stuff…bathroom medicine cabinet, crawl spaces, dresser drawers, etc. Determined to provide a meaningful experience, I purchased some condoms and stocked the medicine cabinet. In one crawl space, I tied a stuffed elf to the light cord by its neck and attached a sign that read, “I’m on the naughty list.” In various dresser drawers I left notes. Never had that problem again!

Oh, there was also a year when one of my friends changed the Christmas music I was playing because she didn’t like it.

The last gathering was at least ten years ago. It got to be too much. The last party had upwards of fifty people. People came and went so there was always room. I do miss it, though.

Mirror, mirror…

What is that? I haven’t cracked myself up for awhile. I did today. Now I’m not the greatest housekeeper but I keep the important things clean. It’s not that my mother, aka Mrs. Clean, didn’t instill household cleanliness in my soul. She was the epitome of keeping a clean house.

I, on the other hand, had weekly meltdowns in my bedroom as a kid because I couldn’t leave the house on Saturday unless my room was clean. I can remember sitting on the floor glaring at the old canister vacuum cleaner and crying. That’s how much I hated cleaning. I was also eight years old.

Fast forward to my young teenage years where I developed an odd love/hate relationship with one of the neighbors. A widow lived next door. She wasn’t any ordinary widow. She drove an original aqua-colored Mustang, wintered in Florida, and rented bedrooms in her house to businessmen who worked in the area but didn’t live here.

She was a little hard of hearing and never called me by my correct name. And, of course, the manner in which she said it was highly imitable to cheeky pre-teens. Her voice was gruff and she had a tendency to curl her lip when she was speaking. She’d holler, “Beth Ann!” This summons was directly followed with a snort. It was hard to keep a straight face.

What has this to do with mirrors you may be asking? Be patient. At various times, I was hired to mow her lawn which was good-sized. I never minded mowing but tended to trot as I mowed. She complained to my mother that I ran with the mower and the grass was jagged. Ok, I slowed down. Then the grass was too long. I adjusted the mower and then it was too short. Then I was fired…three different times.

One winter I was asked to do the weekly cleaning at her house while she was in Florida. Her roomers went home for the weekends so I could clean on Saturdays. As much as I despised cleaning, the $10 weekly looked good. I was very conscious to do a good job.

Well, she arrived back in town at the end of the winter and my mother was summoned next door. The lady was outraged. She led my mother to the bathroom where she pointed in horror. My mother didn’t see anything and questioned her. She jabbed her finger at the mirror. “There are spots! Toothpaste spots! Beth Ann didn’t clean the mirror.”

My mom, even with her high standards, was my mom. She laughed. “She’s fourteen years old and was very responsible about coming every week and cleaning. Is this the only problem?” The woman nodded. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t meet your expectations. I’m sure you’ll find someone better for next year. And her name is Beth, not Beth Ann.”

My mother returned to our house. Expecting to be chastised for something, I was taken aback as my mother began to laugh. She relayed the story to me and we had quite a chuckle as I punctuated the story with an imitation of the woman saying my name. My mother looked at me and said, “I bet you’ll never forget to clean the bathroom mirror again.”

Fast forward fifty years, give or take. As I was electrically brushing my teeth this morning, I happened to glance into the mirror. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, as soon as I finished brushing and rinsing I headed to the kitchen. There I grabbed paper towels and the Windex. As always, my mom was right.

There is a ritual to it. As I’m spraying the Windex, I glare into the mirror and say, “Beth Ann.” Then I laugh like a crazy person as I wipe away the memory.

P.S. if you’re keeping score at home, my middle name is Ellen.

Do not hire this youngster to clean your house!