The Crab Chronicles

Words to Live By

It's funny that I heard something over and over as a child and never realized until much later how profoundly it influenced my life, when I got out into the world and encountered people who thought and lived very differently. 

My grandmother Wilma Butler Hasty had a really privileged life and also a very difficult life. How could she have had both? Simple. She was born into a family that was wealthy. While still a young woman, though, the money went away. 

Her childhood as the 7th child out of 12 was pretty good. Her father owned a number of profitable businesses in Cobb County, Georgia. His children were taught by governesses. They had a swimming pool. There were new clothes and new cars. 

However, my great grandfather, although he had more than a dozen children, really didn't like children. He left it up to his wife and the servants to rear the children. My uncle told me when he was a little boy Grandaddy Butler made it clear he had no use for his grandson or any other child. He had lost most of his money by then, but not his attitudes. He ran around on my great grandmother and caused her a lot of heartache, at a time when divorce was simply not done. 

So my grandmother was raised in a huge group of children and got little parental attention. She used to say to me sometimes, with great wistfulness, "You're a lucky little girl. You have parents that love you and fool with you, all the time." [By "fool with" she meant "spend time with."] We did a lot of fun things as a family (sports, fishing, picnics, etc.), and my dad was very hands-on. He fed us, dressed us, read to us -- did everything Mom did. We never doubted he adored us.

I digressed.

Back to Memaw. [right, with some of her siblings, around 1904]

At about age 23, Memaw got married to a handsome hometown sports hero, my grandfather, and it looked like her life would be pretty easy and glamorous. Baseball players were very well-known in 1923 even though it was pre-television. 

However, my grandfather was accused of a crime he didn't commit and his contract was sold to a minor league team, and Memaw went with him to Oregon and had to endure a life far from home and family, with very little money. They came back east just in time for the Depression.

She also lived through the Great Depression, and World War II. Life was never easy for her. 

Wilma Butler Hasty never gave up or gave in, however. She never regretted anything, either. 

Her philosophy: "Always do the best you can do, and then FORGET IT."

When Memaw got married and had her own children, my grandfather was often away on baseball trips, because he kept playing for companies who hired him, in the 1930's, to coach the company baseball team and travel with the team. Company sports teams were very popular in those days. She was a single parent much of the time. [left, Memaw, Papa, Elva, Bobby and Don, around 1940]

Now, I would never have worried about being under her protection. My grandfather bought her a shotgun and modified to fit her tiny stature [4'10], and she was a crack shot. She learned to cook and sew and she could run a household and handle money and do anything her husband could do. She was very smart, funny, and fierce. God help any man who ever tried to get the better of her, in anything. I watched her negotiate with butchers in grocery stores countless times, marveling at her self-assurance. "I want that piece of beef right there, that one. I want it ground THREE times. Not twice. THREE times," she would command. If the butcher looked hesitant she would say "I will WATCH you grind it."

What I never realized until much later was that she didn't just say "Always do your best." She lived it. Any task she was given, she gave it 100%. She did her very best physically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually -- and that's all anyone can ask of you. 

My parents reinforced her philosophy to me, and I am so thankful for that. I have a fierce work ethic because Memaw and my parents always impressed on me the importance of not just doing what you had to do to get by, but of doing a really GOOD job, giving it 100%. Inherent in that philosophy is that you should be proud of whatever work you are doing, and you should do it with honor. 

When I grew up and encountered co-workers who would sit around gossiping and getting very little work done, I was puzzled by that because I couldn't understand that attitude. 

I have a friend who spends a lot of time talking about this or that decision he made, and whether or not it was the right decision. Some years ago I finally got fed up and channeled my inner Memaw and just said to him (hopefully not too unkindly) "Look here. You make the best decision you can make and then FORGET IT. Just let it GO." I had never encountered someone so backwards-looking, such a Monday morning quarterback type of person. I wasn't raised like that.

I have always told my kids the same thing I was told: "Do your best, and then FORGET IT." 

Of course, if you haven't done your best then you might have room for regrets -- so that's a powerful incentive for never slacking off. 

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Michael was telling me earlier today that he works harder than anyone else in his department, and most of his co-workers take advantage of his strong work ethic. I told him to keep working hard, and his work will be recognized. 

Things That Last

I can remember as a teenager being obsessive about the fact that a lot of the girls in my high school had fashionable clothes and wore brands like Aigner and there I was, not fashionable, not wearing any big name brands, and feeling like a total outsider much of the time. It's hard for me to reflect on that because the older, wise me wants to grab teenage me and shake her and go "LIGHTEN UP! CLOTHES DON'T MATTER THAT MUCH!"

My father was a banker. He was super conservative about money. I remember a lecture he gave me about why we didn't live outside of our means. "Other people get a new car every year and take expensive vacations and buy expensive clothes, but WE DON'T because I don't want to carry that much debt. Debt is dangerous," he explained. "What if I got hurt and couldn't work, and we had all that debt?" (His father was an invalid who had emphysema the last ten years of his life so Dad knew a lot about that.)

At the time, I thought Dad was being mean. I really did. I didn't understand why he couldn't let me go to work and save MY money to pay for a trip to France with a group of students my French teacher was taking over there. His argument was that school was more important. 

All of this is to say that back then I was easily swayed by popular opinion and I had no idea what was really important. (When I am tempted to condemn teenagers today I admonish myself to go back and remember myself as a teen, and then I hush.)

What prompted me to think about this was that there is a big discussion in one of my Facebook groups about the best brand of pots and pans to buy. What brand of cookware really lasts a long time? There are a lot of names being thrown around of VERY expensive cookware -- Falk Culinair, Le Creuset, etc.

The older I get, the more I realize that I am so fortunate to have been raised by people who know the real value of things.

My mother got several pots and pans for wedding gifts that we still use today, 61 years later. The brand? Revere Ware.My mother has always said "Buy Revere Ware. It will hold up!" We also have a number of Club Aluminum pots that have held up beautifully over the years. I still use Revere Ware and Club Aluminum, all the time, for cooking. Nobody in the Facebook group liked my post about using Revere Ware or Club -- but they have been used for 40-61 years, every piece! 

They aren't fashionable right now. You can go on e-bay and pick up pieces very inexpensively.

She is right. It holds up beautifully. I expect my grandchildren will still be cooking with it, if they have sense enough to keep it and not ditch it for something more fashionable. 

I have never given it much thought, but I grew up in a house full of antiques. Not fine antiques. Antiques that people really used, in real life. Below are some photos of some things we have had for years. All of these are useful things. The pewter pitcher was given to my grandparents for a wedding gift in 1923. The silvery pitchers were originally copper, and my grandfather decided they were dirty and set to scrubbing them, and scrubbed off all the copper! Mom, who had bought them, thought it was funny, fortunately. The pottery pitcher was bought by my brother in Texas 30+ years ago. I love the rolling pin and the pestle. I'm sure the rolling pin made a ton of fine biscuits back in the day, and the pestle would have been useful for grinding herbs and such. The green bottle likely had a stopper and probably held medicine or "strong spirits". 

I tried to iron with the little antique iron once, as a kid. You have to wrap a towel or oven mitt around it to hold it, after you put it near the fire to get hot. Then you have to pray it doesn't stick to whatever cloth you are ironing. Much like my one experiment in cooking on a wood stove, the experience left me very grateful to live in the late 20th / early 21st century. I also think if anyone tried to hurt me or my family I could hit them with that little iron and do some serious damage.

 

 

Maybe I am a bit too materialistic but I don't value things that have great monetary value all that much. I value things that were used by the generations before me. The red serving dish below was used by my mother's mother. I remember seeing it on the dinner table, as a child. The elegant goblet was used by my dad's mother. I think the two plates behind them are just ornamental, but that's okay. 

Have you ever noticed that on those HGTV shows you never see a china cabinet in the dining room? I guess they are unfashionable now. I love our china cabinet. One day soon I am going to get photos of everything and write down what Mom says about each piece, so one day my children and grandchildren will know where everything came from and who used it 50, 100, 200 years before, and how.

I do not want my grandchildren and other descendants to know the price of everything and the value of nothing, as a wise man once said. 

I don't go to estate sales or antique stores very often, but I appreciate that things made a hundred years ago have tended to hold up better than newer things. I don't feel materialistic about my love of these things. I also am practical. If we ever ran out of money and I had to move to a small apartment, I would keep a few things and put the rest in an estate sale. I would hope that anyone who bought the things would love them as much as I do. 

Visiting the Past

I don't remember when we got the photo below, or who gave it to us, but it fascinates me for a lot of reasons. I left the image big because it's easier to see the faces of the two women. These are my great grandmothers, Beulah Phillips Butler on the left, and Virginia McMillan Hasty on the right. They were both very tall, for their time -- around 5'8.

Granny Butler's 7th child was Wilma.  Wilma married Bob Hasty, a middle child of Ginny and William D. Hasty.

What intrigues me the most about this photo is that I am uncertain as to when it was made. Most likely it was made after my grandparents started dating in 1922. However, the dresses both women wear look pretty old fashioned. Mom recalls being told that in the mid 1920's when my grandparents were living in California, both the mothers went out to visit, and she thinks the photo was made then. My uncle was born in 1927, in Oakland, and maybe they went out to help with the baby. In 1927 (or thereabouts), however, wouldn't they have dressed differently? The other possibility is that it was made years earlier, but then were they friends before their children decided to marry?

It's a mystery.

Both of these ladies gave birth to a lot of children. Granny Butler had 13 or 14 children but only 12 lived to adulthood. Grandmother Hasty had 10 or 11 and 9 lived to adulthood. They were both married to financially prosperous men, but even so, that is a LOT of children to raise in a time when there were no conveniences. Clothes had to be boiled and ironed. All food had to be made from scratch. There were electric stoves or refrigerators or likely indoor plumbing until after the kids were grown. I am amazed at how strong these two ladies were.

Reportedly, Granny Butler was a aristocratic, smart lady. She would examine clothes with great care, pointing out if a seam wasn't well sewn or the clothing wasn't good quality. She could also drive a buggy, which was very unusual. She always had very long hair and Mom remembered seeing her wind it around and into a bun, and secure it with pins, every morning.

I don't know as much about Grandmother Hasty because she died before my mother was born. All Mom really knows was that she was reportedly an incredibly sweet person.

Papa used to tell Mom that I reminded him of his mother in looks and temperament. Of course, I was usually good around him -- I could be quite a hellion at other times.

 

Below are some other photos of the great grandmothers, with their families. I am guessing at the years.

Below, Grandmother Hasty and family, 1918: [my grandfather is the tall fellow, second from left]

The Hasty Family, around 1902 -- my grandfather is the little boy second from the right:

The Butler family, 1945 -- Granny Butler on the bottom row, Wilma on top row, third from right, in white:

below, the wedding photo of Granny and my great grandfather R.E. Butler, 1888 -- I wanted at least one photo of her looking young and lovely.

Enduring and Destructive Grief

I am no stranger to grief. When I was 9 and my grandfather died -- a man I adored and had been very close to all my life -- I realized that grief is a terrible ordeal. My mother was devastated. My father was upset, too, as he had transferred a lot of his parental love to his in-laws after his own parents died. I watched my parents struggle with grief, while I struggled with my own feelings, and it started me on a journey I am still on today. 

I feel that grief is a highway, and once you are on it, you never really leave it. You learn to walk it without stumbling, if you are lucky.

Grief manifests differently for different people. 

When my dad died in 1996, my mother lost a ton of weight. When she grieves she can't eat. I am the opposite. I want to eat everything not nailed down.

Some people just withdraw into their own worlds, withdraw from life, absent themselves from everyone else and every place that might remind them of the person they lost. 

Some people become bitter and angry all the time. 

I am not being critical of any of those things because I feel strongly it's not fair to criticize any type of grieving, except perhaps the most self-destructive kind, involving drugs and/or alcohol. 

When Dad died a well-meaning work colleague gave me the Kubler-Ross book about the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I read it half-heartedly. I didn't reflect on it a whole lot. There didn't seem to be a category for what I was doing, which I would call Hunkering Down and Wallowing in Self-Pity.

For months, my dinner was a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, and I read books when I wasn't at work. I mean I read, and read, and read, and occasionally might watch TV for a few minutes and catch the news, but mostly I read. Sometimes I listened to music and cried, too. 

I mostly cried in the car, because I when I was driving I didn't have the distraction of reading.

What made me think of this was that my son asked me not long ago for advice. Asking me was a breakthrough. For the past few years, I think he was in that Mom-is-an-idiot-and-I-will-ignore-everything-she-says phase. Certainly seemed that way, anyway. Glad I am somehow less of an idiot to him, nowadays. 

Anyway, he has a friend who has a long-time girlfriend and the girlfriend was grieving because a friend of hers had died. Mike's friend wanted him to talk to her. Michael has lost 2 friends and a brother to suicide, so he knows grief very well. However, he didn't know what to say. Like most guys, he avoids conversations about emotions. I thought about it a bit and told him to tell her this:

"The cure for dirt is soap and water. The cure for death is life."

When my dad died, I read that somewhere and liked it a lot. I typed it out and put it up in my cubicle at work. It comforted me immeasurably. I told Michael the quote and told him to tell her to go ahead and grieve, but to not wallow in it too long. 

Death is simply a doorway.

I feel strongly that the people we love are around us, in spirit, as long as we live. They don't want to see us weepy and depressed and living in misery, grieving hard for months or even years. People who love us want us to LIVE. Get out and do things. Go places. Create. Eat well. Listen to music. Hug more necks. Lick the spoons. Laugh at silly memes. Hang out with good friends and family members.

In other words: Be HAPPY. 

I can tell you this: if I am right, I will be watching over my kids after I am gone, hoping they will live life with gusto and be happy. 

Isn't that what we all want for those we love? 

I have a Facebook "friend" I have never met, and she still grieves hard for the loss of a child, who died several years ago. I cannot be critical. I know I would be devastated if that happened to one of my kids. However, I wish she could see the point I am trying to make here, the importance of living life as fully as possible, in spite of the grief. It's okay to miss someone. It's not okay (in my view) to let yourself wallow too much, or too long. 

That brings me to my second premise: Love never dies. No, that's not a silly pop song cliche. I think love is permanent and death doesn't delete it. I remember years ago reading that Mary Todd Lincoln's wedding band contained the inscription Love is eternal. So beautiful. I still love my grandfather and my father, and my Memaw (my grandmother who died in 1990). I know they still love me. They just exist on a different plane, now, one I cannot see. 

Maybe that's what pulled me through my grief as much as anything; my certainty that this life is just a precursor to eternity, not the be-all and end-all. Once you truly embrace and believe that, grief eases up. It's always there, because you cannot physically spend time with someone, hug them, laugh with them, etc. after they have died. If you know they are still around, though, I believe it really helps.

In the coming week I will be praying for my friend to find that "peace that passes all understanding" - the peace that comes from knowing that love really is eternal, and our souls never die. 

Papa and Dad with my brother about 1960

Talk To Your Kids

Today is World Suicide Prevention day and I wanted to point out a couple of things that I think really need to be said. Before I do, I want to mention that every time I see my son without a shirt on, I am reminded of the terrible sadness that he can never forget, the sadness of losing his older brother to suicide. I am reminded because Michael has a large tattoo on his chest with his brother's name, and a pair of angel wings. 

On his wrist is a memorial to a friend who committed suicide a couple of years ago. 

Michael lost another friend to suicide just about a year ago. He has lost far too many of those he loves to suicide. 

I was horrified to read this article in USA Today about kids as young as 6 committing suicide in greater numbers. They are bullied, in most cases, often because they are different from their peers. 

"Children who have disabilities or differences in learning, sexual/gender identity or culture are often most vulnerable to being bullied, according to the CDC." 

An 11 year old killed himself after taunts about him being gay. "Schoolmates called Sellars gay and made fun of his clothes before he took his life in Akron, Ohio, in May, his mother told reporters at the time. After his death, his older brothers were taunted on Snapchat and Twitter. His mother said some suggested they should kill themselves, too." 

I have friends and family members who are gay. Being a teenager is hard enough, but imagine being a gay kid who is fearful of being bullied?!

According to The Trevor Project**

• Suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death among young people ages 10 to 24.¹
• LGB youth seriously contemplate suicide at almost three times the rate of heterosexual youth.²
• LGB youth are almost five times as likely to have attempted suicide compared to heterosexual youth.²
• Of all the suicide attempts made by youth, LGB youth suicide attempts were almost five times as likely to require medical treatment than those of heterosexual youth.²
• Suicide attempts by LGB youth and questioning youth are 4 to 6 times more likely to result in injury, poisoning, or overdose that requires treatment from a doctor or nurse, compared to their straight peers.²
• In a national study, 40% of transgender adults reported having made a suicide attempt. 92% of these individuals reported having attempted suicide before the age of 25.³
• LGB youth who come from highly rejecting families are 8.4 times as likely to have attempted suicide as LGB peers who reported no or low levels of family rejection.⁴

I have an aquaintance whose son was questioning his sexuality, and he killed himself because he didn't think his father would accept him as a gay man. Such a tragic situation. 

Nobody chooses to be gay. I have a close friend who is gay and we had a discussion about that once. He said "Why would I choose to be discriminated against? Reviled? Bullied? Being gay is NOT a lifestyle. People are born gay, or bisexual."

I have another friend who insists that being gay is a choice. Took me many years to realize that he feels that way because he is bisexual, and was raised in a very conservative christian home. He chooses to ignore his feelings of same-sex attraction because he fears rejection and possibly damnation. He cannot understand that for most of us, attraction is far less complicated.

When I was a young teenager I remember my mother saying to me "There is NOTHING you can do that will cause me to not love you. NOTHING." At the time I thought she was being a bit... melodramatic. However, I realize now that her unconditional love and support was exactly what I needed to hear. (I am not gay.) I have said the same thing to my children. I may not always like or approve of what they do, but my love for them is never conditional.

ALL parents need to have that talk with their children, in my opinion. A parent's love should be unconditional. If you are reading this and thinking "Well, yes and no..." then I urge you to imagine how you will feel when your child dies by their own hand, fearing that you won't love them if they come out to you. 

In my opinion, love should never be conditional. If you truly love someone, you love even the unattractive, uncomfortable parts, the parts that may repel you. Humans are put on this earth with one great commandment: love one another. 

We need to do better. We need to teach our kids that suicide is NOT the answer, ever.

 

^{**Founded in 1998 by the creators of the Academy Award®-winning short film TREVOR, The Trevor Project is the leading national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer & questioning (LGBTQ) young people under 25.}

 

How Far We Have Come

I tend to remember terrible days with startling clarity, whereas happy memories become vague pretty quickly. I hate that.

I remember my grandfather's funeral vividly (age 9), but I don't remember my sweet 16 birthday party hardly at all. 

I wanted to bring that up because I have crystal clear memories of what I was doing almost exactly 17 years ago, on September 11, 2001. 

I think it was a Monday or a Tuesday. According to one source, Britannica, there were more than 3,000 people killed in New York and the plane crash in Pennsylvania, and that also includes more than 400 police and firefighters. More than 6,000 people were injured. 

I was alive when JFK was assassinated but I was a baby, so I have no memory of it. I remember the assassinations of Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., and the attempt on Ronald Reagan's life, but none of those events were as meaningful or as life-altering as the 9/11 attacks.

I went in to work on that mild, sunny day in September 2001 and got there around 8:45. I was a paralegal in the legal department of a large hotel company here in Atlanta. I had heard on the radio that there had been a weird event in New York, a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, but I just thought wow, what a freak accident. I went to my cubicle and put my things down, but there was a buzz all around the company -- you could feel it, in the air. TV's were on in conference rooms. I asked somebody what was going on and they said go in the small conference room. I walked in and saw the second plane crash into the World Trade Center, and watched in horror, for more than an hour. Nobody was working. Some people were crying. Some were frantically trying to call friends or relative in New York. Around noon, were told to just go home, and we would be notified about working the next day. I left and drove home.

I was walking Lola the other day and reflecting on the eerie silence of the drive home that day.

I was working just a short drive from Dobbins Air Force Base and a slightly longer drive from Hartsfield, one of the busiest airports in the world. There were no planes in the sky that day, though. I drove home feeling the weight of that silence.

I went by the bank and got out a couple of hundred dollars in cash, as my mom had instructed me, and then I stopped at a gas station and filled up my tank. Mom had lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis and she had very calmly but forcefully told me to get cash and gas before going home. I had plenty of food in the condo. 

I remember when I went inside and paid for my gas there was a box of American flag decals, and I bought one and put it on the back of my car. On my drive through a residential part of Dunwoody there were already many flags flying in front of the middle class homes I passed, although I didn't see a soul, and almost no cars.

I had decided to stay off the interstate going home because nobody knew if or where there would be more attacks..

I got to my condo and changed out of my work clothes and flipped on the TV. I watched the coverage, on and off, the rest of the day. I had just bought a new printer for my computer and I spent part of the afternoon setting it up. I remember having to just turn off the TV after a few hours because I didn't want to see any more people crying or bodies falling from buildings. It was too overwhelming. 

I talked to Mom and my brother several times that day.

The next day I had not heard anything to the contrary so I went to work. There were people who had stayed up literally all night watching CNN. There were attorneys running around, meeting here and there, coordinating the company's response, because one of our hotels was very close to ground zero and we were letting police and firefighters bunk there and trying to get them fed and taken care of. I was proud to be working for that company.

The memory of that is so clear, most of it, and yet two things stand out. 

One, I felt so sorry for my mother, because I could hear the anxiety in her voice when we talked. My father had died 5 years before, and Mom had done really well living alone in Augusta. The upkeep on that big house and pool were substantial, and yet Bruce and I felt like that was the right place for her, because there were so many friends and family members all around. The 911 attacks triggered terrible memories for her, though -- of not only the Cuban Missile Crisis, but I think, too, of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, when she was a child. The big difference was on 9/11 she was living alone. She didn't have her father or my father to lean on. (She came through just fine, though, FYI.)

Part of the frustration of those types of events is you feel helpless. There was nothing I could do to help the families of those who died that day. There was very little I could do to help my mom.  

Another big emotion was fear. We were all afraid there would be more attacks. We were all wondering if we were safe, or if we should try to go somewhere. I live about 217 miles from the nuclear plant at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and just 150 miles from the Savannah River nuclear plant. I am also close to Dobbins Air Force Base and Fort Benning, Georgia, in Columbus. So if anyone was going to nuke one of those places I would be toast.

The next time I went to Augusta to see my mother, I remember my mom and brother and I had a lot of discussions about disaster preparedness. I was glad to know my brother was only about an hour from Mom and he could get to her pretty easily.

Although terrorist attacks became a daily concern, life went on. 

Later in September I co-hosted a Henderson Family get together, a picnic in Roswell. We all talked about how thankful we were to have family nearby. Lots of us Henderson descendants [my paternal grandmother was a Henderson] live here in the Atlanta area. In October, Mom and I went to Folly Beach for a long weekend. I was also writing screenplays at that point, hopeful to be able to get one produced.

If you had told me on 9/11/01 that within another 3 years I would change jobs, adopt a little girl, and buy a house a short time later, I would have been flabbergasted. (It's probably for the best that we cannot see into the future.) 

The past 17 years have been very busy for me personally, and for the country. So many changes, both good and bad. 

Terrorist attacks happen all the time, all over the world. They have been happening for a long time, now. Unfortunately I don't think that will change any time soon. 

Flying is far more aggravating now because of 9/11. I was reading just today that those plastic tubs you put things in at the airport, to go through the scanner, are crawling with bacteria and germs. Yuck. 

In general, the world feels like a much more scary place since that day 17 years ago. I am far more aware of the fact that in some places in the world Americans are hated and folks wish to harm us, simply for being American. I hate that. However, I think that there are far more people that like us than there are haters out there. 

When the 9/11 attacks happened, I had a cell phone, but it stayed in my car and I only plugged it into the cigarette lighter and used it on rare occasions. The minutes were quite expensive. Mom insisted after 9/11 that I get a phone I could keep in my purse, charged up, so she could call me. I did that not long afterwards. I would never have dreamed that now I carry a tiny computer in my pocket all the time and I routinely text friends, take photos with the phone, and more. 

I think it's important for us to teach our children the significance of 9/11, because it was a pivotal day in world history. I also think it's important, though, for us to explain that it taught us, as a nation, to be more vigilant. We have to be. We are still a strong country, though, and we weather our storms and keep going. No terrorist, from within or without, will ever destroy the American spirit. We are stronger for surviving -- that's the message we need to emphasize.

 left, Mom and Bruce in 2001

 

The Key to Happiness

I've been wanting to write this blog for a long time but I didn't want to come off sounding holier-than-thou. Basically I want to address the angst I see expressed by so many of my friends and family members, complaining that their life has no meaning, or they aren't happy, or they feel no zest for life any more. 

The solution to all that existential unhappiness is really simple.

First, a couple of observations:

I have noticed that people who don't have children or elderly parents seem to be the ones expressing these views most often. 

I have also noticed that these complainers usually are financially secure, and are not worried about paying bills, which is great. 

The times in my life when I have been the most unhappy, nervous, riddled with anxiety, etc. have been the times when I have not been working, for various reasons, and I was living alone. 

There's nothing wrong with living alone, and many people are happy living that way. I'm not dissing folks who live alone. However, I think there have been studies that have shown married people live longer. 

My view of it is simple: I think we live more happy, fulfilled lives if we are taking care of someone else. Whether it's a child, a parent, a sibling, even a pet -- humans are fundamentally caretakers. 

I was talking to a friend yesterday and she said she got so mad at her husband recently because they were leaving on a trip and he got in the car and fussed at her because she wasn't ready to go. "He just had to pack his bag with his three changes of clothes, and put it in the car. I had to pack my stuff, get the children dressed and fed and packed, make sure the house was clean and locked up, the bill payments were in the mail, and several other tasks. Yet he was critical of me for holding him up."

I could readily identify with that. Men often have no clue how hard their wives work! Her hubby needs some more of the going-away tasks on his plate, IMHO.

Here are the things I take care of: myself, my mother, my son (not entirely, but to some extent, as he still needs a lot of direction to learn adulting skills), the dog, the car, and the house. Plus I work part time. 

I don't have time to be unhappy or to question the meaning of life. 

A few months ago a friend was visiting me and telling me his life has gotten dull. He leaves work every day and goes to the gym and doesn't get home until 7 or 7:30. He takes care of only himself and his home and car. No pets. Not even a house plant. I suggested he get out in the community more, like take on some volunteer work, take a class, do a Fun Run, etc. Every suggestion was met with dismissal.  He is a person who has never taken care of anything except, briefly, a cat, when he was in college. Since then? Nothing and nobody except himself. 

I have little sympathy. 

Taking care of others is not fashionable. It isn't seen as trendy or cool or fun in any way. Yet, it's a blessing, to be a caretaker.

I take care of an elderly person, a handicapped son, and a dog. Those are living creatures that each, to some extent, depend on me. I am not a downtrodden, unhappy person. In fact, it's just the opposite. My life matters. It has meaning. I thank God every day for my many blessings. 

Even on days when I am super busy and tired, or maybe I didn't sleep well the night before, even on those days, I know I am blessed. I do not look forward to the day when my mom is gone and my son is grown. I dread those days, in fact. But I will not sit around feeling sorry for myself. I will find things to do, and people to care for. Maybe I will do Meals on Wheels, like my uncle did for years. Maybe I will go to the hospital and rock babies. Maybe I will teach new Americans how to speak English. 

Whatever I choose to do, I will be the one blessed. I will be the one tired but satisfied at the end of the day. I won't let anyone make me feel sad or lonely. I will fill my days with activities that are important, that have purpose, and I will reap the benefits as much as the person I am helping. 

That's what it's all about. 

If you're an unhappy person, go make somebody else's life easier. Go make somebody else smile. Make their day better. Take them a meal. Walk their dog. Mow their lawn. Tell them a joke. Doesn't have to be a family member. It can be a neighbor or a friend or a co-worker. Just do nice things for people. It's really the key to being happy -- making somebody else happy, even if only for a few minutes. Do it more and more, until it becomes a habit. Happiness will follow.

Never Skip Breakfast

I was tasked by my employer with writing about bad breakfast foods the other day and it was a fascinating assignment. I had to give a lot of thought to breakfast. I love eggs, so it wasn't as bad as it might sound.

I was researching breakfast foods which might not be as healthy as one would think. Obviously, donuts and waffles are not exactly "health food," but there are other things that might surprise you -- like fruit juice. Fruit juice is mostly water and sugar. Read the labels. 

I like the "Simply ____" family of products - their Simply Lime is delicious. They are known for the Simply Orange juice. Also delicious. However... one 8 oz. glass has 23 grams of sugar. Check out the label. Yikes.

No matter what type of diet you are on -- low calorie, low carb -- you are screwed if you drink 8 oz. of that juice. If you are on a low fat diet you're okay - there's no fat in orange juice. (Pretty gross idea though, right?!?)

You don't have to drink juice at breakfast. Sugary stuff will give you a "sugar high" but then you will come crashing down a bit later -- not fun. 

Below, my breakfast. Eggs over easy on toast, and a cup of tea. I often scramble spinach into my eggs but I didn't this morning. I have to have good protein in the morning or I feel lethargic all day.

If you are like most people, you need breakfast. You need to jumpstart your morning with some fuel for your body. You've been asleep all night, so you need to literally break the fast = breakfast. I was raised by parents who believed this wholeheartedly and impressed on me the idea that breakfast is absolutely necessary. Skipping it was a sin. My brother, who never liked breakfast, would often take a poached egg and swallow it whole, just to avoid controversy. [Ironically, he told us not long ago he now realizes why breakfast is important and he never misses it.]

My father was one of those rare people who jumped out of bed raring to go, every morning. His Big Ben alarm clock sounded at 6:30 on weekday mornings, and he was up and running. I liked to watch him shave and comb his hair in the morning. He would listen to the radio in the bathroom while he did it, and then slap on some aftershave before putting on his clothes. He always came out of his room looking sharp, with a little bounce in his step. 

Dad wasn't a big breakfast guy on weekdays, when I was a little girl. I don't recall him eating more than a piece of toast. On weekends, he made sausage and eggs, and usually leathery omelets. 

My mother always made sure both her kids had eaten well before school. There was no getting around it. We also had to be inspected. I never went off wearing clothes that were wrinkled or had holes in them. (My daughter bought a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, some years ago, and I was horrified. So was Mother. It was a fad, though, so I tried not to let it bug me.) 

According to 4 Reasons Why You Should Never Skip Breakfast, eating it is good for memory and weight loss, and people who eat it have fewer heart issues or diabetes. This is my favorite takeaway from that article:

"Weight Loss: In one recent study, people who ate breakfast as their largest meal lost an average of 17.8 pounds over three months. The other participants consumed the same number of total calories per day, but ate most of their calories at dinner, according to the study published in July in the journal Obesity. The large-dinner group only lost an average of 7.3 pounds each over the same time period."

This article, 5 Reasons Why You Should Never Skip Breakfast, offered more insights. "Researchers found that skipping meals first thing in the morning could lead to an inflammation increase, which has been shown to contribute to metabolic impairment and the risk of obesity and diabetes. Sounds like it’s time to start piling your plate with anti-inflammatory foods in the a.m. We recommend eggs scrambled with spinach and tomatoes or a simple cup of yogurt with an apple on the side."

My son doesn't like to eat right after he gets up. I have learned to give him about 30 minutes' lead time and then put something in front of him, even if it's just a glass of milk. He eats the most food at night, which would be bad except that he is skinny, so I am not fussing. 

I will end this little lecture with a memory. When I was a little girl, I loved to sit at the table in the kitchen of my grandparents' house here in Atlanta and watch my grandfather make breakfast. Bacon was broiled on a broiler pan in the oven. Coffee was made in a percolator -- I would sit mesmerized, watching and listening to that rhythm. Eggs were scrambled and fluffy. Toast was made in a toaster, buttered on one side. My grandmother appeared when breakfast was on the table. 

I thought that was how it should be. Men made breakfast and women ate it. On weekends, my dad made breakfast and gave Mom a break. 

Adulthood proved I had been given a false impression of marriage, but so be it. I still maintain everyone should eat breakfast, and if the husbands want to stay married, they would do well to get in the kitchen and fix it...