Some things were not quite right about my childhood - the garage wasn’t one of them.
I have always been fascinated with garages. Maybe it is because they leave so much to be desired.
When I was a kid, my friends and I transformed garages into playhouses, theaters, and even carnivals. We created places to have secret club meetings and haunted houses.
These days, I hardly ever see children playing in garages. I suppose they're out surfing the web, playing video games or at soccer practice. I think they are missing out.
When people leave their garage doors open, I cannot help craning my neck to see the array or, on the contrary, disarray of stuff. When I do, it's as though I am seeing inside a person's life.
I think I can tell a lot about people by the way they keep their garages. Some garages are plumb full. You could not fit your big toe inside if you tried. Those garage owners probably don't have high blood pressure. Most likely, they are laid back and hardly fuss. If they cannot find what they need in the garage, they figure they'll find it later or go out and buy a new one.
The other type of garage, the kind that makes my heart throb, is very well-organized. These people tend to be uptight and know right where everything is. [Circuit tester? Bottom right side of the pegboard on the left.]
Inside their garages is an imperturbable realm, where garage dwellers tinker and toy all hours. The sound of "Oldies" reverberate from speakers hoisted in the corners, life-sized posters of heroes and heroines keep company with an impressive collection of license plates that plaster the walls.
Stunningly well-kept, these garages look more like living rooms with their painted concrete floors. They usually have a TV or two, folding table and chairs, a fridge, maybe some vintage cupboards and special lighting. Vehicles are parked in the driveway or on the street.
Our garage is an adventure for me. I could spend hours sweeping, sorting, rearranging and organizing. Although, the place stays that way for only a few days and then somehow it returns to its former undone self.
I asked my husband to designate half of the garage just for me. We would draw a line right down the middle with one side his and the other side all mine.
My side of the garage would have pegboards with hooks to hold all sorts of stuff. Everything would be in its place with room to spare. My side would have a tidy workbench, where I would build birdhouses, repair furniture and spray-paint baskets.
A florescent light would hang from above and an FM radio would chime in the background. It would have a heater for when there's a chill in the air and a fan for when temperatures rise. I would have a mini-fridge for ice water and a hot plate for tea. Stringing patio lights around my side would be a nice touch, don't you think?
Oh, yeah....it would be my garage space from heaven and I imagine myself spending a lot of time out there. I suppose that's why he has not agreed to this, yet.
You can see why the garage is a final frontier for me. It's where I am buffered from life's woes, cast the standard-bearers of day-to-day life to the wind and contemplate what could be.
In my garage resides an unadulterated space, where I, once again, am cleansed and made whole. Memories of things left undone or things gone wrong would not follow me there.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Wait for me while I...
"I'll be waiting...You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess..." Lyrics from Love Story by Taylor Swift
Have you ever noticed how men are always waiting for women? The fact of the matter is, men have been waiting for women since the beginning of time.
I don't know about you, but to me the sight of men waiting for women is right up there with holding the door open, pulling out her chair or helping her with her coat.
I imagine a lot of fellows put everything on hold while they wait.
Come to think of it, I don't see many young men waiting around; they're probably in too much of a hurry. It's mostly the older guys in cars with windows rolled down and radios turned up, lingering on benches while watching passersby at the grocery store or thumbing through Times and People magazines in doctors' offices.
One nods off at the laundry mat while she folds underwear. Another stands by the curb while his wife rummages in a yard nearby.
Every time I go shopping, I see what appears to be a completely bored man hanging out alone in Ladies Wear. He's holding her purse while she's trying on clothes in the dressing room. Talk about the possibility of a long wait!
Considering how much time these guys spend waiting, I figure they must be sacrificing something: teeing off with the boys, catching the game on TV, gambling at the casino, tilling the garden, shooting a few hoops or tinkering in the garage.
My father was not a patient waiter, but my husband is, which makes me wonder about the conversations that are a part of the waiting dance...
Maybe she says, you don't have to stay, and he replies, I'll wait anyway. Or maybe she promises, I'll only be a minute, and he says, take your time. If she warns, don't go wondering off, does he promise, I won't? If she asks, will you hold my purse while I try this on, does he respond, O.K.?
I imagine there's bargaining, too...
If you come to the grocery store with me, you can do whatever you want afterward. I'll bake your favorite cookies if you help me with the laundry. If you go clothes shopping with me, I won't make you go to church.
Now that I think of it, I never see these men upset or impatient in the least bit as they wait. They have a quiet calm about them. I'd like to think these patient stewards of women's agendas are really great guys who want to be supportive.
I salute this dying breed of princes as they wait for their princesses.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Have you ever noticed how men are always waiting for women? The fact of the matter is, men have been waiting for women since the beginning of time.
I don't know about you, but to me the sight of men waiting for women is right up there with holding the door open, pulling out her chair or helping her with her coat.
I imagine a lot of fellows put everything on hold while they wait.
Come to think of it, I don't see many young men waiting around; they're probably in too much of a hurry. It's mostly the older guys in cars with windows rolled down and radios turned up, lingering on benches while watching passersby at the grocery store or thumbing through Times and People magazines in doctors' offices.
One nods off at the laundry mat while she folds underwear. Another stands by the curb while his wife rummages in a yard nearby.
Every time I go shopping, I see what appears to be a completely bored man hanging out alone in Ladies Wear. He's holding her purse while she's trying on clothes in the dressing room. Talk about the possibility of a long wait!
Considering how much time these guys spend waiting, I figure they must be sacrificing something: teeing off with the boys, catching the game on TV, gambling at the casino, tilling the garden, shooting a few hoops or tinkering in the garage.
My father was not a patient waiter, but my husband is, which makes me wonder about the conversations that are a part of the waiting dance...
Maybe she says, you don't have to stay, and he replies, I'll wait anyway. Or maybe she promises, I'll only be a minute, and he says, take your time. If she warns, don't go wondering off, does he promise, I won't? If she asks, will you hold my purse while I try this on, does he respond, O.K.?
I imagine there's bargaining, too...
If you come to the grocery store with me, you can do whatever you want afterward. I'll bake your favorite cookies if you help me with the laundry. If you go clothes shopping with me, I won't make you go to church.
Now that I think of it, I never see these men upset or impatient in the least bit as they wait. They have a quiet calm about them. I'd like to think these patient stewards of women's agendas are really great guys who want to be supportive.
I salute this dying breed of princes as they wait for their princesses.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Skip the sloppy joe mix
When I opened a letter from my sister last week, I wasn't expecting to find a postcard from my mother inside. It was postmarked Oct. 16, 1970, carried a 10-cent air mail stamp and was addressed to my sister in Pirmasens, Germany, where she lived at the time.
The note reads…
"Mary Ann, so glad to hear from you and that all is well. Will write a letter later. Here’s the recipe for spaghetti sauce.
Spaghetti sauce: 1 large can tomato juice, 1 small can tom. paste, 2 cups water, 1 tbs. sweet basil, 1 tsp. salt, ½ tsp. garlic salt, 1 tsp. black pepper, ¼ tsp. oregano, 1 tablespoon dried onion soup mix, 1 teaspoon sloppy joe mix, 2 bay leaves, 3 tbsp. sugar, ¼ teaspoon baking soda. Bring to a boil. Simmer for about an hour.
Lots of luck. Secret to good cooking: put all your meals in the hands of the Blessed Mother.
Keep happy and well.
Love,
Mommy
P.S. You may skip the sloppy joe mix and onion soup mix.
Mommy? At the time my mother typed this, all six of her children were older and had stopped referring to her as such. I wonder if she was resolving that feeling mothers get when it is no longer cool for kids to use the term "Mommy." Sometimes I catch myself wanting to sign emails and cards to my kids that way but quickly sensor myself and settle for plain old "Mom."
My mother's Sicilian spaghetti sauce was famous throughout the neighborhood, the school, the church, the entire town. I didn’t know she put black pepper in it! The sloppy joe and soup mixes were news to me, too. It makes me wonder. Mom cooked from memory and this recipe doesn't sound at all like the one she gave me. I guess she was doing her best to recall the mysterious flurry of ingredients she used.
I should have studied her more closely and taken copious notes on how much basil and oregano she poured into her palm and then sprinkled in the sauce.
I notice that her typewriter ribbon was wearing out by they way she filled in the "a" in "all," the "o," "r" and "g" in "oregano." My mother was a perfectionist, so it doesn’t surprise me at all that she tried to make her note just so.
She really was a talented cook and typist. I remember watching her do both and hoping that some day my fingers and hands would maneuver magically like hers.
Mom had the focus of a bull snake coiled and ready to pounce on its prey. Nothing could distract her from the impenetrable bubble of concentration she maintained in our noisy and often chaotic household.
In her empty nest, my sister's request for her sauce recipe surely must have lifted her spirits.
I took for granted watching her cook and receiving her letters. Mom is gone now and on April 8 she would have been 90 years old.
My husband asked me, "How many more times will you write about your mother?"
For a moment, I was taken back by his question, which really was a statement, and then said, "As many times as I need to."
Even though I am 58 and all my children are grown and gone, I always will miss my mommy.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
The note reads…
"Mary Ann, so glad to hear from you and that all is well. Will write a letter later. Here’s the recipe for spaghetti sauce.
Spaghetti sauce: 1 large can tomato juice, 1 small can tom. paste, 2 cups water, 1 tbs. sweet basil, 1 tsp. salt, ½ tsp. garlic salt, 1 tsp. black pepper, ¼ tsp. oregano, 1 tablespoon dried onion soup mix, 1 teaspoon sloppy joe mix, 2 bay leaves, 3 tbsp. sugar, ¼ teaspoon baking soda. Bring to a boil. Simmer for about an hour.
Lots of luck. Secret to good cooking: put all your meals in the hands of the Blessed Mother.
Keep happy and well.
Love,
Mommy
P.S. You may skip the sloppy joe mix and onion soup mix.
Mommy? At the time my mother typed this, all six of her children were older and had stopped referring to her as such. I wonder if she was resolving that feeling mothers get when it is no longer cool for kids to use the term "Mommy." Sometimes I catch myself wanting to sign emails and cards to my kids that way but quickly sensor myself and settle for plain old "Mom."
My mother's Sicilian spaghetti sauce was famous throughout the neighborhood, the school, the church, the entire town. I didn’t know she put black pepper in it! The sloppy joe and soup mixes were news to me, too. It makes me wonder. Mom cooked from memory and this recipe doesn't sound at all like the one she gave me. I guess she was doing her best to recall the mysterious flurry of ingredients she used.
I should have studied her more closely and taken copious notes on how much basil and oregano she poured into her palm and then sprinkled in the sauce.
I notice that her typewriter ribbon was wearing out by they way she filled in the "a" in "all," the "o," "r" and "g" in "oregano." My mother was a perfectionist, so it doesn’t surprise me at all that she tried to make her note just so.
She really was a talented cook and typist. I remember watching her do both and hoping that some day my fingers and hands would maneuver magically like hers.
Mom had the focus of a bull snake coiled and ready to pounce on its prey. Nothing could distract her from the impenetrable bubble of concentration she maintained in our noisy and often chaotic household.
In her empty nest, my sister's request for her sauce recipe surely must have lifted her spirits.
I took for granted watching her cook and receiving her letters. Mom is gone now and on April 8 she would have been 90 years old.
My husband asked me, "How many more times will you write about your mother?"
For a moment, I was taken back by his question, which really was a statement, and then said, "As many times as I need to."
Even though I am 58 and all my children are grown and gone, I always will miss my mommy.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Really? Really!
I don’t know about you, but I spend a lot of time thinking about God’s will. Sometimes it consumes me.
The other day, when I heard Harold Kushner, author of a dozen or so books, being interviewed on National Public Radio, I turned up the volume. The topic was God’s will.
Rabbi Kushner, who wrote "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," lost a teenage son to illness some years ago.
He believes God made a decision a long time ago not to interfere with acts of nature, like the death of his son, or acts of evil, like 9-11. According to Kushner, even though God doesn't interfere, He promises to be with us no matter what happens.
I was raised to believe that God is everywhere, God does intervene and miracles do happen. My theological upbringing had a clearly suffering servant slant to it. The notion of the harder the times, the greater the heavenly rewards was embraced.
A few years ago during my training as a hospital chaplain, I became a student of discerning God’s will through the book "The Will of God" by Pastor Leslie D. Weatherhead.
Weatherhead’s perspective tends to align with Kushner. In short, he believes "not everything that happens is God’s will, but that nothing can defeat God’s will." In other words, when bad things happen, God will work around, through and over whatever comes our way in order to accomplish his ultimate will.
I want to believe in a benevolent God, but I struggle when a young woman is killed at the hands of a rapist or when a child runs into the path of an oncoming car and dies. When tragedies like these occur, I look heavenward in disbelief and cry out, "Why?"
Equally hard for me to accept are my own unfortunate missteps. My theological sensibilities tell me that God has forgiven and maybe even forgotten my wrong turns.
Regrettably, I want to press "replay" and do over what I didn’t get right at first.
Maybe all I really need to do is follow the advice I gave an ailing woman I visited when making my chaplain rounds.
She asked with a worried look, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I replied.
"Does He really exit? When we die, will He really be there?"
"Yes," I reassured.
"Does He really forgive?"
"Yes." I said.
"Really?" She asked in disbelief.
"Really!" I responded with conviction.
The other day, when I heard Harold Kushner, author of a dozen or so books, being interviewed on National Public Radio, I turned up the volume. The topic was God’s will.
Rabbi Kushner, who wrote "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," lost a teenage son to illness some years ago.
He believes God made a decision a long time ago not to interfere with acts of nature, like the death of his son, or acts of evil, like 9-11. According to Kushner, even though God doesn't interfere, He promises to be with us no matter what happens.
I was raised to believe that God is everywhere, God does intervene and miracles do happen. My theological upbringing had a clearly suffering servant slant to it. The notion of the harder the times, the greater the heavenly rewards was embraced.
A few years ago during my training as a hospital chaplain, I became a student of discerning God’s will through the book "The Will of God" by Pastor Leslie D. Weatherhead.
Weatherhead’s perspective tends to align with Kushner. In short, he believes "not everything that happens is God’s will, but that nothing can defeat God’s will." In other words, when bad things happen, God will work around, through and over whatever comes our way in order to accomplish his ultimate will.
I want to believe in a benevolent God, but I struggle when a young woman is killed at the hands of a rapist or when a child runs into the path of an oncoming car and dies. When tragedies like these occur, I look heavenward in disbelief and cry out, "Why?"
Equally hard for me to accept are my own unfortunate missteps. My theological sensibilities tell me that God has forgiven and maybe even forgotten my wrong turns.
Regrettably, I want to press "replay" and do over what I didn’t get right at first.
Maybe all I really need to do is follow the advice I gave an ailing woman I visited when making my chaplain rounds.
She asked with a worried look, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I replied.
"Does He really exit? When we die, will He really be there?"
"Yes," I reassured.
"Does He really forgive?"
"Yes." I said.
"Really?" She asked in disbelief.
"Really!" I responded with conviction.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Whistling carrots, fairies and fools
"April 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four." Mark Twain
I sort of like April Fools Day. It brings out the kid in us and there’s that special element of surprise.
I’m not one to play practical jokes. It scares me too much to think someone could die of a heart attack or keel over from a stroke. And I don’t like it when the joke is on me; maybe that's why people tell me I'm too serious.
However, I don’t mind it when people pull pranks on others. The length they will go to spring jokes on unsuspecting friends, office workers and even family members intrigues me. I’m amazed how gullible people can be.
Out of curiosity, I looked up the "Top 10 Best April Fools Jokes" of all time on Business.com.
Take for example Tesco's whistling carrots. On April 1, 2002, Tesco ran a fake newspaper ad announcing a whistling carrot had been genetically modified with air holes that caused the carrot to whistle when it was cooked. Can you believe it? Well, apparently a whole lot of people did.
George Orwell once said, "The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being, but to remind him that he is already degraded."
That reminds me of a prank played by Lebanon Circle Magik, a company that specializes in sculptures. In 2007, the company posted on its website a picture of a mummified fairy. According to the story, someone found a fairy in Derbyshire, England, or so the story went, and people continued to think the fairy was real even after the hoax was revealed. Go figure.
"If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings." Welsh Proverb
A whole lot of people were wearing crowns back in '96, when Taco Bell pulled a wild hair prank. On April 1 of that year, Taco Bell announced it was renaming the Liberty Bell the Taco Liberty Bell. No one in their right mind would believe such a thing, but millions did and protestors clogged the phone lines at Philadelphia’s National Historic Park, where the bell is located.
"Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." Chinese Proverb
Dick Smith had fun fooling Australians for quite awhile back in '78. Smith supposedly contracted a barge to tow an iceberg from Antarctica to Sydney Harbor. He said he'd cut the iceberg into icecubes and sell them for 10 cents each. The public was gung-ho over the "iceberg" until rain washed off the shaving cream and fire retardant, revealing that the "iceberg" was plastic. Some iceberg that was.
Clifton Paul Fadiman once said, "A sense of humor is the ability to understand a joke and that the joke is oneself."
My favorite April Fools joke happened in 1962, when Sweden’s only TV channel broadcast that viewers could make their black-and-white TVs display full color by pulling nylon stockings over them. Thousands of people actually tried it. I really cannot picture people stretching nylons over their picture tubes. Well, on second thought, maybe I can.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I sort of like April Fools Day. It brings out the kid in us and there’s that special element of surprise.
I’m not one to play practical jokes. It scares me too much to think someone could die of a heart attack or keel over from a stroke. And I don’t like it when the joke is on me; maybe that's why people tell me I'm too serious.
However, I don’t mind it when people pull pranks on others. The length they will go to spring jokes on unsuspecting friends, office workers and even family members intrigues me. I’m amazed how gullible people can be.
Out of curiosity, I looked up the "Top 10 Best April Fools Jokes" of all time on Business.com.
Take for example Tesco's whistling carrots. On April 1, 2002, Tesco ran a fake newspaper ad announcing a whistling carrot had been genetically modified with air holes that caused the carrot to whistle when it was cooked. Can you believe it? Well, apparently a whole lot of people did.
George Orwell once said, "The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being, but to remind him that he is already degraded."
That reminds me of a prank played by Lebanon Circle Magik, a company that specializes in sculptures. In 2007, the company posted on its website a picture of a mummified fairy. According to the story, someone found a fairy in Derbyshire, England, or so the story went, and people continued to think the fairy was real even after the hoax was revealed. Go figure.
"If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings." Welsh Proverb
A whole lot of people were wearing crowns back in '96, when Taco Bell pulled a wild hair prank. On April 1 of that year, Taco Bell announced it was renaming the Liberty Bell the Taco Liberty Bell. No one in their right mind would believe such a thing, but millions did and protestors clogged the phone lines at Philadelphia’s National Historic Park, where the bell is located.
"Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." Chinese Proverb
Dick Smith had fun fooling Australians for quite awhile back in '78. Smith supposedly contracted a barge to tow an iceberg from Antarctica to Sydney Harbor. He said he'd cut the iceberg into icecubes and sell them for 10 cents each. The public was gung-ho over the "iceberg" until rain washed off the shaving cream and fire retardant, revealing that the "iceberg" was plastic. Some iceberg that was.
Clifton Paul Fadiman once said, "A sense of humor is the ability to understand a joke and that the joke is oneself."
My favorite April Fools joke happened in 1962, when Sweden’s only TV channel broadcast that viewers could make their black-and-white TVs display full color by pulling nylon stockings over them. Thousands of people actually tried it. I really cannot picture people stretching nylons over their picture tubes. Well, on second thought, maybe I can.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Striking gold where you least expect it
Is that a twinkle in his eyes? Is that my heart racing? Are we both giggling for the first time in a long while?
Recently, I have learned from an Indian Proverb that "To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak." Since my husband and I started ballroom dancing lessons, our hearts have been a chattering.
In the few short weeks since our first lesson, we know one thing: ballroom dancing outwardly expresses the language that our hearts have spoken fluently all along. A metaphor for our marriage, through dancing our hearts are shouting, "I promise to be there!"
We are one of 12 couples in our class. Even though we appear to be very different, we all have two things in common: we step on our partner’s toes and we trip over our own feet. In other words, we bring no natural talent to the dance floor. However, we are encouraged by our instructor, who believes that anyone can learn.
"Now remember, dancing is just like walking. And, be sure to practice when you go home," he reminds us.
When my husband and I do practice, we are like a new love, arm in arm, lightly stepping back and forth. We wrack our brains to recall the instructor’s words, "Each slow step takes two beats of music and every quick step takes one..."
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, we softly whisper.
With the furniture pushed back on the living room floor, we sweetly sway to the beat of Sugarland and Rascal Flats. Twenty minutes go by in a flash as we move about with an innocent trust in one another’s ability to remember.
The shades are not drawn. Our Dachshunds are looking on with amazement, possibly detecting a new spark, as we take slow, slow, quick, quick steps to the Foxtrot and rock forward, backward and then sideways while doing the Swing.
While ballroom dancing does expose our vulnerabilities, we are rediscovering our couple hood to the beat of 4-4 time.
After 38 years of relentlessly mining ways to be romantic, our hope of rekindling had withered; but now, we have struck gold on the dance floor.
The rhythmic heel, toe, heel toe reintroduced us to a finesse and tenderness that usually escapes our daily routine.
A new soft gift in our lives is transporting us back to an old familiar place where we first met, a time when we would gaze into each other’s eyes, coordinating every move and holding hands until they were hot and sweaty.
The slow gentle leaning into one another and the sudden pulling away represents the best parts of our love.
As we dance, we are in a happy, silly place. We are romantically giddy when we get it right and lovingly chuckle if we get it wrong.
Ballroom dancing brightly teases us into believing that we are young again. It is a fountain quenching our thirst. I like it here. I don't only want to visit this place; I want to stay.
When our lessons are over, we are talking about signing up for some more of this tonic that summons our hearts. Heel, toe, heel toe...one, two, three, four....
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Recently, I have learned from an Indian Proverb that "To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak." Since my husband and I started ballroom dancing lessons, our hearts have been a chattering.
In the few short weeks since our first lesson, we know one thing: ballroom dancing outwardly expresses the language that our hearts have spoken fluently all along. A metaphor for our marriage, through dancing our hearts are shouting, "I promise to be there!"
We are one of 12 couples in our class. Even though we appear to be very different, we all have two things in common: we step on our partner’s toes and we trip over our own feet. In other words, we bring no natural talent to the dance floor. However, we are encouraged by our instructor, who believes that anyone can learn.
"Now remember, dancing is just like walking. And, be sure to practice when you go home," he reminds us.
When my husband and I do practice, we are like a new love, arm in arm, lightly stepping back and forth. We wrack our brains to recall the instructor’s words, "Each slow step takes two beats of music and every quick step takes one..."
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, we softly whisper.
With the furniture pushed back on the living room floor, we sweetly sway to the beat of Sugarland and Rascal Flats. Twenty minutes go by in a flash as we move about with an innocent trust in one another’s ability to remember.
The shades are not drawn. Our Dachshunds are looking on with amazement, possibly detecting a new spark, as we take slow, slow, quick, quick steps to the Foxtrot and rock forward, backward and then sideways while doing the Swing.
While ballroom dancing does expose our vulnerabilities, we are rediscovering our couple hood to the beat of 4-4 time.
After 38 years of relentlessly mining ways to be romantic, our hope of rekindling had withered; but now, we have struck gold on the dance floor.
The rhythmic heel, toe, heel toe reintroduced us to a finesse and tenderness that usually escapes our daily routine.
A new soft gift in our lives is transporting us back to an old familiar place where we first met, a time when we would gaze into each other’s eyes, coordinating every move and holding hands until they were hot and sweaty.
The slow gentle leaning into one another and the sudden pulling away represents the best parts of our love.
As we dance, we are in a happy, silly place. We are romantically giddy when we get it right and lovingly chuckle if we get it wrong.
Ballroom dancing brightly teases us into believing that we are young again. It is a fountain quenching our thirst. I like it here. I don't only want to visit this place; I want to stay.
When our lessons are over, we are talking about signing up for some more of this tonic that summons our hearts. Heel, toe, heel toe...one, two, three, four....
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Is that you in front of me?
The other day, when I heard SD Public Broadcasting reporter Charles Michael Ray on location just west of Custer in the southern Black Hills of South Dakota, I got the shivers.
Ray spent the day with cavers who were charting the 150-mile mark of explored passageways in Jewel Cave, the second largest known cave in the world.
I have no desire to sliver my way through underground rock tunnels, but I sure don't mind it when others go caving and live to tell about it.
While listening to reporter Ray as he tagged along with cavers, I wondered what it would be like. I can picture myself looking cool in a pair of Dickies overalls with knee and elbow pads underneath, a bandanna wrapped around my forehead with a fluorescent hard hat on and a halogen lamp in hand.
Nevertheless, I think I would miss too many of my creature comforts on a day trip, let alone an overnight. How do you know when it is nighttime down there, anyway?
And, where does someone sleep when they're 300 feet or more underground? A hard surface for a resting place makes me ache just thinking about it. What about a pillow? I doubt I'd be able to bring my favorite feather pillow. Plus, I can't sleep without my down-filled comforter.
Can you picture me hauling my pillow and blanket through tight crawl ways and down chutes? Maybe I could pack them in my travel tote on wheels. Maybe not. With such cramped quarters, I'd probably have to leave them behind or, scarier yet, be left behind.
What if my co-spelunkers snore? I suppose I could wear earplugs, but then how would I hear the bats swooping down to get me? I don't think I could sleep with the snoring and the bats. After all of that, I can't bear the thought of the bathroom issue.
Worse yet, what if I got lost like I did in Itasca State Park and that was in broad daylight? I must admit, I am afraid of the dark. With no sun, moon or stars to light the way, I'd be hanging onto the pantleg of the person in front of me. Now that would make me really popular among the other spelunkers!
When cave diving, which is like deep-sea diving except in a cave, you’re supposed to have at least three dependable light sources. I don't think a flimsy headlamp or glow sticks would give me solace – not even a laser distance finder or a compass that lights up would calm my nerves.
Maybe the thought of sparkling calcite crystals, delicate strands of gypsum and other spectacular formations would be enough to distract me. Nah, I don't think so.
I heard it's wet down there. Cavers get wet and may stay wet the whole time. I hate having wet feet, wet clothes or wet anything. I don't like getting dirty either and caving is a dirty sport.
When I think of a day of spelunking, let alone an overnight, questions overcome me. How will I know which way is up? How will I find my way back? What if the cave caves? If cavers don't return when expected, is a caver team sent out to rescue them?
The whole idea is too overwhelming for me. Besides, what if my leader gets lost? Then what would I do?
It took a century to chart the first 150 miles of Jewel Cave and some believe there are hundreds more miles to explore. I'll leave that to the next generation of cavers.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Ray spent the day with cavers who were charting the 150-mile mark of explored passageways in Jewel Cave, the second largest known cave in the world.
I have no desire to sliver my way through underground rock tunnels, but I sure don't mind it when others go caving and live to tell about it.
While listening to reporter Ray as he tagged along with cavers, I wondered what it would be like. I can picture myself looking cool in a pair of Dickies overalls with knee and elbow pads underneath, a bandanna wrapped around my forehead with a fluorescent hard hat on and a halogen lamp in hand.
Nevertheless, I think I would miss too many of my creature comforts on a day trip, let alone an overnight. How do you know when it is nighttime down there, anyway?
And, where does someone sleep when they're 300 feet or more underground? A hard surface for a resting place makes me ache just thinking about it. What about a pillow? I doubt I'd be able to bring my favorite feather pillow. Plus, I can't sleep without my down-filled comforter.
Can you picture me hauling my pillow and blanket through tight crawl ways and down chutes? Maybe I could pack them in my travel tote on wheels. Maybe not. With such cramped quarters, I'd probably have to leave them behind or, scarier yet, be left behind.
What if my co-spelunkers snore? I suppose I could wear earplugs, but then how would I hear the bats swooping down to get me? I don't think I could sleep with the snoring and the bats. After all of that, I can't bear the thought of the bathroom issue.
Worse yet, what if I got lost like I did in Itasca State Park and that was in broad daylight? I must admit, I am afraid of the dark. With no sun, moon or stars to light the way, I'd be hanging onto the pantleg of the person in front of me. Now that would make me really popular among the other spelunkers!
When cave diving, which is like deep-sea diving except in a cave, you’re supposed to have at least three dependable light sources. I don't think a flimsy headlamp or glow sticks would give me solace – not even a laser distance finder or a compass that lights up would calm my nerves.
Maybe the thought of sparkling calcite crystals, delicate strands of gypsum and other spectacular formations would be enough to distract me. Nah, I don't think so.
I heard it's wet down there. Cavers get wet and may stay wet the whole time. I hate having wet feet, wet clothes or wet anything. I don't like getting dirty either and caving is a dirty sport.
When I think of a day of spelunking, let alone an overnight, questions overcome me. How will I know which way is up? How will I find my way back? What if the cave caves? If cavers don't return when expected, is a caver team sent out to rescue them?
The whole idea is too overwhelming for me. Besides, what if my leader gets lost? Then what would I do?
It took a century to chart the first 150 miles of Jewel Cave and some believe there are hundreds more miles to explore. I'll leave that to the next generation of cavers.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
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