Remember to Stop and Pick the Flowers

By Christine Clark

       Snow-battered friends and family in New England do not want to hear this, but spring has arrived in My Sister’s Garden. It is not full-blown, pollen on everything, masses of blooms bursting into view spring, but spring, nonetheless. As I looked at the flowers near my front walkway, I nudged myself once again, to stop, pick some flowers, and bring them inside. I often forget and only see those flowers when I step outside.

I am self-employed, so most of my hours are spent inside the house and my office window doesn’t provide much of a view. This morning, I decided it is time to bring the beauty inside and told myself that I need to stop and pick the flowers.

Arranging flowers does not have to be intimidating. Often, simple arrangements are best. I placed the flowers I cut this morning into antique bottles I bought at the Brimfield Antique Show (http://www.brimfield.com) in Massachusetts several years ago. Costing only between 10 and 25 cents each, the bottles were inexpensive, yet they provide a unique vase for small flowers and look lovely when grouped together. Diamond Frost euphorbia, lobelia, and yellow daisies make up the arrangement in each bottle.

Remember to stop and pick the flowers and bring some inside. Small pockets of beauty in our lives add value to every day and everything we do.

It Looks Homemade—Because It Is!

By Christine Clark

Just off the cookie sheet and onto a plate, my oatmeal, cranberry, white chocolate chip cookies looked delicious, but I said to myself, “They look so homemade!” I wished the cookies were more attractive, more appealing, because I was taking them to my sister’s house. “Next time, I’ll shape them better,” I decided, imagining rounded edges and flatter, more even tops. I thought of store-bought and bakery-purchased cookies and how perfect they look, just off the assembly line. In a more complimentary train, I also thought, “I bet cookie companies wish they could duplicate the homemade taste of my cookies.”

 

       Smack-on-the-forehead moment: “Of course my cookies look homemade—because they are!” Homemade is not something to hide behind a disc-shaped cookie. Homemade is superior, not inferior. At one time in the cultural and culinary history of the United States, homemade cookies—and pretty much homemade anything else—carried the stigma that store-bought was out of reach economically and socially. At that time, new foods that took the muss, the fuss, and often the joy out of cooking constantly appeared on grocery store shelves, so why should anyone strive for less than the advertised best?

Best has been redefined in this even-more-modern age. The time, effort, care, and, yes, even love that go into anything homemade are valued more than any label or social aspect of any purchased consumable item. Homemade benefits go far beyond economic. Taste, superior contents, ingredients that can easily be pronounced (and understood), and those intangibles such as care, concern, time, and effort mean that something containing love comes from your home.

      Is it homemade? If it is set on my table, it often is, and it probably even looks homemade. What is your favorite homemade item? What would you never trade for something in a box, bag, plastic wrap, or wearing a label? And, more important, does that homemade item receive the gratitude it deserves?


(Note: I didn't take a photo of the cookies, and, of course, they are long gone!)

Eighteen – He Thinks He Knows What He Wants

By Christine Clark

It can be tough on a mom when the baby of the family reaches adulthood. Becoming an adult means different things to each teen, and the eighteenth birthday is the first milestone toward adulthood. My youngest turns eighteen on Thursday. He still depends on me in many ways because he does not graduate from high school until June, but several things will change when he turns eighteen. He mentioned some of those things to me recently when he asked for money as part of his birthday gift. He wants to buy some things one must be eighteen to purchase. His choices: a lottery ticket and a pack of cigarettes. He does not smoke, but wants to take advantage of all he thinks being eighteen affords him.

“How gross!” was my reaction to the cigarette purchase. Many family members have struggled with nicotine addiction, so I do not want to see him enmeshed in that poison. However, he does not plan to smoke a single cigarette. He has taken the warning about our addiction genes to heart; he just wants to buy some things that once were off-limits.

I understand the lottery ticket lure. He wants to take a chance and dream that his ticket will net a huge payoff. Gambling issues are not part of our particular genetic bag of sticks, so I am not concerned he will fritter away what little money he has. Lottery tickets and their teasers of the possibility of great riches are tempting. As long as he understands that for millions of players, a ticket purchase is akin to tossing dollar bills in the trash, education benefits notwithstanding, he will not have any gambling problems.

Being eighteen, however, affords him much more than being able to pursue nicotine and gambling vices. I wondered what else he can do. After only moments of research, I discovered several life-changing moves that go beyond lottery tickets and tobacco. Positive actions he can take to mark this milestone exist in abundance. Of course, because he is a male, he must register for selective service—the draft. Unlike in the 1970s, when registering held the scary prospect of fighting in Vietnam’s jungles, registering does not scare me. Further, he has his heart set on a military career, so he will register with pride and honor. However, the down side is that at eighteen, he can join any branch of the military he chooses. Also, neither his father nor I can prevent him from signing up before he attends college and we cannot choose the branch of the military we prefer.

Registering to vote is another adult privilege. I hope that after he buys a lottery ticket, he will register to vote. He is willing to give his life for our country, so I want him to have a voice in how it is run.

With privilege also comes responsibility. He will become legally liable for his actions, should those actions break the law. An infraction that might result in a youngster’s parents receiving a phone call could well result in a sojourn behind bars. He is focused on doing the right thing, so those bars will not be an issue for him. What else? He can get a driver’s license without my signature. He can buy property. He can get married. He can open bank accounts. He can get a credit card. He can work late hours. He can get a library card without me signing for it.

His life becomes his own in many ways. Medical records will be private. School records will be private. I experienced these changes with his sisters, but because they were older, I considered them simply rites of passage, as I do with him. However, I consider his rites of passage more deeply because he is the youngest.

I’m not a control-obsessed mom (from my perspective—my kids might disagree with that assessment), so I am ready for his transition into this first phase of adulthood. I will probably pay more attention because I know this is the last time I will experience this form of letting go. I also have learned from his sisters that as much as I let go, the bond between parent and child continues, even after that child becomes an adult.

Write Off Letters? Not Yet...

By Christine Clark

A recent Yahoo! article predicted that children born in 2011 will never know landline telephones, books, newspapers, magazines, video stores, phone books, paper maps—and mail—mail that arrives in a physical mailbox. It’s hard to imagine no mail other than e-mail, no more piles of bills and letters awaiting an answer. (I would not miss junk mail.) It is also predicted that almost nothing will be handwritten; quaint relics of the written word will be archived in libraries or museums. Should anyone use his or her hands to write something, that writing probably will not be cursive.

My letter writing diminished after my youngest child was born in 1993, and spiraled further downward when I began using e-mail. Lately, even my e-mail communication has diminished. It is easier to send a note or comment using social media. I prefer Facebook, and using it, I can ask several friends a question at once and have all the answers funneled to the same convenient spot. In addition, as I check FB messages, I can simultaneously chat with people as I await comments on what I think is a clever status I posted.

As a baby boomer, I have the skills to write letters and recently I wrote to thank my former husband’s mother for a Christmas gift. I sensed her loneliness from what she wrote in the Christmas card. Her new home is an assisted living facility in the Midwest. Her nearest daughter lives four hours away; another daughter lives in Texas. My former husband lives in Massachusetts. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren span areas from Chicago to Massachusetts to Florida to Oklahoma. Once one of the most independent women I’ve ever known, she no longer drives and has limits on other aspects of her life.

I decided to write more than a simple thank you note, so I gathered photos and wrote a newsy letter that spilled over a few pages. I knew she could easily decipher my cursive writing that my son says is illegible. I included details about my life, what I was studying, and what books I’ve read. In a few days, I received her handwritten reply. She was delighted to receive my letter and the photos. To continue the conversation, she mentioned books she has read. When I opened her letter, I noticed I sat in an armchair to read it. I sit to read e-mail, but the armchair took me away from office mode. I held the letter in my hands and shifted my eyes from line to line. I turned the page, read more, and turned the page again.

E-mails can have substance, but the substance of a handwritten letter is tangible. I can feel it, I can move it, I can manipulate it. Reading a handwritten letter is different from reading an e-mail. A letter is tactile. You don’t scroll, you move it, you turn the pages, and you move your eyes and your head as you read. You do not stare at a screen and hold your head and body in the same position. No lights, advertisements, banners, or other letters vie for your attention.

I recently received an e-mail from a long-ago friend with the subject “Where are you?” The Christmas letter she sent me was returned because we had lost touch since my move to Florida. She wanted my new address to resend the letter. I am thrilled she found me through e-mail—the Internet often means no more lost friends. I sent her my new address and I await her letter. I want to feel it, to experience it. I want to sit in my armchair with a cup of tea and pay attention to what she has to say. I want to use my imagination and not see flashing pictures or attached photos or documents. I want to savor the moments I spend reading her letter. In the meantime, while I await her letter, I will write my former husband’s mother again. She still lives far from her kids and grandkids, and I know my handwritten letter will mean much more than an e-mail.

http://finance.yahoo.com/family-home/article/111745/things-babies-born-in-2011-will-never-know?mod=family-kids_parents

What Is My Sister’s Garden?

                                                     What Is My Sister's Garden?
By Christine Clark

My Sister's Garden is the name I chose for my Groton, Massachusetts, gardens in December 1998. Earlier that year, lemon balm, rosemary, thyme, oregano, basil, and sage had flourished in my summer garden. I cut armfuls of herbs, tied the stems together, and hung them upside-down to dry in the cool, dark basement. As fall approached, I knew my abundant supply of herbs would flavor my cooking and baking throughout the winter months.

Christmas season neared and as I surveyed my bounty of dried herbs, I knew I had more than I would ever use, so I decided to give herbs as gifts. I planned to meet my sisters in New Jersey during the holidays and I thought the herbs would be unique presents. I bought small, decorative jars and bottles with to package them. Once in the pretty jars, the herbs looked a bit plain and dark, and although a trained eye and keen sense of smell can distinguish most dried herbs, I decided it would be best to add labels. I used a calligraphy pen to write the names on parchment paper labels and attached them to the lids with raffia. The herbs looked so lovely, I envisioned a conversation in which someone saw the bottled herbs and asked my sisters where they got them. I imagined the following reply: “My sister’s garden.” Perfect! I redid the labels, noting that the basil, lemon balm, and other herbs were “from My Sister’s Garden, Groton, Massachusetts.”

A few years later, when I named my editorial business, I also used My Sister's Garden. I like the way the name sounds—welcoming, a place of calm and beautiful growing things. In a flash of creative inspiration, I painted an old piece of wood with blue, red, and yellow flowers, added the words “My Sister's Garden, Welcome”, and hung the sign next to my door. When I moved to Florida, the sign came with me and sits near the doorway to my Florida home.

What is My Sister's Garden? Like myself, and my new life, My Sister's Garden is developing and growing. I want it to be a place of comfort, joy, learning, inspiration, art, and spirit. Here at My Sister's Garden, I am growing a life. That life includes family, God, flowerbeds and herb gardens, trees and shrubs, fresh baked bread, words written from the heart and shared, failure and success, retreat and progress. My Sister's Garden also has perspiration and inspiration, anger and acceptance, loss and gain. My Sister's Garden in Groton, Massachusetts was (and is) a cottage garden, defined in Wikipedia as: “a distinct style of garden that uses an informal design, traditional materials, dense plantings, and a mixture of ornamental and edible plants. English in origin, the cottage garden depends on grace and charm rather than grandeur and formal structure”. Flowers in my Massachusetts garden still grow in a rather riotous fashion. Each spring and summer there, I was excited to discover what flower would poke it’s nose up from the Earth and which flowers and herbs would germinate from the seeds I let the winds scatter. Of course, there are some flowerbeds and garden plots that have order—places that allow no stray plants or weeds to establish a foothold. Like those gardens, My Sister's Garden has and will have areas of order and places where things just come up on their own, because that is how life happens everywhere, and especially here—in My Sister's Garden.

Cottage garden definition from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cottage_garden

Angst and Reinvention at 58

By Christine Clark

   Angst at age 58? Yes, indeed. I turned 58 on September 12 and almost daily, I ask myself, “Where do I go from here”? At this age, I should be settled into a comfortable lifestyle, but in many ways, I am not. Life happened—in many places and in many ways throughout the years. In only two years I will be 60, the time society says I am “supposed” to start winding down and reaping the benefits of decades of work. I have reaped some of those benefits and I have assets—tangible and intellectual—but with senior years approaching (some might say they have already arrived), I find myself in a scary place. I am not ready for retirement.
   My freelance editorial career has diminished, yet my financial responsibilities have increased. Textbook publishers now hire less-expensive Indians and Asians who excel at English for the jobs that once overflowed my e-mail inbox. My recent move to Florida was well planned except for career considerations. Much of the work I do has moved overseas. Vero Beach is far from Groton, Massachusetts, but I did not need to cross an ocean to get here. Vero has few opportunities in publishing and worse, with the advent of electronic job applications, my resumes are filtered to the trash because I have decades of experience, but no BA. I need the piece of paper that says I know how to do what I know how to do.
   I returned to college eighteen months ago and got my AA in English post-haste. August through December of 2010, I attended FAU, so I will get that BA. I am not taking classes this winter so I can travel to Massachusetts and ready my house there for leasing or selling.
   The world is changing and I, too, am changing. I am reinventing myself as a mother (my youngest child will be 18 in a few weeks), a grandmother, a single woman, a Christian, a friend, a property owner, a freelance editor, a writer, and a person. As I reinvent, I will explore and share several sides of who I am now and who I want to become and why. The facets of my life I will explore and share are creative, insightful, spiritual, economic, relational, intellectual, and, if I am brave enough, maybe even political.
Stasis would be boring. I often consider myself ordinary, but not boring. I look forward to my new journey, which I expect will carry me through the balance of my life. The horizon sometimes appears scary, and my boat tumbles and rocks as I brave the waves. I imagine there will be calm seas as well as rough. I invite my family and friends to join me, support me, inspire me, encourage me, and even chastise me (when appropriate) as I step toward the shore and begin my travels.

Nailing Gambling

“I’ll see your skinny nail and raise you a cable clip.”

By Christine Clark

My bluff face gets an F. July 4^th weekend I learned to play poker. The place we stayed that weekend had no cable TV, no Internet, no phone. Entertainment of yesteryear was in order. We found a deck of cards and the group decided to play poker. I had played a few times in the distant past, but didn’t remember much.

Two of the guys gave me a quick tutorial on a full house, a straight, a flush, two-of-a-kind, and three-of-a-kind, and if I play again anytime soon, I might remember what they are.

No one had coins or chips for betting, but the experienced players insisted we place bets. We eyed the bowls of Skittles and M&Ms, but decided against them because no one wanted multicolored fingertips and cards—in spite of that whole melt-in-your-mouth not-in-your-hand slogan. The gold-foil-wrapped Dove chocolates would have worked, but we ate so many of them, there were too few left for six players.

We searched the house and found two packages of nails and a package of cable clips. We had our stakes: skinny nails, $5; thick nails, $10; cable clips, $50.

I jumped right in and placed bets to try to keep up with the other players. Being the newbie, I bet only when I had good cards, so it was easy for everyone else at the table to gauge their bets accordingly. When I placed $50 (a cable clip) in the center of the table, everyone folded. I made one mistake I won’t repeat: I folded with three of a kind when I was certain someone had to have a better hand. They didn’t.

At the end of the evening, we laughed about me stumbling through the game. We repackaged the nails and cable clips, and made plans to get together again the following evening.

We feasted on typical Fourth of July cookout fare. Following the meal, our host brought out his poker table. It’s compact and unfolds and sits atop a regular table. It has slots for chips, circled indentations in which to place cups, and painted rectangular shapes where players are supposed to put their cards. He also had poker chips. Each of us forked over $5.

That $5 changed almost everything from the previous evening—as far as I was concerned. I felt carefree, almost silly, and relaxed when I bet nails and cable clips, but I felt tense when I looked at my chips. I thought to myself, “This game has real money and I’m probably going to lose mine.”

I kept having trouble remembering the best cards and combinations of cards. I didn’t forget that three of a kind beat two pairs, but I forgot several other cards and watched in dismay as the other players won my chips.

Worse, they kept changing the game. I got abbreviated lessons on 5-card stud, 7-card stud, and one game where you didn’t draw any cards. Then there was the tapping when you didn’t want to bet or cut the cards. It was a bit much to learn.

I failed at bluffing as I did the previous evening. If my cards were poor, I folded. My reasoning was: Why bet on cards that wouldn’t win? When I had a good hand, I had a reason to bet. I even admit to getting a small thrill the few times I scooped a pile of chips in my direction.

We played the evening’s final hand, and in a pride-filled voice I announced, “three queens.” The others looked at my cards and said, “You have a full house!” I was so focused on the three queens, I didn’t notice the two tens I held.

The “banker” counted my chips. I was surprised when my total came to $4.95. I lost a nickel. Some players made money, others didn’t. One person with an emptier wallet was my son, who came home with $1.90. When he and I spoke the next day, we agreed that the nails and cable clips game was more fun. It wasn’t sour grapes on my part, because the banker gave me a full $5 and let the 5 cents slide.

I realize that five dollars is a small price for a few hours of entertainment. I simply had more fun when there was no money involved. When the chips were placed on the table, the atmosphere got serious. Gone was the zany attitude from that first night when someone said, “I’ll see your nail and raise you a cable clip.” Instead, it became, “I’ll see your 10, and raise you 50.”

Gambling has never been one of my vices, and for that I’m grateful. I’m also grateful I failed at the fake, the bluff, the poker face. Genuine relationships and interactions are difficult, but also more rewarding. I would play again, but only for fun—and nails, and cable clips.

 More Than Nails and Cable Clips—Problem Gambling

Gambling has never been one of my problems. My family history has no horror stories of lives affected by gambling. Unfortunately, those stories do exist. Gambling is a serious problem for thousands of people in the United States. The District of Columbia and every state in the United States, except for Hawaii and Utah, have at least one type of legal gambling.

Gamblers Anonymous has posted 20 questions to help identify whether someone has a problem with gambling. Those questions are reprinted here, with permission.[1] As it states on their Web site, “Gamblers Anonymous offers the following questions to anyone who may have a gambling problem. These questions are provided to help the individual decide if he or she is a compulsive gambler and wants to stop gambling.”

Twenty Questions

Did you ever lose time from work or school due to gambling?

Has gambling ever made your home life unhappy?

Did gambling affect your reputation?

Have you ever felt remorse after gambling?

Did you ever gamble to get money with which to pay debts or otherwise solve financial difficulties?

Did gambling cause a decrease in your ambition or efficiency?

After losing did you feel you must return as soon as possible and win back your losses?

After a win did you have a strong urge to return and win more?

Did you often gamble until your last dollar was gone?

Did you ever borrow to finance your gambling?

Have you ever sold anything to finance gambling?

Were you reluctant to use "gambling money" for normal expenditures?

Did gambling make you careless of the welfare of yourself or your family?

Did you ever gamble longer than you had planned?

Have you ever gambled to escape worry, trouble, boredom or loneliness?

Have you ever committed, or considered committing, an illegal act to finance gambling?

Did gambling cause you to have difficulty in sleeping?

Do arguments, disappointments or frustrations create within you an urge to gamble?

Did you ever have an urge to celebrate any good fortune by a few hours of gambling?

Have you ever considered self destruction or suicide as a result of your gambling?

If you have concerns about your own or someone else’s gambling, visit their Web site at:

http://www.gamblersanonymous.org/.

For additional facts on problem gambling, visit the National Council on Problem Gambling Web site at: http://www.ncpgambling.org/i4a/pages/Index.cfm?pageID=3314.

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[1] Twenty Questions reprinted with permission from Gamblers Anonymous.