An intentional life

It's not easy to write a post when you're working 10-hour days (today it was 13 hours). Well, it's easy to write one, but mentally impossible for it to be any good. My project deadlines at work are all happening at once. I constantly remind myself that I'm only one person and there are only so many hours in the day. I'm working on the Fourth of July. Unfortunately, as bad as this month has been (averaging > 50 hours a week), next month will be just as bad, maybe worse. Except that I've already blocked out a Friday and Monday at the end of the month for a long weekend to visit J. in North Carolina. August may look a little prettier, maybe. I expect come November I will have so many extra hours accumulated that I could take 2-hour lunches every day until the end of the year, ha ha. I haven't really achieved a work-life balance in the past year; the scales definitely tip towards work. And I'm at the point in my life where I don't feel I should have to prove anything to anybody by working myself to death. Life is too short, for God's sake. When I die, they're not going to put on my headstone, "She worked 50-hour weeks and was good at her job."

There's a poem that best describes what I'd like on my headstone, or at least how I'd like to be remembered. It's by Mary Anne Radmacher Hershey.

She danced. She sang.
She took. She gave.
She served. She loved.
She created. She dissented.
She enlivened. She saw.
She grew. She sweated.
She changed. She learned.
She laughed. She shed her skin.
She bled on the pages of her days,
She walked through walls,
She lived with intention.

I figure I've done a lot on this list already. I've danced (weddings, discos, at home). I've sang (school choirs, church choirs, Sweet Adelines, Burnt Hills Oratorio Society, Orlando Chorale). Certainly I've taken. Hopefully I've given. Definitely I've served. I've loved, not enough and too much. I've created (quilts, afghans, cross-stitch pieces, sweaters...). I've dissented, though often quietly or not when it really mattered. I've seen, a lot, but not enough. I've grown (witness my constant battle with weight, ha ha, but yes, I've grown in other ways, too). I've sweated, changed, learned, and laughed.

So now that I'm at mid-life, I want to shed my skin and bleed on the pages of my days. I want to walk through walls. I want to live an intentional life. An intentional life has no regrets. And it doesn't include working long hours at an unfulfilling job.

I don't have a bag

Typically if I’m heading home from work on I-4, I get off at exit 33. Occasionally, like last Friday evening, I’ll do some shopping after work, so I get off a mile early at exit 32, which drops me off on Route 98 in the midst of North Lakeland’s shopping district. On that evening, I needed to make some photocopies (give me points for not doing it at work) at Staples and get a new black inkjet cartridge for my printer.

While you’re waiting at the traffic light at the end of the off-ramp for exit 32, it’s not unusual to see a homeless man standing with a sign asking for money, or food, or a job. I’ve never been generous in these circumstances, although I’ve seen other people give food or a dollar or two. I’m just not very trusting and am leery of what happens to the money after you give it to them. And most of the time I don’t have food with me.

However on this night, it was a woman with a sign, and I pulled up right next to her. She looked Hispanic perhaps, and the sign simply said she was homeless and “god bless.” For some reason, something came over me. I knew I had a bag of pretzels, a fruit and grain bar, and a serving of applesauce in my lunchbag. Heck, I even had a plastic spoon for the applesauce. Feeling generous without knowing why, I rolled down my window and held out the food. “Here,” I called, and passed over what would have at least been some kind of supper for her, and she said, “Do you have a bag? I don’t have a bag!” in a surprising southern drawl that unbelievably had an edge of sarcasm to it. I quickly looked around my car, a little exasperated, and said, “No, I don’t, I’m sorry.” She again repeated, “I don’t have a bag” and almost looked as though was going to give me back the food, but then she sort of sighed, clutched it to her chest and walked back to the side of the road.

As luck would have it (her luck or mine, I don’t know), there was a sheriff’s car right behind me that I hadn’t seen when I was in my generous mood. The homeless woman went over and talked to the female deputy, and after a minute, I saw her cross the off-ramp lanes and move on.

At first I felt ticked off. For the first time ever I gave to a homeless person in a situation like that, and she didn’t seem to want my offer of food because I didn’t provide a bag to put it in. Well screw it! Never again!

But later, I thought about how I’d feel in a situation like that: I have nothing. If I collected anything or people gave me things, I’d have nothing to put them in. I’d lose precious food or money, or drop them, I wouldn’t be able to transport them easily, I’d need both hands . . . And then I remembered seeing a homeless man at the same spot a week before that, accepting food from the man in the car in front of me, and how he brought the food back to a small pile behind a light pole. The pile included a couple of bottles of water. And I realized how hot it must be standing out there, so hot. Water would be a welcome thing, even if it wasn’t ice cold.

I’m seriously considering keeping a small cooler in my car this summer with a few bottles of water in it to pass out to these folks in case the situation happens again. And maybe stocking a few plastic grocery bags in it as well. I don’t want someone to think twice about accepting food or drink because they’ve got nothing to put it in.

North Carolina Part 1-a: I forgot the possum drop on New Year's Eve

No one was more surprised than I to discover that Clay's Corner has a web site, and a pretty good one at that, here. Even if it's not been updated for 2008, it's a hoot. Read about the annual New Year's Eve Possum Drop, which J. told me about and I forgot to mention in my first post, order your own possum memorabilia, enter a contest to win a can of opossum, see photos, read possum trivia and possum jokes ("How many fiddle players does it take to eat an opossum? Two, one to eat it & one to watch for cars"). Just a great, folksy site that's fun to visit.

A friend in need, a friend indeed

Check out my friend Roger's blog here, it's also posted on the right. I transcribed some posts for him over the phone a couple of weeks ago after he broke his rib in a fall. His Hall of Fame post was one that my nimble fingers typed as he dictated, and he thanks me at the end of another post I drafted, Triskaidekaphobic? Not me.

North Carolina, Part One: Hollywood hills and the other white meat

I'd been to North Carolina and the Smoky Mountains once before, in July of 2005. And I loved the area. So I was glad to have an opportunity to visit it again last month to meet my new friend (see earlier post).

On a beautiful Saturday morning in late May, as I drove north from Atlanta (where I had stopped for the night on Friday), the mountains of northern Georgia came into view. What a beautiful sight! How I miss the mountains. I guess I'm not a flatlander, even though I live in Florida. Mountains feel somehow "right" to me, they call to me.

After a couple of hours, I crossed the border into western North Carolina. Now the Smokies lay ahead, just out of reach. Murphy, where I was headed, is not in the Smokies, but about 60 miles south of the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It's the county seat for Cherokee County, which borders on Tennessee in addition to Georgia (Chattanooga is just 85 miles away). Still, mountains surround you everywhere in this part of the state.

I was surprised at how big Murphy was. I was expecting a hole in the wall, after all, it has a population of about 1,500. I forgot that it was the county seat. I mean, look at their courthouse (left); over 70 years old, it's on the National Register of Historic Places. They have a nice downtown, with an old movie theater where, on Saturday night, teenagers and adults line up outside to buy tickets for the single-screen showing of a first-run film. There are several churches - a gorgeous brick Methodist church, among others. Thriving businesses. A historical museum. On the outskirts of town, every fast food place you might be looking for. Strip malls, chain motels. Ingles, a supercenter supermarket. A Walmart supercenter. A beautiful recreation facility. I was really impressed; this was not the North Carolina that I remember from my last visit to the Smokies - we were east of Murphy then, in Dillsboro, which had a train depot and bed and breakfast for their downtown, and that was about it.

Down the road from Murphy is Brasstown, NC. Now Brasstown is little more than a four corners, which consists of Clay's Corner (a mom and pop-type convenience store) and a small row of artist studios. That's it. But the folks there have a sense of humor. First, there's the "Hollywood"-type sign on the side hill across from Clay's Corner. And then there's Clay's Corner itself.

Clay's Corner seems to be the place for locals (what few there are) to hang out, and it's somewhat of a tourist attraction. The sign over the door proclaims, "Welcome to Clay's Corner, Opossum Capital of the World, located in beautiful downtown Brasstown, N.C." There's a wooden possum hanging from the porch roof. The satellite dish on a telephone pole outside is labeled "Possum Network."

The day J. and I visited, there were three or four men sitting on the old church-style pew out front. In fairness, they didn't stare at us too much or too long. It didn't matter. I mean, when J. told me that Clay had tee shirts for sale that declared possum the "other white meat", I knew we had to stop in. I got a tee shirt for my nephew, and a totebag for me that declared same. I only regret that I never asked Clay, who manned the cash register, why Brasstown was the world's possum capital. I imagine they catch a lot of possum around those parts (and probably DO eat it), but I'll find out on my next visit and let you know the answer.

Juxtapose the ridiculous with the sublime. As I mentioned, directly across the street from tongue-in-cheek southern humor is a small row of artists studios. J. and I visited Morning Song Studio, where he bought me a beautiful print that happened to be done by the artist who was staffing the studio that day. The print is of a beautiful mountain stream done in oil pastels, and it now hangs on the wall in my den to remind me of a beautiful weekend in the mountains.

But Brasstown's actual claim to fame (possum capital of the world notwithstanding) is that it's home to John C. Campbell Folk School. Check out this link to the school; they offer all kinds of classes in crafts, art, music, dance, cooking, gardening, nature studies, photography and writing. We visited the gift shop, where I purchase a CD of local music, among other things. I guarantee that if I lived within 100 miles of the school, I'd be saving my money for weekend courses and spending an awful lot of time there.

J. took me over country backroads through small hamlets with rolling hills, horses grazing contentedly, goats dotting the hillside, with the mountains always surrounding us. I really felt at home.

In Part 2, which might not be the next post but coming up shortly, I'll tell you about our visit to Hiawassee Dam and the Ocoee River Gorge (where the 1996 Olympic white water rafting events took place).

Addenda to "A remarkable life"

Two corrections to my previous post on my remarkable aunt . . . My cousin Thom tells me his father's mother wasn't Polish, but perhaps Welsh. And regarding how we came to call her Aunt "M", my sister Lou Anne wrote and said, "Grandpa Savage named her Aunt M when I was born. I guess he thought it would be easier for me to say when I got old enough to talk."

Genealogy has always interested me. The history of a family, the history of where they lived and how they lived. It'll make for some good posts in the future.

A remarkable end to a remarkable life

Today, I put off the post on my North Carolina visit to pay tribute to a remarkable woman, whose courage and spirit in the face of adversity were truly awesome. That woman is my aunt, Margaret Bonafede, who died yesterday morning at the age of 75.

She was known by Peg or Peggy to everyone . . . except to my sisters and brother and I. We called her Aunt M. The "M" was for Margaret. One of my siblings may know the reason why; I only know that we did. And she didn't mind.

I remember with great fondness visiting her and my Uncle Dave and my cousins Thom and Bill in their apartment in Amsterdam, NY when I was a child. What a treat it was for us to have lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at her home, because we got to have WELCH'S GRAPE JELLY from Archie glasses, as was popular back in the late 60s/early 70s. (We had to eat homemade raspberry jam day after day after day . . .). And her cooking, omigod, out of this world. With a father-in-law who was Italian and owned a pizza parlor (or two, I don't remember the specifics), and a Polish mother-in-law, she learned to make all this fantastic food. To this day the only meatball recipe I use is Aunt M's. And I have her spaghetti sauce recipe, although I admit I'm a bit timid about making sauce, for some reason. If it was great having lunch at her house, it was heaven to have supper!

I have so many wonderful memories of her, of visits to her house and visits to our house. But I think I will mostly remember her for her determined spirit. First, a horrific fall down a flight of stairs when I was young that took her months to recuperate from. And my aunt had muscular dystrophy. It ran on her mother's side of the family, and out of five children, she was the only one to have it. Yet she took it in stride, accepted it, and continued to live as normal a life as possible. As her ability to walk became impaired later in life, she used leg braces . . . then a wheelchair and scooter (what's it called...). Still she kept up with her daily chores and cooking, until it became too difficult to do. I recall several years ago visiting her on a trip up north. She had recently gotten a feeding tube put in because she could no longer swallow food. As we talked about it, I asked her if she missed food. She replied that she didn't miss it, she didn't feel hungry, but the hardest part for her was that she couldn't taste the food she cooked to check for seasonings. At that moment I felt nothing but admiration for my aunt and was inspired by her.

She was the last of five siblings in the Bradt family to leave this earth. In light of her physical condition, she was the last one anyone expected to go last. That fact alone attests to her will and determination - what we call the Bradt stubbornness - to carry on and live life to the fullest. She had a husband who loved her. Two great sons her adored her. Good friends. And one niece, undoubtedly more nieces and nephews, who find her passing difficult to fathom. Yet at the same time, we are happy that she is with Uncle Dave and my mom and dad - a great rummy foursome in their day - and that she and Uncle Dave, as my cousin Thom has said, are dancing once again.

Thank you for all the happy memories. You'll never be far away as long as I have them. I love you, Aunt M.

Umm, excuse me, the war is over

Before I begin my post -- I was deeply saddened to turn on my computer this evening and read with shock that Tim Russert died suddenly today. Wow. I always enjoyed his commentary on the Today Show. I never watched Meet the Press much, but I thought he was intelligent and fair and I enjoyed his election coverage. He seemed like a good man. How will we get through the coming presidential election without him? A very sad day in the world of political journalism.

Let me tell you about my photo of Lake Hiawassee on my main page. (Okay, well, it leads me to the topic of this post, anyway.) I took this photo Memorial Day weekend when I went to North Carolina to meet a new friend in person for the first time. J. and I met on a dating web site on the internet. We hit it off right away, and after several months of e-mails and phone calls I decided to visit him. I needed to get out of Florida - the weather and the flat landscape were really getting to me - and made the trip north to cooler air and mountains. He lives in Murphy, Cherokee County, in southwestern North Carolina - they call it the first or last town in North Carolina, depending on which direction you're headed. It's very close the Georgia border and not far from Tennessee. As a matter of fact we visited Copper Hill, TN when I was there. It was in Copper Hill that we filled up with gas at a convenience store called "Rebel's Pantry". And just down the street another store had a big display of confederate flags for sale. You just don't see that kinda stuff in New York State.

But you do see it in Florida. On I-4 heading towards Tampa, the Sons of Confederate Veterans have raised a gigantic confederate flag easily viewable from the interstate. It's supposed to represent a "rich heritage", but to a lot of people, it represents a bad time in the history of our country and only serves to divide people. Being a Northerner, I find it offensive. I respect people's rights and freedoms - that's why America is America - but there's something not right about flying a 50 by 30 foot flag on top of a 139-foot flagpole - and it's not an American flag.

More on North Carolina next time.

R U at it again?

Yeah, I guess I am.

I enjoyed writing my previous blog, but it's tough to write on a daily basis. Particularly now, when I have to average 45 hours a week at work, and for a few weeks in the past and a few weeks in the future, I'll be working 50+ hours and working half-days on Saturdays. In addition, my job is writing - training materials (one of my co-workers opines that she writes fiction, since the SMEs [subject matter experts] don't know what they want to say until you say it for them, and then they don't like what you say and tell you want they want you to say. I'd say she's about right). I spend 10 hours a day writing and I'm often bleary-eyed by the end of the day.

So by the time I get home - typically after 7 p.m. - I want to eat, check my e-mail, watch a little TV, and go to bed. There's really not a lot of time to do much else. If I've learned one thing from this job, it's that my free time is worth more than anything else. I need time to dream. Time to play. Time to enjoy nature. Time to spend with family. Time is a precious gift. And I'm learning as I get older, it's priceless.

So a little about what's here . . . you'll see some links to blogs over on the right, particularly my friend Roger's. He writes for several blogs, including his own. I spoke with him on the phone a few days ago at length, and he gave me some ideas for how to keep up with blogging. I don't promise a daily post, but I promise to write at least a few times a week.

There's also some web sites I like to visit - no, I don't like to visit the National Hurricane Center, but when you live in Florida, the Center's web site is your friend, especially this time of year.

Down at the bottom are some famous Lori's and famous Lakelanders. No links here, but if you're interested in any of them, just google 'em.

I guess that's it for now. It's 8:10 in the evening and I haven't eaten supper yet. Such is my life.