Friday Jottings-Decisions

At the time I wrote the below column I gave it a different name. Men and Obsessions. But I think just the word Decisions is more apt since that's the main point of the piece. As I mention down in the article I learned many years ago that almost always simply making one decision or the other is preferable to endless stewing without a decision. Often if you stew too  long a decision is made for you by circumstances that is worse than any of the alternatives you were considering. By necessity the only times I spend much time on deciding something is if a large sum of money (to me) is involved. I try to take time to consider all alternatives to obtaining the money at least cost to my pocketbook.

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     I believe men have fewer problems making decisions than women, as a rule. And don't obsess over a decision once they’ve made it. They don’t torture themselves with, ‘Maybe I should have said ‘yes, I’ll do the report, even though it’s your job.’ Or ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have refused to bake ten dozen cookies for the bake sale. I'd find the time, somewhere.’
    Why is this? Are males raised to be more decisive? Is the male psyche just natually more assertive? Do parents/society expect  female children to be ‘pleasers’ more than male children?
    I'm certainly no professional with answers. But I've lived a few years and observed a lot of people. And I've noticed that even if someone was exposed to bad examples of decision-making while growing up nature and nurture can be overcome to some extent as we mature.
    I’m convinced there is in most cases a difference in the male and female psyche. I observed it when raising my daughter, helping to raise my grandson and being around my two-year-old great-grandson. When Tyler wants something and it’s within his reach and ability, he takes it. I'm pretty sure he wil continue this, within appropriate limits hopefully, into adulthood. Girls, at least in my generation, nearly always gravitated toward asking permission or debating pros and cons, internally or with friends.
    Family dynamics affect decision-making, too. If one had a one or two parent family. Who was most influential in family decisions. Were there siblings. Were the children involved in decision making. And sometimes outside influences at some point affect the eventual development of adult decision-making style. 
    I worked for a while in what was once considered a job for only men. I think I’m much more decisive than I would have been because of that opportunity. Even before that experience though I had become convinced that, almost always, any decision is better than no decision when one must be made.
    The inability to make decisions, or trust the decision made, brings a feeling of helplessness that can be paralyzing.  Since many, many women live longer than their spouses these days, as I have, the ability to make decisions is more important than ever for them.
   

Monday Musings-Draketown

The piece below was published as one of my newspaper columns about six years ago. But I'd actually written it almost ten years prior. Not a lot has changed even now in the area around Draketown. Brand new subdivisions have not sprouted noticeably, unless they are well off State Route 120, which is entirely possible. I expect that portion of Haralson County adjoining Paulding and other rural Georgia counties is too far from the Interstate highways for many urban refugees to be comfortable - yet. I'm sure some who value the privacy and solitude have built large homes in the tall pine woods. On my last visit we didn't make it to the little country cemetery where our dad's parents rest, not far from Draketown. Maybe next time. I hope so as I've now lived some years past the time most of my forebears left this mortal coil. But I'm still thankfully able to get around fine, do most things I want to do, (and feel comfortable to decline doing what I don't want to do) which is an accomplishment for me! And still chasing my dreams.

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Draketown, Georgia is the original 'little town that time forgot.' In the forties and fifties State Route 113 meandered through the pint-sized metropolis before joining State Route 120 and continuing north.
    It was a tiny town then, and as a town, is even tinier now, as far as retail commerce is concerned. Then again, maybe not. Two convenience stores, which also sell gasoline, and a small restaurant serve the same functions as the three general merchandise stores which flourished on its single block in my childhood.
    Mr. Ike's store was full of all kinds of wonderful junk, the country version of our Dollar Stores today. It held down one end of the street. Reeves's Store stood at the other end. Between them was the Reeves's residence and Stevens's store, which housed the Oddfellows Hall on the second floor.
    Customers helped themselves to ice cold Coca Colas, RCs, Pepsis and Orange or Grape Nehis from.a big floor cooler just inside Reeves's Store. Outside, next to the unpaved street, was an old-fashioned gas pump. The top two feet or so of the pump was made of glass through which the reddish gas was visible.
    A white marble monument about twelve feet tall stood across the street. The legend on its base said that it honored a woman killed by the bootleggers. An elementary school, a doctors office located in his home, a church, and a few frame homes completed the town which was surrounded on all sides by farmland.
    The doctor died, the school was consolidated to the county seat, and one by one the old stores closed. Route 113 was relocated and merged with Route 120, by then an  asphalt highway, three or four hundred yards north of the town proper. And a growing tide of refugees from the city of Atlanta fill the area with new contemporary homes, prosperity, and the usual concerns of a more urban population.
    A while back I turned onto the old town street once more. Reeves's store building is falling down, the other two already gone. But the marble monument to a woman's untimely death remains as does the church, larger and freshly painted. The little town lives on for its few long-time citizens. And for those like me who look back through time and distance, remembering trips to town and penny candy from Mr. Ike's store.

   

Monday Musings-Know Your Dream

The below column was written some months after my life had begun to reknit into whatever it might become as I adjusted to widowhood. So many people just kind of give up after a major loss and they encounter the need to fashion a different life. I like to remember and quote something I read long ago and have no idea who said it. Whoever it was, I thank them. "Don't cry ('...for too long', as a sweet cousin we recently lost wrote in a letter to her family.) because it ended, smile because it happened."

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     Hold On Tight to Your Dreams

Better advice in a song was never given. When the Electric Light Orchestra first recorded their song my life was so full I barely remember hearing it. About ten years ago I re-discovered it. A few years down life’s road waited an event, my husband’s major stroke/cerebral hemorrhage, which signaled the beginning of the end of something that had defined my life since I was nineteen, marriage.
     My marriage had included dreams, also, though most were shared dreams that God graciously granted. A peaceful home, a beautiful daughter, a grandson to be proud of, loving families and many dear friends.
     But in my heart I cherished dreams that were mine alone. Like most people, I had doubts those dreams would ever come to fruition. But I learned, as many people have, that once I stepped out and made a few efforts God, or the Universe, depending on your persuasion, set events in motion to bring them to pass. 
     One long-held dream was that I would be a published author, accepted and active with other writers in writers groups. The adage that we should be careful what we wish for comes to mind, but that’s another story. After I began seriously submitting my work I had stories accepted in print and online, wrote and published a couple of books.
     A few months before my husband’s death I achieved another goal I’d studied for off and on for several years. I took and passed the exam for my amateur radio operator license and am now a member of a local amateur radio club. My call sign – KJ4WJL.
     Since I first began seriously marketing my work, I had kept one dream close, to become a regular newspaper columnist. No editor was even slightly interested the few times I mustered up the nerve to pitch my ideas. But this year, twelve months into widowhood, that dream, too, has been realized in the column you’re now reading.
     After the anguish of three years watching my husband weaken and decline until his battle was finally over, these personal achievements gave me a stable place to stand and regroup when my world crumbled. I think he would be proud because he was my biggest supporter in all my attempts  to achieve my dreams.
     I’d love to hear from anyone else who has pursued his or her dream. If not, why not? To my mind no one is too old to go for a dream.

Monday Musings-Mamaw & Papaw tribute

People who willingly raise and cherish children who have no family to care for them, through death or otherwise, are special. My Mamaw and Papaw Brown were those people. I think Daddy didn't really appreciate them until he had rebelled a little, marrying far too young against their wishes, and then fully realized what a heavy responsibility marriage and family could be. I wrote the below piece a number of years after they had gone to their well-deserved rest. Without them in my life and my siblings' lives, I doubt we would be the people we are today.

'Alabamer' Time 

The concept of time intrigues me. I worked as a long distance operator for the telephone company for years. Minutes and seconds were the stuff of my job. Those were the days when that 'voice with a smile,' a live operator, came in on a long distance call after sixty seconds with, "You've talked one minute." Accurate timers told us when to do so, but after a while, we hardly needed them. To this day, I am able to estimate the passage of time with a good deal of accuracy.
     My fascination with time may have been birthed in the fact that my grandparents kept their clocks set on 'Alabamer' time, as we called Central Standard Time. They lived in rural Haralson County, Georgia, which was (and is) in the Eastern Standard Time zone. After Daylight Savings Time was introduced in the late 'forties, their clocks were right at least half the year, since they would never 'spring forward' or 'fall back.' Why they chose to live on Central Standard Time is a mystery, at least to me. If Daddy knew the reason, he kept it to himself.
     Mamaw and Papaw lived their entire lives in the state of Georgia, never even crossing the line to Alabama, or any other neighboring state. In his many job changes, Daddy did move his family to Alabama and back to Georgia three times before I was ten years old. Possibly my grandparents felt closer to him, their only son, and us grandchildren, if their time matched ours and that's when they started keeping their clocks set slower than the prevailing hour around them. Such sentimentality seems a little out of character for a hard-working couple who farmed all of their lives, rooted and grounded in Georgia's rich, red dirt. But deeply caring parents that they were, it's possible.
     In time my grandparents retired from farming and Daddy moved them to an apartment in town. By then I had married, moved to Tennessee, and begun my unique operator's bond with the ticking clocks of life. I'm sure they continued their custom and died a few years later, as they had lived, on 'Alabamer' time.
     sylnick@gmail.com

Perspective - again

In the several years since I wrote the below piece I've become more 'comfortable in my own skin,' as I once jotted on a scrap of paper. And even far more at ease if I have to say a few words in front of a group. This late-in-life 'bloom,' as it might be characterized, stood me in good stead a week or so ago as I led a sizable group in a writing workshop. I could not have imagined such a thing in my younger years. Of course, I had lots of support from a dedicated committee. We worked diligently for months to bring the event about and it was one of the most satisfying times of my life. I firmly believe God was with us, helping us, because we truly wanted it to be a help and encouragement for aspiring writers. Comments from those who attended lead us to believe we achieved that goal.

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To escape criticism––do nothing, say nothing, be nothing. That might as well have been my mantra once. I've written before about my crippling shyness during a lot of my life. I look back now and ask myself, why did I waste all those years worrying about what people might think about me. It's doubtful if the things I worried about ever even occurred to anyone. And even if a stranger on a bus did think an unkind or critical thought about me, so what? I'd most likely never see that person again. And if I did, neither of us would probably remember. I've no illusions that I'm a memorable person to most of those who cross my path. I do regret that most of them are not memorable to me either because I don't pay attention to seeing them instead of my own concerns. I value people more than I did in the past. People I meet through the years now seem unique and valuable. We may disagree on some fundamental areas of life, but that just makes them more interesting. Their perspective was shaped by the things they went through in their lives, as my own experiences shaped mine. I was born near the end of the Great Depression, as it's known. My childhood was during the years of World War II. We lived deep in the country so I was barely touched by the war. My father was deferred due to a medical condition plus he had a large family of children to support. Uncles, cousins served and we did hear of the hardships they endured. But my somewhat sheltered childhood existence was far different from someone whose family lived on one of the coasts or my English friend, Eileen, who lived those years in Cambridge, England. But she and her family survived. She married Ron, a Yank airman, and now enriches the lives of all who know her. Would that someday someone could say the same about me.

Just What I Needed

I wrote the original column below these remarks long ago, on an anniversary of my father's passing. It does still seem as though after we've slogged along life's path until we feel we can't go any farther, God gives us a brief period of refreshment. Such happened to me again this year, as it often has over the years. I miss being able to see my great grandsons often as I did when they were babies/toddlers. They, and their parents, lived with or near me for a few years. Now they live in another state. I do visit them when I can and glad I'm able to do so. But this year they came to visit me for two weeks! In what has turned out to be a busy year for me, it happened to be the two weeks I could devote exclusively to them. It was so wonderful to be able to hug and kiss them as often as I wished for two weeks. They are affectionate little boys, well, not so little anymore, but not yet of the age to brush off hugs from loving grannies, aunts, etc.

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Often we humans groan that things in our life have gone wrong. But sometimes we’re blessed with an experience that was just what we needed, exactly when we needed it.

 One particular instance was not a good time in my life. I lived in Tennessee, and my father in Georgia was dying of lung cancer. My husband and I went to spend a week with Dad and my stepmother. We tried to keep from wallowing in sadness, but it was as rough for my husband as for me. He loved my Dad and was in the midst of one of his periodic bouts of depression.

 Before we left for Georgia I had made reservations for us to spend a  couple of days on our way home at a dude ranch near Tellico Plains, TN. We began to wonder if we would ever reach the place after our car labored up several steep, steamy miles. To spare the engine we turned off the car's air conditioning.

We finally arrived at the ranch, set among woods and meadows. The accommodations were comfortable, though rustic. After our hot, sweaty drive up the mountain, stepping into our room’s tiny shower stall was sheer bliss.

The couple who owned the place did most of the work, including preparing delicious food for their guests. Rocking on the front porch before dinner was relaxing and we slept soundly that night despite a summer thunderstorm, which knocked out the ranch’s power. We trooped to the dining room for breakfast and a generator provided electricity for cooking, but not enough for our hosts to prepare all dishes at the same time. With plenty of coffee no one minded and we guests got acquainted with each other.

Later that day I joined our hostess and several guests for a horseback ride. I rode a gentle mare but my legs are short and the mare somewhat rotund. I felt sure I would slide off her back on the slightest downslope. As I hung on to the reins and tried to keep feet in stirrups, the cares and sorrows of daily life felt far away.

Since then when I’m tempted to grumble about something, I think of that respite from sorrow and look around for the balancing good I’m sure I’ll find.

Proud To Be An American

Have loved that song since Lee Greenwood first recorded it. Happy Birthday, America! May you ever be free for those who come after me.

Friday Jottings-Precious Gift

Sometimes a writing prompt readily brings a subject to mind that you're eager to write about. That was the case with the below column. I wrote about the joy of being closely involved with the birth of a great-grandson, my second. Both are so dear to my heart. Unfortunately divorce happened, and affected them, but they are resilient. Through Mom's remarriage, a stable homelife, a baby sister they love and are protective of, they are thriving, doing well in school. I've just returned from a week's visit with them, so the precious gift column seemed appropriate for this week, though a day late!

Precious Gift

The writing prompt said write about what happened in your life a year ago. Easy. I became a great grandmother for the second time. A chubby boy child came into this tired old world. Before that July day I’d only seen his image on bell-shaped ultra sound screen and pictures. Still incredible to this hopelessly older generation woman, the images showed clearly that he was a boy. His tiny heart beat strong and regular on the monitors. We, his Mommy, Daddy, Grandma and I, loved him already. Since he weighed nine pounds, Mommy was very ready for him to make his appearance. Older brother, Tyler, two-years-old, not so much, though at first he didn’t pay much attention to the new baby, Connor.

Though nine pound babies are still, well, babies, they are somewhat easier to hold onto than five-six pounders. I say somewhat because not only bigger, he was and is, a strong one. Anyone holding him needed to stay alert or he would wriggle and escape. In an incredibly short time he learned if he raised his arms straight up, he could slide right down to the floor and crawl away. Let a door be left open on the other side of a room and an adult must sprint to reach it before him. If there were an Olympic baby crawling event, this child would win, hands and feet down!

Tyler had a sunny disposition as a baby and is a mostly happy toddler. Practically within days Connor was giving a wide smile to anyone who entered his field of vision, and still does. He doesn’t like to be thwarted though in his race for freedom and lets everyone within earshot know it. He didn’t really grasp his first birthday party a few days ago, but he scarfed down most of a big slice of the beautiful cake his Mommy baked. Of course, he wore much of it and a quick bath was in order before gifts could be opened. One day, he’ll understand that he was the precious gift for all of us.

sylvia@sylvianickels.com

Friday Jottings - Priorities

Tho I wrote this piece some time ago, it still applies to my life.The two 'p's of a writer's life - priorities and procrastination. Yours truly is a casebook example of both! When I really get into something I must force myself to stop when something else just must be done. Laundry? But I still have a pair of pants clean enough to wear again. Cook something because I'm hungry? That's why God made sandwiches! Ah well, I'm still here trying to determine what has the highest priority.

Priority Paralysis

Is priority paralysis a symptom of modern life? Surely not. Was life so regimented in the past that people knew exactly what to do, when to do it? I can’t believe it. Farmers surely had to choose sometimes whether to plow the back forty or mend the roof before threatened rain. In today’s world, we have so many choices that sometimes we feel unable to make a choice. At least I do. The biggest reason I have a problem with choices is that I tend to over-extend
myself. As a result I am pulled in a dozen directions on how to spend my allotted twenty-four hours per day. Maybe I’m paying for my past sin of criticizing people who spend hours watching mindless sitcoms on television or at the computer playing games.
Now I spend hours doing volunteer work on the computer that I would rather be using to polish or create a piece of my own writing. I enjoy doing the things I do, updating websites, answering email questions and sending out announcements, searching for speakers. Most likely if I wasn’t doing things for others I would find way less productive ways to procrastinate. Writers are experts at procrastination, after all. The only thing that motivates writers, sometimes, is a deadline.
The thought crosses my mind that I’d better keep learning new things and attempting to create as long as I can. Because it’s pretty likely the years ahead of me are not as lengthy as the ones behind me. When you’re teaching yourself, the learning curve can be quite steep though – and time consuming.
On the plus side, since I’m retired from a regular job I can set my own hours, for work and sleep. So I tend to stay up late, very late sometimes. If these columns were time-stamped most of them would reveal that they were written in the wee hours. My friends know this, unfortunately telemarketers don’t and wouldn’t care if they did, so friends don’t call too early in the morning. But even if I’ve been up all night, I welcome hearing from friends. They inspire and encourage me and very often they break my logjam of priority paralysis.

Here and Now

I'm usually glad when February arrives. Even when the weather is bad, which is normal for February, but not this year it seems. But when it comes, it means January is finished and done with. Why am I glad when January is over? First and foremost, it's the month in which my husband passed away, four days before my January birthday. Before that, as I got older, January signaled that I was, in fact, getting older.

In and of itself, getting older is not such a bad thing. If our minds are mostly normal, it means we've attained maybe a modicum of wisdom just by virtue of living so long. At least, I sure hope I have. I really wouldn't want to relive some of my younger years. Some I didn't deal with too well. Bad and unpleasant things happened during some of them which I sure don't want to relive. Good memories, now those would be a blessing to live and enjoy again, but as the saying goes, we must take the good with the bad. So I'll just stay in the here and now.

My life is not perfect now, far from it, but good things are still happening to offset those not so pleasant. One of the better parts of older life, I've learned to accept myself, warts and all, and to expect those who wish to remain in my life to accept me, too. I accept others, just as they are. If I don't agree with them on some things, well, that's why we live in a free country. Hard as it is to believe, some probably don't think the way I do! And actually that makes the world a more interesting place. I like hearing, reading and discussing how others may see life, if it's in a civil manner. Otherwise I can choose not to engage. And do. And life goes on.

Ends and Beginnings

I kind of dreaded this day before it got here. Then the week-long winter storm just before it kind of distracted me. But now it's here. The fifth anniversary of the fourth major event in my life that brought a totally new landscape to it. The first was marriage, of course, the second, motherhood and third, becoming a grandmother when my daughter's son was born. Then five years ago the fourth event, when my husband of more than fifty years left me and this world. It was not unexpected. He'd fought the good fight for almost three years, trying to come back from a major stroke. But he regained negligible use of the left side of his body and both mind and body slowly deteriorated. By the end, he sometimes knew me, but hardly anyone else. Watching the slow sinking of this shell of the strong, full-of-life young man I'd married was hard.
Now carrying the everyday responsibilities of life alone was permanent. I knew I was and am a strong woman, and my husband had never hindered me from becoming stronger through the years. But I was still a little surprised at how hard I was hit, and the amount of time needed to regain my equilibrium.
A somewhat unexpected fifth event helped me during the months prior to and after my husband's death. The birth of a precious great grandson. And now there are two, and the goal of being around to watch them grow up, in addition to personal achievement goals, keeps me looking forward to each day. Who knew such joy could come following the end of a big part of one's life.