Category Archives: Family
My Bookshelf is Going to the Dogs
Despite the image I lamely attempt to portray, I really do care what other people think of me. I care a lot. And there is nothing I hate more than disappointing people who have invested something, whether it’s their time, money or emotion, in me.
Unfortunately one of my greatest talents (or lack of talent depending on how you look at it) is my inability to be fake, or as I’ve been told many, many, many, many, many times (can we say almost on a daily basis?), I’m extremely blunt.
Combine those two personality traits, and you have a recipe for disaster when it comes to any gift-giving occasion.
But here’s the deal. People who know me well enough to give me a gift should also know my quirks. And one of my biggest quirks is an aversion to any book or movie about animals.
Unfortunately, people seem to forget this, because I have enough animal books to fill an entire bookcase. Logically, the gifts make perfect sense. I am passionate about animals, particularly dogs, and I also love to read. So, in a rational world, a book about animals seems ideal.
The problem is I’m not exactly the most rational person in the world, especially when animals are involved.
I think my issues began when I was as a child, and almost every animal story ended with the animal dying. And the movies weren’t any better: Sounder? Where the Red Fern Grows? Old Yeller? The heroes always died in the end. And, simply put, that left me with emotional scars.
My husband has tried for years to get me to watch animal movies. “The animals don’t die anymore,” he’s told me. “They almost always have happy endings now.”
I just can’t bring myself to believe him. I simply don’t trust Hollywood. And for good reason.
While I never read Marley and Me (although I have a hardback copy that was a gift from my mother if anyone ever wants to borrow it), I refused to see the movie because I was
pretty sure it would end with tears. I’ve been told that it does. I’ve also been told the book is better than the movie,and I should read it anyway.
But despite that, I don’t care because I’m pretty sure the dog still dies. And I refuse to have to deal with the grief issues.
I’ve had to deal with my own dogs dying. I think that’s enough. I really don’t need to grieve for a dog I’ve never met.
My husband doesn’t understand why I’m so adamant about the whole “animal movie/book” thing. After all, I read mysteries, and people always die in those books. The same is true with the television shows and the movies I like.
I try to explain to him the difference between animals and people dying, but he just doesn’t get it. He simply fast forwards to his own death and tells me that I probably won’t grieve for him like I’ve grieved for our pets. He even thinks that, at his funeral, I’ll be preoccupied worrying about how I’ll fit walking the dog into the chaos his death has created.
He’s probably got a point there.
But his accusations have got me thinking. Maybe I should address my aversion to the animal movies and books. My concerns are limiting my entertainment options. Also, my behavior reminds me a bit of my former neighbor, Jimmy.
Jimmy absolutely adored my dogs and welcomed them into his home. But Jimmy also refused to get his own dog because he’d had one once, and it died. He simply didn’t want to have to go through that grief again. I was always sad at how much love and joy Jimmy was missing for fear of heartache.
- Gusty 1994 – August 2010. I still miss him.
While I completely understand how difficult losing a canine family member is, their deaths are a small price to pay for all the pleasure they bring to a home. Maybe the books and movies are the same. Maybe the sad endings are worth it.
So I am now re-considering the whole issue, and I may even pick up one of those many unread books on my bookshelf. Maybe. But it’s going to take some time to get up my nerve.
In the meantime, if you are thinking of sending me a gift, just remember that you can never go wrong with jewelry.
Real Men Wear Aprons… and Sometimes Even Tights
Ken Bartlett
I’ve wished for a lot of things in my life. But the one thing I don’t remember ever wishing for was a different dad.
Admittedly, there were times I wished I belonged to a different family, but I’m pretty sure even in those fantasies, my dad was still around.
That’s because I always needed my dad to be around.
I still do.
My dad was never the most macho dad. Or the most protective dad. Or the coolest dad.
But I have absolutely no doubt that God intended for him to be my dad, because there is no other man who could have taken that job on and still come out sane on the other side.
And yes, he is still sane. At least he was last time I talked to him, although he likes to pretend otherwise.
But then, my dad has always enjoyed pretending, which is why I always appreciated him so much.
Sometimes my dad would pretend that he didn’t care about my Mom’s strict rules about food. My overly health conscious mother would have been shocked had she known about the secret stash my dad kept and would sneak to my brother and me on special occasions.
Sometimes my dad would pretend that he wasn’t as excited as we kids about a new toy, like when he secretly bought our family’s first color television while my mom was out-of-town. We were a one, black and white television family and that time, and he did do his best to hide the new TV from my mother as long as he possibly could. And, as I recall, a great deal of time passed before she actually discovered our new prized possession.
And most importantly? When I was a teenager? My dad would pretend that he didn’t see and know all the things I shouldn’t have been doing.
But my Dad also liked to pretend even in non-real life situations. Dad has always loved being on stage. One of my first memories is of my Dad playing Winnie-the-Pooh. But in general, he played more mature roles. . .even those that required him to stretch a bit. Literally.
When he took a role in Romeo and Juliet, he actually had to wear tights. He’s the only Dad I know who ever wore tights. And more importantly, he wore them so well,I’m probably the only teenage girl who wasn’t embarrassed that her father was wearing tights.
But then again, I don’t remember being embarrassed by my father, with the exception of one significant event—when my dad took early retirement to avoid requiring our family to move (again), when I was a teenager. At the time I resented the fact that, while in all the other houses in our neighborhood dads got up and went to work, in my house, it was my mom who went to work.
Yet through all this resentment, I was also grateful.
I was grateful that my dad was always interested in whatever interested me. I was grateful that my dad attended whatever event I was part of. And yes, I was grateful that my dad was doing the cooking instead of my mom.
Actually, grateful doesn’t even begin to cover my appreciation that he took over that chore.
But, here’s the thing about my dad, and I say this with absolutely no disrespect to my mom, he made the better mom.
When I was sick? My dad was always the one who was up all night with me. When I upset? My dad always sensed the problem and dealt with the situation in a sensitive manner. When it came to building my self-esteem? My dad who knew just what was required to build it up. And when it came to worrying about my brother or me? Yes… my dad always put a lot of energy into that too.
But the most important thing my dad ever did for me? He demonstrated what real man, and a real husband, is.
Granted, my husband would never be caught dead in tights.. or an apron for that matter… but other than that? He’s got a lot of the same great qualities. And for that I’m thankful to my mom for marrying my dad and I’m thankful for my dad for just being himself.
Happy Father’s Day!
I’m Pretty Sure There’s a Gene for That
My grandmother spent her entire life thinking she wasn't attractive.
There are times when I truly believe I am the most self-critical person on earth. At the same time, I also believe that, for the most part, I’ve become pretty good at hiding that trait from all but those who know me best.
(And yes, I also know those people are doubled over laughing at that idea that I think I can hide anything I’m feeling or thinking. But, believe it or not, I really don’t reveal everything. Really, I don’t).
But here’s the thing. I’ve begun to wonder if there might be a gene for self-criticism.
I say this in all seriousness.
While many women point out their flaws more often than they point out their strengths, there are those who take it to a whole new level.
My mother, the over achiever, is a prime example. For all her accomplishments, I don’t remember her ever being satisfied with what she had achieved. Instead, she was always comparing herself to others and thinking she didn’t measure up.
For skeptics of my self-criticism gene theory who believe it’s simply a learned behavior, let me go on the record saying my mother tried her hardest to ensure she didn’t pass that characteristic on to me.
Her efforts didn’t work. And neither did her mother’s.
I’m fairly certain that my grandmother carried a self-criticism gene that weakened upon passage to future generations. There’s simply no other explanation for why my grandmother would have been critical of herself.
First of all, she was beautiful. I look at photos of her and wonder how she ever could have any self doubts about her appearance. But she never thought she was attractive
Secondly, she was one of the strongest and most intelligent women I’ve ever known. She grew up on a farm in Michigan. I’m told she held the record for the hundred yard dash at her high school for decades. And she, like her three other siblings was so determined to get a college education that worked hard to pay her own way through Michigan State University.
In the early 1930’s.
As a female.
During the Great Depression.
And not only did she graduate, she excelled.
But, like my mother and like me, instead of seeing her accomplishments, she often focused on her perceived failures. And she constantly compared herself to others, particularly her older sister Sylvia.
I never understood why. I always thought my grandmother was prettier than and just as accomplished as my Aunt Sylvia. I also thought Aunt Sylvia was a really cool lady who lived her life in a manner completely foreign to me.
Sylvia, by all accounts, completely lacked the self-criticism gene.
What Sylvia didn’t lack was a passion for living and a limited fear of failure: all things my grandmother strived for.
While my grandmother thought she was too skinny, Sylvia carried a few extra pounds.
While my grandmother was cautious, Sylvia embraced life.
While my grandmother aimed for perfection, Aunt Sylvia aimed for laughter, love and music.
And while my grandmother always felt like she was being judged, Sylvia never seemed to worry what others thought.
Admittedly I can relate too well to my grandmother. I have battled some of these issues all my life (with the obvious exception of thinking I’m too skinny. I have NEVER had that concern.)
But, here’s the really cool thing about genetics. They combine with those of our other ancestors to create some really remarkable combinations.
So if you can buy into the whole “self-criticism gene” theory, you can also accept that there are genes for compassion. And humor. And tenacity
All traits I think I got from some of my amazing relatives.
Which means while I believe “there’s a gene for that,” I also believe that “there’s a family for that.”
And I got one heck of a great family.
For my mom on Mother’s Day
Evadna and Trina February 1967
As Mother’s Day drew near, I once again found myself shopping for the perfect card for my mother.
Shopping for my mother is never an easy task, but card shopping for her is next to impossible.
I just can’t equate any of the flowery, sappy cards with my mother.
Granted, I’m not the flowery, sappy type myself, but compared to her? I’m a sentimental fool. I would be kidding myself and others if I claimed I had never wished my mother was the warm fuzzy type. Or that I didn’t find her a bit too serious and intense. Or that on more than one occasion (count hundreds in my teen years), I’d wished she was more like other mothers.
But I’d also be kidding myself if I didn’t recognize that if it weren’t for my mom, I wouldn’t be me. And, although it’s taken way too many years for me to publicly admit the fact, I really do like myself. So thanks Mom.
Thanks for living your life on your own terms and not bending to societal pressures. And thanks for expecting that I do the same.
Thanks for having the fortitude to speak out for what you believe, even when everyone else is keeping quiet. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
Thanks for taking on stereotypical male roles and responsibilities. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
Thanks for living a life that demonstrates what you do for others is more important than accumulating material possessions. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
Thanks for taking time to pursue your own dreams and passions while still ensuring your children get everything they need. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
And while I am grateful for everything my mom is and did, I’ve never have found the perfect Mother’s Day card to share that message. This year, I settled on one that simply said “You are special.” But I wish I could find the perfect card for her.
It would be a card that tells her to relax. She did her job as mother, and she did it brilliantly. It would tell her that she needs to stop worrying about her perceived missteps and focus on the facts: both of her kids turned out just fine. We never went to jail and we never made headlines for our bad behavior (at least I never made headlines for my bad behavior, I’m not sure my brother even participated in bad behavior.)
It would tell her she helped stack the odds in our favor so that we could live happy, productive lives. We are both well-educated, we are both responsible for ourselves and our own families and we are both parents who greatly appreciate that we had positive role models in our parents.
Most importantly, the card would tell her that she gave her children the best gift of all: the gift of knowing we are accepted and appreciated for being who we are with all our own flaws and quirks.
So instead of providing her with the perfect card, the best I can do is write my thoughts and share them with anyone who is willing to read them.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom.
I love you!
They Used to Call Him Bubba, but Now We Call Him Jim
The coincidence was just too great.
In the same week that I was engaged in a conversation in which the phrase “they used to call him Bubba, but now we just call him Jim” was uttered, I ran across a news article about how your name might impact your entire life.
To be honest, I didn’t really read the article, and my immediate reaction to the whole Bubba and Jim conversation was that those words would make great lyrics for a country song.
But the two incidents must have stuck in my head because I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. And I haven’t given so much thought to names since I gave birth to my daughter nine years ago.
Like most expectant parents, my husband and I spent a great deal of time agonizing over baby names. I say most parents, because I’m always amazed at those who obviously didn’t put a lot of thought into possible disasters when it comes to initials, potentially embarrassing nicknames and disastrous first and last name combinations. My husband and I took all of those into account.
Not that we were prepared to let anyone else in on our personal deliberations before either of our children actually arrived. Before our son was born and people were asking what his name would be, our response was that we hadn’t quite yet decided between Fyvush Finkel and Deuteronomy. We did clarify that if we selected Deuteronomy, we’d call him Dute due to our tendencies to call everyone Dude anyway.
I’m not sure if anyone actually believed us, but a few still scratched their heads when we named him Shepherd. We even had one woman who insisted that we were mistaken and his name was actually Gabriel Shepherd – not Shepherd Gabriel. I have no clue why she thought we didn’t know our own child’s name, but I had long since figured out that people just live within their own paradigms with no hope of escape.
I’ll never forget having just filled out a form at a doctor’s office when I got called back up to the front desk. The woman motioned for me to lean in so I could hear her whisper, “Honey, spouse means your husband. You shouldn’t have put your daddy’s name on that line.”
It took me a minute before I could even find the words to tell her that I had put my husband’s name on that line, we just had different last names. Based on the look she gave me, she obviously thought I was simply covering up. The look I gave her wasn’t nearly as sympathetic.
I had, after all, been dealing with such chronically confused people for years.
When I was getting married, I worked with woman who simply could not understand why I was not taking my husband’s last name. One day, she walked into my office with a big smile on her face. “I figured it out,” she exclaimed.
“Figured what out?” I asked.
“Why you aren’t changing your name,” she said, as if I should know that was the biggest mystery to ever hit our office.
“Or really,” I asked. “Why’s that?”
“Because your last name begins with a B and his last name starts with an S,” she said. “This way, you can stay at the top of the alphabet.”
I couldn’t think of a response. I guess I could have told her that my identify was tied more to my name than to my future husband, but I knew that concept was well beyond her.
But my belief that our identity is tied up with our names has continued. How could I think anything else with a mom named Evadna and a husband named Giles? That’s why, with a last name of Snyder, I wanted make sure my kids didn’t have the same name that hundreds of others did.
Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, my dog didn’t fare as well. While our entire family fell in love with him the first time we met him, we didn’t all agree on his name. His foster family had temporarily named him Rodney after the animal control officer that picked him up. I just didn’t think the name fit a German Shepherd.
My kids, on the other hand, had other ideas. “How would you like it if someone kept changing your name?” they asked.
O.K., they had a point. And Rodney kept his name.
I admit, I do think it’s better than Bubba or Jim. And “A Dog Named Rodney” might also be great title for a country song.
Valentines Day 2011: Genes, Family, Love and, of Course, Dogs
I never grew up with really warm and fuzzy feelings for my grandfather. The strained relationship was more than just a matter of not clicking. It was more an issue of two head strong people who were so sure they were in the right, the other person had to be wrong.
When I first began complaining about him to my mother, she tried to convince me he had a lot of great qualities. And, if I look at the matter objectively, I can see that he did. As a child growing up in Oregon, he and my grandmother made sure that, even in their seventies, they travelled from Michigan to visit us twice a year. No matter what. Even after my uncle died in a plane crash, they still made the trip via air at times, which I now realize was extremely hard on them.
And when it came to matters of giving gifts of money or material possessions, he went beyond the call of duty to be fair.
But when it came to matters of who he respected and held in high regards, I never measured up. Not because I wasn’t smart or determined. I was both. What I didn’t have was the ability to keep my mouth shut, a natural respect for my elders or, most importantly, a Y chromosome. And nothing was ever going to change that. And therefore, nothing was going to change about my relationship with him. Or so I thought.
But time and perspective have a way of altering our views. Admittedly, when my grandfather died of Alzheimer’s in 1998, my relationship with him hadn’t changed. But now in my mid-forties, I’ve bumped along the path of life long enough to accept some of the hard lessons it teaches.
And one of the toughest for me was recognizing how much I am like my grandfather.
Granted, I think I could teach him a thing or two about tolerance and about not taking life too seriously, but other than that? I’m definitely his granddaughter. No doubt about it. I’m no scientist, but I have no question that the helix of DNA he passed on to me carried the genes for being outspoken, strong-willed, and impatient. That same blue print is also completely missing the genes for being calm, detached and deferential.
I may not care about the same things he cared about, but I don’t think that matters. At least not to me. Granted, my conservative grandfather is probably rolling over in his grave at some of my beliefs and loyalties, but that’s all right. What’s shaped my passions and values isn’t part of the DNA. I get those from my life experiences and the choices I’ve made.
But in remembering my grandfather, I realize there was one passion we shared. And, even though there may be no scientific proof, I’m pretty sure it is an inherited trait. I’m positive that there is a gene for undying love and compassion for animals, particularly dogs.
I know my rigid, self-controlled grandfather was beholden to the pull of the “dog gene.” His absolute adoration of dogs above people is only matched by my own. When my children or husband comment about how I love dogs more than I love them, I smile. I know I should be denying it, but instead, I think of my grandfather: a man who would fly or even drive a couple thousand miles to visit his daughter and grandchildren. Or so everyone else thought.
But even as a young girl, I knew differently. When he and my grandmother would arrive at our house, it wasn’t me or my brother that would make his face light up. It was the sight of our lab/German Short hair mix, Charlie Brown, that would make his eyes twinkle and his usually stern mouth break into a smile. And, if you look back through family photo albums, I think there are more pictures of grandfather with Charlie Brown than there with any of the rest of us.
I never saw my grandfather get enthusiastic about much, but he was always enthusiastic about animals. And even though a lot of things about my grandfather bothered me,that never did. And now I know why.
Because I was exactly like him. I still am. And, now, I appreciate all the traits he passed on to me.
Now, on this Valentine’s Day when we are supposed to let those we love know, I don’t have the opportunity to tell my grandfather what I’ve learned. That I loved his passion for animals, and, after all these years, I know I also loved him for that passion… not as much as I love my dog, but I still loved him.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Grandpa.
Just So You Know 
