Category Archives: perspective
365 Reasons to Smile – Day 5
I rarely allow myself to stop.
I’m always going.
I work. I ride my bike. I walk the dog. I write. I volunteer. I parent.
But every once in a while, a perfect moment takes my breath away, and I’m incapable of doing anything but simply standing in awe.
Those are the moments when I realize how limited my control really is, and I recognize that humans are only capable of doing so much.
Sometimes these moments are beautiful, and sometimes they are scary. But they are always amazing.
I’m fortunate to witness such miracles on a regular basis, and on occasion, I’m even lucky enough to capture them in a photograph.
And that always makes me smile.
Day 5: The Perfect Photo at the Perfect Moment
Day 4: Jumping in Puddles
Day 3: The Ride Downhill after the Struggle Uphill
Day 2: Old Photographs
Day 1: The Martians on Sesame Street
365 Reasons to Smile – Day 4
During my freshman year of college, an unexpected rainstorm hit the night before finals. 
While my fellow students and I crammed random bits of knowledge into our brains, the rain beat down.
When the rain passed, darkness had already arrived. But that didn’t stop us from taking a break from studying to enjoy what the storm had left in its wake: puddles.
Even in those days before cells phones and the internet, college students still managed to communicate with each other. That night, hundreds of us ran out of the dorms and the library to work off stress by jumping in puddles.
We splashed and screamed with the same joy we had when we were little children.
I like to believe that, even though we are all in our mid to late forties now, some of us still remember to do that from time to time.
Because jumping in puddles always makes me smile.
Day 4: Jumping in Puddles
Day 3: The Ride Downhill after the Struggle Uphill
Day 2: Old Photographs
Day 1: The Martians on Sesame Street
365 Reasons to Smile – Day 1
If someone were to ask me about my greatest asset or my greatest deficit, I’d give the same answer: my brain. It’s constantly engaged and always working overtime.
It’s probably the reason I worry, get anxious and have trouble sleeping.
It’s also the reason I’m always making lists in my head. I’m not talking about shopping lists or “to do” lists. I’m talking about random lists about anything and everything: eight things I can talk about with a stranger; 12 exercises to do while driving a car (facial exercises count); and 365 reasons to smile.
I started that last list after my experience during November when I joined others in writing daily about something for which I was grateful. That forced me to think of all the good things in my life rather than all my worries. But then, when November ended, so did my daily dose of thankfulness.
That’s when I started my list of 365 reasons to smile.
Today, I’ve decided to start sharing that list.
I know this is just a random day in July instead of January 1 or any other date that marks a significant beginning, but I don’t care.
Being able to write what I want when I want is certainly a reason to smile, but it’s not the my “Day One” reason.
That reason is the Martians on Sesame Street.
As a young child, my parents always limited my television, so watching Sesame Street was a treat. I didn’t realize it was supposed to be educational, I just thought it was fun. And one particular sketch stuck in my mind for years. Even in high school, my friends and I would reenact the scene from Sesame Street when the Martians try to talk to a telephone. We’d move our mouths down and over in a ridiculous parody. And it made me smile.
It still does.
No matter how many times I’ve watched that sketch, it always makes me smile. I hope it makes you smile too:
Where Fear Comes From
As I sat in my driveway Thursday night watching fireworks, I was transported back to a July evening more than 40 years ago.
My family and I were sitting in lawn chairs in front of our small rental house on the Warm Springs Indian Reservation in Oregon watching an amateur fireworks show. As a very young girl, I didn’t know the pyrotechnics were less than impressive. All I knew was that my parents were complaining about the long delays between explosions and that Charlie Brown was scared. And I was worried about Charlie.
Trina and Charlie Brown 1971
From the day my parents adopted Charlie Brown, they should have known I would fall deeply in love. I was born to be a dog lover the way some people are born to be athletes or musicians. According to my baby book, one of my first words was “doggie,” and, as a toddler, I would search out dog books at the local library.
But until Charlie Brown arrived, my family never had a dog.
Since then, my family has never been complete without a dog.
Charlie Brown
And even though we loved Charlie, his early years weren’t easy. He came into our lives at a time when dogs were allowed to roam, and roam he did. When he strayed onto a cattle ranch and started chasing the cows, the rancher shot him. He barely survived, and my parents always blamed his fear of thunder and fireworks on that incident.
Their explanation was reasonable, and I always believed them until I discovered that other dogs, those who have never been shot, also fear thunder and fireworks.
That’s when I began to wonder where the fear comes from. I just couldn’t understand why so many dogs would be afraid of the same thing when their experiences were so varied.
The concept of fear has always fascinated me, especially since I’ve spent my own life overcoming unjustified ones. When I was young, I was afraid to swim in water that was over my head even though I could swim perfectly well when I could touch the bottom. I was afraid to slide down a fireman’s pole, even when all the other kids were expressing sheer joy during the descent. And I’ve always been afraid of rejection and failure to the extent that I avoided potential relationships and challenges.
Then, at one point in my life, I thought I had finally figured out the fear factor.
In college, a Psychology professor discussed the theory of collective memory, and the concept clicked. I might not have experienced an event that would provoke fear, but one of more of my ancestors had. They would have then passed those fears down to me.
That made sense for the dogs as well. They may not have experienced the danger associated with loud noises, but their ancestors had.
For years, as I’ve slowly overcome my fears one by one, I’ve held on to that theory.
Then Rodney entered my life.
Rodney watching the fireworks.
Rodney is the current canine member of my family. He’s a giant German Shepherd with a lot of energy and very little fear. That is, very little fear unless you count his inability to be left alone.
When we first adopted Rodney from a rescue group, he wouldn’t even go into our backyard without someone accompanying him. Over the past three years, he’s improved, but he still hates to be separated from the family, and, yes, particularly from me.
On Thursday night, as the human members of the family sat in the driveway watching fireworks, Rodney sat in the house watching us. He whined, he whimpered and he cried until I brought him out to join us.
And then he was content. While the city fireworks boomed overhead and the neighbors shot off their firecrackers, he simply watched. And my theory about the roots of fear was forgotten.
Because, at that moment, I realized that no matter where fear comes from, there will always be an even greater force.
It’s called love.
Entitled
I’d be lying if I claimed I never stereotype people. But I am being completely truthful when I say I come by those unfair stereotypes honestly.
That is, they aren’t based on propaganda or how I was raised. They are based on experience.
Take, for my example, my instant assumption about women who wear fur coats and multiple diamond rings on their fingers. There’s a reason I automatically label them as being self-centered.
Years ago, on a bitter cold December day when I was in my twenties and living just on the right side of poverty, I spent my entire lunch hour 
waiting in line at the post office. I was hungry and irritated, which are generally interchangeable for me. I was also uncomfortable and sweating. The temperature in the post office had been bumped up to fight against the frigid temperature outside, but I was wearing my winter coat. I was also carrying numerous packages and simply hoping the line would suddenly advance.
It didn’t. Every customer had multiple packages, and, even though we were smack in the middle of the holiday rush, there were only two clerks working at the counter. As we inched forward, I tried to find ways to amuse myself. Since this was in the days before smart phones, I counted the tiles on the floor and made up stories about the other customers. I even tried to strike up a conversation with the person in front of me, but he was even more irritable than I was.
And then, she arrived.
The woman wearing the fur coat and lots of diamonds swept (yes, she really swept) into the post office with an armful of packages like the rest of us. Only, unlike the rest of us, she took one look at the line and loudly announced, “I don’t have time to wait in line. I have a lunch appointment.” And then she simply walked to the counter and insisted she be served immediately.
She was.
While the rest of us stood with our mouths hanging open, the clerk accepted her demands and began processing her packages. She swept out in a manner similar to the way she had swept in. Only now, unlike the rest of us, she no longer carried packages.
And she never apologized.
From that time on, I labeled women who wore furs and diamonds as entitled.
In years to come, I would hear others use that same word to describe individuals and families who have depended on government assistance. And I would always cringe.
But this week, I had an eye-opening experience.
I was picking up a few things at the grocery store and was checking out in the express line with my seven (yes, I counted them) items. As the customer in front of me finished checking out, a women walked in the door of the store.
She had rather straggly hair and was dressed in cheap clothes. The little girl tagging along behind her didn’t look much better.
Instead of getting in line, she glanced at me then entered the check out line where most people exit. She simply walked between me and the man who was checking out. The clerk also glanced at me, as though unsure what to do. But the woman took control of the situation. She ordered three packs of cigarettes and then, when asked if she was using a debit or credit, almost rebelliously said “credit.”
I was disgusted. She had blatantly cut in front of me to charge cigarettes. And she had done it with a child in tow. She behaved as though she were…entitled.
And that’s when I got it. I understood how one experience can easily shape our opinion about all people who look or act in a certain way. And I understood that entitlement has absolutely nothing to do with social or economic class and has everything to do with individuals who think more about themselves than about others.
And neither one is right.
The Bridge that Mrs. Henderson Built
Life speeds by as a changing tide of both small and big events that leaves in its wake only memories and eventual acceptance that nothing ever stays the same.
It also allows us to witness what others will someday study as history.
Mrs. Henderson and Trina 1979
When I was young, I truly believed that the distance between me and any historical events was immense. Even though I loved studying history and was a voracious reader of biographies, I still thought that events simply happened, were over and everyone moved on.
And then I met Mrs. Henderson.
Born on February 5, 1885, Blanche Henderson was literally a pioneer. In 1904, at the age of 19, she graduated from the Oregon Agricultural College (now Oregon State University) with a degree in pharmacy.
A few years later and on her own, she became a homesteader near Madras, Oregon. After she married fellow homesteader, Perry Henderson, she surprised herself by becoming a teacher.
As far as I know, she never had any of her own children, but she obviously loved kids. And she showed that love to me.
By the time I met her, she was a widow living alone in a small, two-bedroom house with minimal furniture. She was also well over 90 years old.
I have absolutely no recollection how our friendship began, although I’m guessing my mother, a journalist, introduced us.
Once those introductions were made, the unlikely relationship began. My mother would take me to visit Mrs. Henderson, and she would always serve me half-melted ice cream from a freezer that wasn’t keeping her food cold enough.
Neither of us cared.
What I did care about was listening to her stories, and what she cared about was sharing them.
As I thumbed through her coffee table book of Norman Rockwell prints, she told me about attending the 1905 World’s Fair in Portland. She even gave me a fan from it, a souvenir she’d kept all those years and that I still treasure.
She told me about witnessing a stagecoach robbery when she was a little girl. “I thought the men had dunce caps on their heads,” she said. “My father had to tell me they were holding their arms about their heads because they were being robbed.”
As Mrs. Henderson talked about her experiences and about how the world had changed, I began to recognize that, what was history to me, was simply life to her. And wanted me to be able to touch it too.
Mrs. Henderson died shortly after my family left Oregon, but the lesson she taught me has stayed with me: each person can be a bridge between the past and 
the future. But that only happens when we reach out to future generations and develop relationships with those whom we may think we have little in common.
Thanks to Mrs. Henderson, I’ve actually touched the historical 1800’s. If I stretch myself far enough, I might be able to reach the 2100’s too.
“Isn’t That What We’re All Here For?”
Yesterday morning, my daughter and I were struggling to carry and drag multiple large objects across a school parking lot when a stranger in a Washington Nationals shirt offered to help.
I gladly accepted his gesture and handed him a folding table.
As we walked, I asked about his shirt, and he broke into a broad grin as he talked about the team enthusiastically. He told me that his son had recently played in a Nationals benefit against cancer.
We continued the small talk until we arrived at my church’s Relay for Life campsite in the middle of the high school football field. As the man put down the table, I thanked him profusely for helping. He merely shrugged and said, “Isn’t that what we’re all here for? To help each other out?”
I nodded in agreement then said goodbye as I turned to help the rest of my team set up for a day in the hot sun. But the man’s words stayed in my head.
About an hour later, the event had begun, and cancer survivors were making the first lap around the high school track while the rest of us clapped and cheered. Since several friends and acquaintances were walking, I don’t know why I was so surprised to see a relative stranger, the man in the Nationals shirt, walking among
them.
I’ll probably never know his name, but I want to thank him for his reminder yesterday.
I’ve been stressed out for several weeks now about things over which I have no control and things which involve other people over which I have no control. And amid all that stress, I lost some perspective.
There were multiple incidents at yesterday’s Relay for Life that helped me put my life back into focus, but his words were the ones that made everything crystal clear.
Life isn’t about waiting for those few moments when everything falls into place and goes smoothly. If it were, we’d never be happy or grateful.
Life is about appreciating rich experiences made possible by people who are willing to share their limited hours with us. It’s about appreciating everyone who makes us smile and laugh, who lends us a helping hand and who trusts we will do the same for them.
I was surrounded by such people yesterday.
Relay for Life is intended to be a fundraiser for cancer research, and that’s what many people consider it. But to me, it’s not really about the money at all.
It’s about seeing diverse people join together for a common cause rather than tear each other up over political or other differences. It’s about spending hours on a track talking with friends and, even more importantly, talking with my daughter when there is absolutely no “to do” list to distract us. And it’s about remembering all those we’ve lost to cancer and honoring all those who have battled and survived it.
Most of all, it’s about life – embracing it, enjoying it and remembering what it’s all about. And that, as the man in the Nationals shirt reminded me, is simply about helping each other.
The Cost of My Opinion
The bloodiest single-day battle in American history occurred approximately 15 miles from my house. Nearly 23,000 soldiers died, were wounded or went missing after twelve hours of combat on September 17, 1862 at the Battle of Antietam during the Civil War. The lingering echoes and impact of that battle are still felt more than 150 years later.
Both the Union and the Confederacy experienced devastating losses, and historians have never declared a true winner. But for me, my family won. My great, great-grandfather James F. Bartlett (his biography and obituary are on this website right below Edward Bartlett’s) fought with the Massachusetts Infantry and survived. although he did sustain injuries on May 6, 1864, at the Battle of the Wilderness.
John Snyder gravestone Elmwood Cemetery
Ironically, my husband’s great, great-grandfather, John Snyder, died in June 1864 of wounds he sustained at the Battle of the Wilderness while fighting with the Stonewall Brigade.
Years ago, a local historian gave my husband and me a tour of John Snyder’s town and legacy. The tour ended at Elmwood Cemetery in Shepherdstown, where he is buried.
Newly married, I was actually interested in John Snyder until our volunteer tour guide pulled out a Confederate flag for my husband to place on his great, great-grandfather’s grave.
I loudly proclaimed that the Confederate flag had a very specific meaning, and my husband was not allowed to touch it. He tried to explain the flag was meant to honor his great, great grandfather, but I declared that the Confederate flag had nothing to do with honoring anyone. My husband placed the flag on the grave anyway.
Years later, I recognize my words were nothing but rude, and I had absolutely no right to be indignant.
I’ve never put my life on the line for my beliefs, and I have no right to judge those who did. All I can be is thankful.
The passage of time can change perspective and opinion about what is best and sometimes even what is moral, but it will never change what is honorable.
My children carry the blood of two honorable men who fought for what they believed during a time when our nation was completely divided. They also carry the last name of a man who lost his life fighting for what he thought would be a better life for them.
On Memorial Day, I have no right to argue about putting a Confederate flag on a soldier’s grave. Instead, I should simply be grateful that I have the freedom to make those arguments.
That freedom didn’t come without a price, and today we honor those who paid it.
The Graduation Speech I’ll Never Give
This upcoming week, my husband is scheduled to be the graduation speaker at his high school alma mater. Even though he makes his living talking to millions of people, he actually hates speaking in public.
Because of that, he’s not particularly happy that I encouraged him to go outside of his comfort zone. He thinks I don’t understand his apprehension because I actually enjoy public speaking.
What he doesn’t understand is that I’m simply jealous of the opportunity, and I’m living vicariously through him.
It’s not the spotlight or the attention that make me wish I could stand in his shoes. It’s the privilege of encouraging young people as they take that final step out of childhood and into adulthood.
Ironically, I don’t even remember who spoke at my high school graduation other than it was a white, male politician. Despite that, I still believe that the right words can make a big difference.
If I didn’t, I wouldn’t write.
But since I do write, I’m going to use this space to share my own words with the Class of 2013. What follows are highlights of the commencement speech I’ll never give:
1. As you get older, you will discover that high school wasn’t just a finite period of your life. It was a series of good and bad relationships and events that served as a platform from which you chose to stand still, dive or climb. My advice is to climb. Take the stairs. Rise above the need to be defined by others or the simple accomplishments of youth and discover who you really are. You’ll probably surprise yourself and all the people with whom you once shared the platform.
2. Don’t ever believe that your greatest moments are behind you. There are always opportunities to create more great moments, but they require moving on and doing something different. Many people are uncomfortable with change and will want to force the status quo on you. Don’t let them.
3. Never apologize for your opinions. Ever. Opinions aren’t facts, so you can never be wrong, and you can always change them as circumstances change. But opinions are valuable because they define the essence of who you are. Like any other valuable possession, people will try to take them from you by any means necessary. Don’t ever let them use religion or profits or cultural norms to buy your silence.
4. You’ve probably been told all of your life not to worry about what other people think about you, and in most circumstances, that’s true. But you should worry about what “the future you” will think about you. You are the only person who has to live with you your entire life. You can walk away from other people, but you will still be with yourself. Make sure you are a good companion. Treat yourself with the respect, care and love needed in any long-term relationship.
5. Before you get out of bed each day, think about the calendar. The day you are about to begin is absolutely unique, and in a few short hours it will simply be another day in history. Make sure that day counts in your own life history. Despite the obstacles you may be facing or the hurt you may be feeling, make sure you do something that makes that day memorable and meaningful. If you are stuck in a routine, break it just a little. Eat something unusual. Read something new. Talk to a stranger. Practice a random act of kindness. Your ultimate goal in life is to make every day count, but that sometimes requires a bit of work. Do the work anyway.
A Letter to Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries
Dear Mr. Jeffries,
Congratulations on recently making headlines with your strategy of only selling clothes to those whom you define as cool, pretty and thin: http://www.businessinsider.com/abercrombie-wants-thin-customers-2013-5#ixzz2SoRlwYlN.
You’ve certainly grabbed a lot of attention and clearly made your point.
As you said, “In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids. Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.”
You have every right to your opinion and your business strategy. But here’s what you apparently don’t get: most of us (people who will never set foot in your store) don’t really care whom you define as cool, and we don’t care that you won’t sell us your over-priced clothes. We see you in the same light that we saw the “cool kids” in high school.
We didn’t actually think they were all that cool. Instead, we thought they were self-absorbed and incredibly superficial.
You (as they did) base coolness on appearance, access to money and whom you associate with. Ironically, the only people who hang out with your are also people who only care about superficial appearances.
There’s no depth. There’s no empathy or compassion for others. And there’s no understanding that life is so much bigger than your very small and limited materialistic world.
In the real world, where everyone else lives, life is so much more than what size you wear, how much you paid for your clothes or all the places where your wealth will take you.
It’s about knowing that you can never count on your looks for anything and building upon your other strengths instead.
It’s about walking into a room and being appreciated for what you can contribute to the conversation rather than for what clothes you wear.
And it’s about supporting others rather than rubbing disadvantages in their faces.
Enjoy your fortune while it lasts, Mr. Jeffries, but be warned.
I’ve got two children who won’t ever buy clothes in your store.
I know their current buying habits are of no interest to you (because neither fits your definition of cool), but I think you should know who they are.
They are both very smart and don’t care whether you or anyone else thinks they are popular or cool. They just care that they are happy and making the world a better place.
Such aspirations have never required buying and wearing a certain brand of clothes.
So watch out, Mr. Jeffries. My children represent the next generation of consumers, and they have loud voices.
Sincerely,
Trina Bartlett
Just So You Know 