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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 3
As a child, I was never been much of a risk taker.
For years, I didn’t jump off the high dive even though I knew how to swim. I didn’t skip school for fear of being caught. And always managed to avoid the roller coaster that went upside down.
But when I rode my bike, I was fearless. I could ride without my hands on the handlebars and believe I was the most courageous girl in the world. And when I rode down a steep hill with no brakes, I felt like nothing would ever stop me again.
I am a little more cautious these days, but I still love riding my bike down steep hills. But my joy doesn’t come from my ability to let go and be a little reckless. It comes from the fact that every steep hill I go down is one that I just struggled going up.
As in life, the tough times help us appreciate the easier ones, and realizing that always makes me smile.
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 2
I’ve always been interested in history, and my own family history is no exception. Because of that, I’m grateful to have been trusted with old family photos.
From the tintypes to stiff cardboard photos to fragile albums that are falling apart, I treasure those photos and the secrets they hold.
If nothing else, they remind me how lucky I am to be a woman who can choose to wear shorts, or pants or a skirt. They remind me of modern conveniences. And they remind me that I owe my life to all the people who have come before me.
I’m carrying their DNA and carrying on their legacy.
And that’s why old photographs always give me a reason to smile.
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.
A Piece of Your Dad
Summer 1998
A message to my 15 year-old son:
The moment you were born, your dad grinned wider than I’ve ever seen. Then he said,”This is the best day of my life.”
And he meant it.
While my mind was spinning with worry, and I wasn’t even sure if I was even cut out to be a mother, your dad knew he had arrived at the place he was always meant to be – fatherhood.
Since then, he’s never left that place. Not even once. And that hasn’t always been an easy thing to do.
Not all men have the fortitude to be a father, and, and as you should well know, it is often a thankless job. It’s even harder when you grow up without much of a role model.
But your father has something a lot of men don’t – the ability to put his ego aside and focus on what he believes is most important – always being available for you and your sister.
From the moment you were born, you have been his priority. He’s never stopped believing in you or being your number one champion. Ever.
At those times when I’ve cried over your behavior or questioned what I did wrong, your dad always spoke up for you. And he was always the voice of reason.
On those days when I worried that you weren’t like other boys – that you weren’t particularly interested in playing sports or being overly social – he always praised you for being comfortable in your own skin and being true to yourself. And he was always right.
Summer 2013
And all those times when you were being the total and complete goof you are, he was proud of you and never hid his face in embarrassment.
Well, almost never.
I know we often joke about your blood line and about your genealogy, but, in all honesty, you should be proud of being your father’s son.
You may not have his brown eyes or his poker straight hair, but you have something much more important.
You have pieces of his heart and pieces of his soul.
Treasure them and make good use of them. Your dad sacrificed a great deal so you could have them.
What the Sunrise Says
The end of the school year marks the beginning of early morning bike rides for me.
For a few weeks during summer months when my children and I don’t have to be ready at 7:00 AM, I can pedal into the dawn on country roads.
Sometimes, the fog still clings to the fields, and I can almost see the ghosts of Civil War soldiers who once walked the land.
Usually, the deer and rabbits momentarily stop nibbling the leaves and grass to watch me pedal by.
And, during those early morning hours, the songs of the birds can be enjoyed without the roar of traffic and other human noises to dull them.
All of this occurs as the sun is slowing making its daily appearance and providing me with advice.
The sunrise tells me that the beauty of nature is evidence that humankind will never master the paintbrush like God can.
The sunrise whispers the importance of taking time to enjoy the moment instead of constantly anticipating the moments that are yet to come.
The sunrise reminds me that it is simply a reflection of life – constantly changing with time and the vantage point from which we observe it.
The sunrise says that it will never fail me. Even if I can’t see it through the clouds of a dark, gray day, it is still there holding the same promise that it does on a bright, sunny day.
And the sunrise shouts that it will always be a wonderful gift to be treasured.
School may be out for the summer, but the wise sunrise is ensuring the lessons haven’t stopped.
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.
Just So You Know 