NYC March 2012 Part One

I used to watch the soap opera Guiding Light which went off the air in 2009. It Introduced me to some wonderful friends online through message boards and Twitter and I met some in person at fan luncheons in New York City for Crystal Chappell and Jessica Leccia, two actresses from that show. Because I’m a writer and photographer I shared my experiences at those luncheons here so others who were not able to attend could know what happened there and what it meant to me and maybe feel, at least a little bit, as if they were a part of it all. Because they were. If I had a nickel for every time the name of an absent Twitter friend had been mentioned by someone at one of those luncheons I could probably afford to go to the next event! If you’d like to catch up on those stories you can read about them here: 

NYC October 2010 Part One

NYC October 2010 Part Two

NYC: Lost and Found

NYC: Lost and Found, Part Two

NYC: Lost and Found, Part Three

NYC: Lost and Found, Part Four

The weekend of Jessica Leccia’s fan luncheon in March of this year began a couple of days early for me when Kathy (@Zoogirl) arrived to spend a couple of days with me in Maryland. We had been talking about our travel plans on Twitter and decided that she’d spend some time with me here in Maryland before and after our train trip to NYC where we’d split the cost of a hotel room.  I put her to work helping me make the buttons that would be included with the fan packets at the luncheon. Then she got to watch me stress out as my computer started making strange noises and I frantically backed up everything, hoping I didn’t have a failing disk drive. (I’ll finish that story later.)

My husband dropped us off at the train station on his way to work Friday morning. Thank you, Amtrak, for wifi on your Northeast Regional trains so we could tweet all the way there! I had assured Kathy that we could easily walk to our hotel, having checked the map and compared the distance to other walks I’d taken around NYC on previous visits. I wanted her to get a feel for the city and see it up close, too, instead of speeding by in a taxi.

We met Julie (@julieluvsotalia) and her mom, Marcia, at the hotel. It was too early to check in so they had checked their bags and we did the same before heading out again to eat lunch. I had noticed we passed a burger place, a bar & grill and a pizza place on the corner near our hotel so we debated our choices as we walked and decided on pizza. I’ve been to a lot of pizza places in my day but I’ve never seen a guy bring his unicycle to one (and that’s a sentence I never expected to write!). I couldn’t resist taking a picture. Oh, and Marcia? Thanks for the pizza! (Gotta watch her… she deserves a gold medal for fastest check-grabber!)

After lunch I called Denise (@jessiewolf) who had arrived on a redeye flight the night before. She was staying at a hotel where we’d split a room when we came for Jessica’s luncheon in 2011. I led the way as we walked just a few blocks and found Denise and her friend, Natalie, in the lobby. We didn’t have too long to wait before Jill Lorie Hurst joined us. After introductions, hugs, a few pictures, and discussions about plans for the weekend we left Denise & Natalie to go to their show and Jill led the rest of us toward Grand Central Station where she and I parted company with the others. Kathy, Julie and Marcia had plans to attend an event for @nycwriterchick and Jill had plans for me....

Jill said she’d called a few friends and said, “Donna’s coming to town! Let’s have dinner!” We took the subway to the Upper West Side to a great little Greek restaurant, Symposium, and were soon joined by my friends Lisa 9@ColumbusNYC) and Bettie (@bettielavin).  I’d met them when I came to Crystal Chappell’s fan club luncheon in October, 2010. They were followed by Mimi Torchin (@Mimi_Torch) and her partner, Liron Cohen (@SunshineLiron), whom I was delighted to finally meet in person after chattering with them on Twitter for a couple of years. 

I wish I had set a tape recorder in the middle of the table to capture the evening’s conversation. I’m sure we solved all the problems of the world at least three or four times as we talked about politics and soap operas and families and politics and Texas (Mimi & I are both Texans) and writing and politics and pets and the economy and oh, did I mention politics? Mimi had been reading my blog and giving me wonderful words of encouragement for months so I shared with her my idea for a book. She thought it was a great idea and urged me to write it, just as Jill had done when I shared it with her. (It's in the works. OK, mostly in my head.)

At one point during the evening I took a deep breath, leaned back and let the conversation swirl around me, thinking, “How did this little Baptist girl from Dallas, now preacher’s wife, end up here, of all places?!” I felt honored to be in the company of these fascinating women who had courageously pursued their dreams and led such interesting lives. It made me want to reach for my dreams, too.

I had my camera with me but I hadn’t taken any photos since we got to the restaurant, choosing to be a participant in my own life rather than observer. But as we were getting ready to leave I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t document the moment. I asked everybody to gather around for a group photo, handed my camera to our gracious waiter and had him take a shot of us all together. I think it turned out great!

Stay tuned for "NYC, March 2012, Part Two".....

Up a Tree

I was a tree climber when I was a kid. Not that we ever had trees worth climbing in my yard when I was of an appropriate tree climbing age. I had to go to the neighbors’ yards to find the good ones. My friend Kellye had a nice Chinaberry in her backyard a few houses up the street but my favorite was a mimosa tree right next door.

Mimosas had more entertainment value per square inch than any other tree in my neighborhood. The big fan like leaves were perfect for pretend servants to fan a pretend Cleopatra, and the seed pods were great for pretending to pick beans for supper or just tearing up and scattering to the breeze with the soft, tufted blossoms on a windy day. The end result of such play was that every yard on the block had a few mimosa trees of varying sizes, some small saplings, some large enough for not-too-big kids to climb easily.

My neighbor’s mimosa tree stood right in the middle of the back yard but the branches arched almost all the way over to the tall stockade fence between their backyard and mine. It was fortunate that a couple of little boys lived there for a few years when I was in my tree climbing prime. I’d bound out my backdoor, letting the screen slam shut behind me, and head straight for the fence where I’d scramble up to peak over the top and see if Vernon and Davy had finished their breakfast so I could come over and climb their tree with them.  Once we’d shouted our greetings over the fence they’d wave me over I’d head straight for the tree.

I was big enough that with a good jump (it sometimes took two tries) I could reach the lowest branch, then walk my way up the trunk, throw my leg over it and hoist myself up the rest of the way. Vernon was shorter and required a boost but he liked to push his pedal driven tractor over by the tree and climb up on it so he could reach it himself (no safety inspector required). Little Davy was only three so we didn’t help him climb up, at least not after his mama caught him up there with us once. Okay, maybe twice.

Once up on that first branch, I saw a larger branch rising from the trunk at about an 80 degree angle to the left. This is the one that reached toward my house and I could lean my body against it, holding tight to smaller branches, and see the full expanse of my yard next door on the other side of the fence. To my right I saw the dog asleep on the back step of the house across the alley from mine, a sight I could only see from that perch because if it saw me in my backyard it started running and barking along the chain link fence. If I climbed a bit further up that branch I could even see a little over the fence on the far side of my yard into my friend Tony’s backyard, too.  And I could always see the neighborhood kids taking a shortcut through my yard from the alley to the street, something they did often since we were in the middle of the block and our yard had no fence.

Extending in the opposite direction of that branch was a larger one sloping gently upward at about a ten or fifteen degree angle. It was broad enough to seem almost like the floor of a tree house with good strong limbs branching out from it, giving us several options for swinging down to the ground. We played Tarzan and Swiss Family Robinson and we could even sit cross-legged on this big, wide branch and play a game of checkers as though in a room with gently swaying green walls.

Climbing trees was something I could do better than the big kids. That was significant for me, the youngest of three children in my family. Yes, taller kids could sometimes reach those lowest branches more easily than I could but I could climb higher, up into the thinner branches that could easily hold my smaller body as they danced in the wind. My grip was sure and I knew the way to the best footholds on that mimosa. And once I’d found my perfect perch I could stay until I was good and ready to come down because the big kids couldn’t follow.

I had lunch with a friend this week. We don’t see each other that often. Months may go by without exchanging a single word but when that inevitable phone call or visit finally comes, the words tumble out for hours and the visit ends much too soon.

My friend and I have each had our share of challenges the past few years. Our children have grown up, loved ones have aged and passed from this life, our husbands have coped with professional challenges, and our families have struggled with the economy.

During our lunch visit we talked about who we are now, who we used to be and what we’re trying to do with our lives. We have each found it easy to see the good qualities and talents in someone else yet have difficulty seeing them in ourselves. So we spent a great deal of our conversation pointing out these things we’ve always known about each other. I say I’m just a doodler who likes to take pictures and tell stories. She calls me a talented artist, photographer, and writer. She says she’s trying to learn new software and marketing initiatives for their family business and I’m in awe at what she’s accomplished without ever taking a class.

We take turns heaping huge piles of affirmation on each other over plates of ribs and catfish, propping each other up until we can regain our footing, pointing out new possibilities our busy schedules and personal blind spots have prevented us from seeing before.

As I opened the door of her car after saying goodbye and bounded up the walk and into my house I thought, “There is something familiar about this feeling....”  I didn’t know why at first. The same half-finished projects were strewn about my living room, the same To Do list in my notebook on the table, the same bills waiting to be paid.

And then I realized….

I felt like just like that little kid, bounding out the back door into a world of possibilities, secure in the knowledge that my grip was strong, that I knew the best footholds and that my dreams were carried on the breeze.

Bubbles

This is going to be a long and tiresome campaign season.

It seems to me that on one side we have people who want to move forward, making changes with an eye to the future and on the other side are people who want to restore the glory days of the past. Each of these approaches contains a little good and a little bad but I’m all for moving forward.

I understand why some want to go back, though. They look back and see a simpler, safer time when time itself didn’t move at the breakneck speed it seems to today. As parents, we want to protect our children. It’s our job. We sometimes wish we could place a bubble around our children to protect them from all the bad stuff out there: bumps, bruises, bad guys and broken hearts.

But we can’t.

I know this desire to protect loved ones motivates many political conservatives. They want their government to mirror the values they teach their children. They want to shield them from those who would teach them that any other way of life is acceptable. They want to preserve the world they’ve carefully created for their families and keep out the changes they don’t want.

But they can’t.

Life brings with it changes that cannot be anticipated. Some we are prepared for, some not. But change will come, with or without our cooperation. How you face that change is your choice.

When I was a teenager I sang in the youth choir at my church. Every year we performed a musical and sometimes we took it on tour during the summer. I often played my guitar, once sang a brief solo part, but always sang in the alto section.

And once, I danced a can-can.

The musical told a story about a youth choir rehearsing for the performance of a musical. One song was called “Bubbles and Fizz”, an energetic, enthusiastic number with a really boring alto part on the chorus. We girls in the alto section had no trouble pretending to be teenagers cutting up during a choir rehearsal. As we started to sing that one note that we knew lasted for an interminable number of measures, we linked arms and started kicking up our heels like Rockettes in formation. By the end of the note I confess there was more giggling than singing. We expected our choir director to tell us to knock it off and behave ourselves. But he decided to keep it in and told us to go with it and make the most of it since it fit the story. So we hammed it up, enthusiastically high kicking on the back row at each performance.

I remember the lyrics to that song like it was yesterday. Once you got past the rah-rah part the song slowed and came to a thoughtful resolution:

When it’s over and that’s all there is

Fading bubbles, disappearing fizz

Songs and words, you can forget them, said

Your commitment’s gone.

The feeling’s dead.

You can live in a bubble if you want to.

But bubbles won't last. They fizzle and fade and disappear.

The world will continue to change around you. As a parent I think the best thing is to try to give kids the tools they need to live in the world as it is and teach them how to change it for the better.

Maybe they can make the changes we couldn’t.

Small Moments, Big Impact

I’ve been thinking this week that it’s finally time to sit down and write about my most recent trip to New York City for Jessica Leccia’s fan luncheon. That was back in March of this year. I guess three months is long enough to let that story simmer on the back burner. I’d better finish editing those photos, too. Recalling that trip makes me think of all my visits to NYC and the things that have happened there to surprise me, change me and challenge me.

Even a small moment can make a big impact.

A laugh

a hug

a passing comment from one person

that changes the life of another

and before I know what’s happening I’m back on the train and headed home again,

knowing I’ll sift through it all in the months ahead,

taking out each moment to examine it again,

trying to squeeze all the insight out of it that I can,

all the affirmation I’ll need when I don’t like what I see in the mirror,

all the encouragement I’ll need when I’m ready to give up,

along with the challenge of my friends and mentors to keep being myself as only I can do,

even when that seems the most impossible task of all.

Especially then.

And now I’m thinking about Nora Ephron, how she touched my life and told me over and over again that being something other than what most people expect is a very good thing and that the smallest, most ordinary moments can be the most important of all. No, I never met her but I’ve watched her movies repeatedly, gathering up all the insight, humor, and affirmation I’ll need until the next time.

One of my strongest memories of NYC is also about NoraEphron. The first time I went to NYC for Jessica Leccia’s fan luncheon I saw Love, Loss and What I Wore, the play she wrote with her sister, Delia Ephron. I wrote about the impact that play had on me in the first of four articles about that trip.

I should be telling my stories more often. I’ll work on that. Until then, click on this and go read what I wrote about seeing that play and what it did for me.

http://ddpool.blogspot.com/2011/03/nyc-lost-found.html

And if you want to read the rest of that story here are the links to parts two three and four:

http://ddpool.blogspot.com/2011/04/nyc-lost-and-found-part-two.html

http://ddpool.blogspot.com/2011/04/nyc-lost-and-found-part-three.html

http://ddpool.blogspot.com/2011/04/nyc-lost-and-found-part-four.html

Thank you, Nora. Rest in Peace.

Little Things

It’s the little things that can make all the difference.

A pat on the back

A smile from a friend

The scent of gardenia in the breeze

The sight of something from my childhood

When I feel myself being twisted into knots of stress that are being pulled ever tighter all it takes is one small thing to make me stop… 

Take a deep breath… 

Laugh a little… 

Let that tear come, if it will.

Recently, a display of sewing supplies at a store drew me in like a magnet. It was just a small display at a discount store, nothing fancy. And I certainly didn’t need to buy any sewing supplies since I had all I needed at home. But I found myself pausing, just for a moment, reaching out to touch the needles, thread, tape measures, etc….

In an instant my thoughts raced through images of my mother and all the hours she spent sewing the dresses of my childhood, the colorful array of thread spools and fabric scraps that cluttered her sewing table when a project was underway.

It’s just a thimble.

But when I look at it I feel my mother’s love.

I’ve been digging up more buried treasure at my house for my vintage Etsy shop. It isn’t hard to find as we’ve spent years accumulating things that some people might call junk. But one man’s junk is another man’s treasure, isn’t it? Something I’m ready to discard may be that one small thing that reminds another person of a special time or location, something that will find a place of honor in their home. A camera or radio like Dad’s or an ad for the car he drove. A kitchen gadget like Mom used. A game played with brothers and sisters.

Even when there is no personal connection, we stop and look and acknowledge the history, remembering another time, whether to appreciate all it was or to remind us of how much better our lives are now.

It gives us perspective.

Sure, it’s just old stuff. But it prompts us to tell our stories, to remember how we started and how far we’ve come. Just some little token that shows us our place in History, if only for a moment, and reminds us that the story isn’t over yet.

My story isn’t over yet.

No matter what stress I may struggle with, what discouragement may hold me back, what heartbreak may wound me, I can be sure of that.

My story

Is not

over

yet.

One day, this big thing that threatens my dreams may just be a little something I put on a shelf to give me a little perspective.

Steve And Janie

This is a story about my friends, Steve and Janie.

When Janie was a teenager, my mother was one of her Sunday School leaders. When I became a teenager, Janie was one of my leaders and I babysat for Janie and Steve’s kids.

I was teaching myself to play my brother’s guitar back then - a generic solid body with a small amplifier my dad had picked up at a garage sale. I practiced every day after school and on weekends and played till my fingers bled. I watched my friends who played for our church and they gave me tips and let me play their acoustic guitars sometimes. Steve was one of those friends.

One night when I went to babysit Steve and Janie’s kids, Steve said I could play his guitar after the kids were in bed. Steve had a nice little Yamaha classical and those nylon strings were so much easier on my fingers than the steel strings of that electric guitar. I told him I was saving my babysitting money so I could buy one of my own. He said he didn’t play his guitar very often so he wanted me to take it home and borrow it for a while. I was ecstatic. I played Steve’s guitar for about six months until I got a guitar of my own.

Thousands of people have heard me play guitar for Sunday Schools and church services, summer camps and student meetings plus a few weddings thrown in for good measure. I even wrote a few songs of my own and recently found some old friends on Facebook who remembered them. It’s not that I was ever that good at it. I was just willing and available.

Sometimes, when nothing else can calm my inner storm I take out my guitar and spend a few minutes playing an old familiar song about God’s love and grace. It’s like taking a deep breath, spiritually. I can’t imagine not being able to do that. Without Steve’s confidence in me and the loan of his guitar at just the right time I might have given up and never learned to play.


My friend, Steve, has Alzheimer’s Disease.  He was diagnosed when he was 60 years old. He’s only 64 now but he can’t live with his family anymore. He doesn’t always recognize them when they visit him in the nursing home where he lives. Caregivers there are trained to deal with Alzheimer’s patients when they become aggressive but Steve is especially challenging. After teaching martial arts for over 30 years he is quite adept at defending himself. He can’t understand that they’re trying to take care of him.

Steve and his son, Jay, used to teach eight martial arts classes a night on two mats in one of the largest Karate schools in the state of Texas. Steve shared with his students the things that were important to him. He quoted scripture, told Bible stories and often brought his guitar for a jam session with the kids at the end of the evening.

Because of Steve’s ADHD, it wasn’t unusual for him to ask for Janie’s help finding his keys or other things he’d lost. During routine check-ups his doctor would say, “Oh, does Janie think you have Alzheimer’s again?”

But then Steve began to lose track of details on the job. When he had to ask Janie for directions to the dentist they’d been seeing for years she was worried. When Steve panicked at the thought of Janie going out of town for a couple of days she canceled her trip and called the doctor the next day.

Steve knew what he was facing when he got his diagnosis. His mother had died of Alzheimer’s years before. More is known about the disease now and Steve was able take medication to help slow the onset of symptoms. That helped for about a year. The younger the patient when diagnosed, the faster the disease progresses. Steve can no longer speak in complete sentences.


I remember Steve as young, handsome, energetic, talented, a loving father, a faithful friend. When Janie found me on Facebook recently and told me about Steve’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis my heart broke for Steve, Janie, and their family.

If you look at Janie’s Facebook page, you see her smiling face and photos of her children and grandchildren.  And every now and then you can read comments about her family’s experience with Alzheimer’s and encouraging words from her friends who have gone down this road with their own loved ones.

“It’s not just being forgetful," Janie says. “It robs them of their personality and their passion.” Steve stopped playing the guitar. Then he stopped karate.  Because of their experience with Steve’s mother, Janie knew that it would be hard. “But it’s different when it’s your spouse. The person you’ve confided in and looked to for support is not there anymore.”

It was about two years ago when Janie realized she’d have to quit her job and stay home with Steve full time. She got a call from the Sheriff’s department while she was at work. Steve had wandered down the road from their house and knocked on a neighbor’s door to ask for help getting back home. Three days later, it happened again.

Janie had always considered herself to be a private person, but the stress of taking care of Steve took its toll. She kept telling herself, “It’s not Steve, it’s the disease. It’s not Steve, it’s the disease….” She finally started confiding in friends at church, letting them encourage and pray for her. She says, “You have to give yourself permission to be frustrated.” She felt guilty when she moved Steve to the nursing home, even though she knew she couldn’t care for him herself anymore. He was far enough away that she couldn’t visit him every day so she turned her attention back to her own life. She started taking better care of herself and found a new awareness of God’s leadership in her life. Janie recommends that caregivers find an Alzheimer’s support group and seek out resources like the book, The 36 Hour Day, a wonderful resource for caregivers of patients with Alzheimer’s and Dementia.


They call it the “Silver Tsunami”. More than 10,000 baby boomers turn 65 every day. One in eight people over the age of 65 has Alzheimer’s. Unfortunately our health care system will be faced with a lot more Steves and Janies in the coming years. I urge you to read this article about the impact this will have on our health care system: http://dallasne.ws/Ikh8rC

The 2012 Alzheimer’s Advocacy Forum is underway in DC this week. Over 700 representatives from all 50 states have gathered to urge our government to take action on Alzheimer’s issues. As we approach the elections in the fall I hope you will consider candidates who will work to find solutions for those who cannot help themselves.


Alzheimer’s has taken Steve not just from his family. It’s taken my old friend from me. Over the years I’ve been delighted to reconnect with friends from the church of my childhood, whether online or in person. I talked with Janie recently, catching up on the news of family and mutual friends. I was comforted by her memories of my mother, when she was young and strong, thinking of all the young people she encouraged, like Janie. I am so glad we’ve renewed our connection.

But I can’t talk to Steve anymore. The Steve I once knew is gone. I can’t tell him about all the years I played my guitar because he loaned me his. This disease robs the world of all that Steve might have continued to do to be a blessing to his friends. It has robbed Janie of her closest friend and encourager with whom she has shared the past 48 years. Jay and Shannon will tell their children about their grandfather but Steve can’t be there for their ball games, karate matches, graduations or weddings.

Some leave us slowly, their strength fading even as their memories and personalities persist. Some leave us suddenly and unexpectedly, with no chance to say goodbye. In both circumstances we mourn the passing of those who are no longer with us.

Janie is mourning her husband and best friend, Steve, the man she visits as often as she can, whose care she entrusts to trained professionals. It is difficult for him to speak now but sometimes he’ll look at her and say “I love you.” But the Steve she knew is gone.

If there is a Steve in your life, my heart goes out to you. If there is a Janie in your life, I pray you’ll offer your support and prayers. And if you have something to give, please make a donation to help fight this terrible disease through research, support programs and services.

Thank you, Janie, for the use of your photos.

Buried Treasure

Cameras and photos, books and magazines, radios, toys, etc. can clutter an attic, tell the story of a life, or decorate a newlywed's budget apartment. Is it just dusty old stuff to you or is it buried treasure?

I often tell people that our house is decorated in a combination of early College Apartment and Late Salvation Army. I hope that when friends come to visit they see evidence of creative lives well lived and assume that each oddly placed object that doesn't seem to match anything holds a story all it's own. That would be a correct assumption. Sometimes the story is about whatever happened to distract us from actually finding a better place to put said object, but that is the story of our lives.

From time to time as our daughters have grown we have used the objects we've gathered to tell them the story of our lives or of others we have known and loved and give them an appreciation for history. They knew exactly how my mother sewed clothes for me because I used the same cast iron Singer sewing maching (no zig zag stitch included) to sew clothes for them. They saw the young woman who would become my grandmother as I scanned my grandfather's 3x5 black & white negatives and saved them to my computer's hard drive for retouching and archiving later. They followed us, sometimes impatiently, as we wandered through flea markets and antique stores, recognizing items that filled our childhood homes, occasionally adding something to our collection.

I've been gathering vintage cameras and photography equipment for years. I love picking up an old camera, feeling the weight of it in my hands, looking at it from the photographer's point of view. I can see all the steps  a photographer took to record babies' first smiles, first days of school and high school graduations. Some cameras in my collection once belonged to family members, some I've picked up just because I liked the look of them.  My older daughter remembers watching me develop pictures of her in my homemade darkroom using an enlarger that had belonged to my father.

As older relatives have passed away and family members have downsized, our collection has grown and we are making choices about what we really want to keep and what must go to someone else who will value it and make a place for it in their home. We're getting ready to open a shop of vintage items on Etsy. I've been busy for weeks now, sorting and photographing things we'll be offering for sale, writing descriptions that tell their story and getting ready to let them go. Some we've had all our lives, some were just passing through. The shop will be ready to go public sometime in the next week or so. I hope you'll check it out and share it with all your friends, too.

In the meantime, here's a photo of an old type tray I picked up at a flea market years ago. I started displaying a few small souvenirs and things in it and slowly filled it up. Each one tells a story, but they don't take up much space. Feel free to leave a comment and ask me about them and maybe I'll tell you the story in my next blog entry.