My Amazing Twin

Me, Mom and Jon ~ 1956

He was always there, because we were twins. I was alone for six minutes at the beginning of life since I was born first. Then Jon came into the world. My parents were overjoyed -- or at least that was my mother's story. "I wanted a girl and your dad wanted a boy and we ended up getting both!" my mom gushed. A tiny woman, Mom was all of 85 pounds and barely 5 feet tall when she got pregnant with us. But the time we were born, a healthy 6 pounds plus each, she looked like a walking Goodyear blimp.

The first child is always made over and if the first child happens to be twins then they get tons of adulation. We were no exception. I feel sorry for my younger brothers and sister who had to live in our shadow.

There weren't a lot of downsides to being twins -- and I am eternally grateful that I had a brother to teach me what the boys are like.

Jon was like that, just cool. My brother took risks -- he was adventurous where I was timid and retiring. He was the bad boy to my trying-not-to-make-waves girl. There was a string of years where he seemed to get a spanking every day.
The 60s were not a good time to be a girl. It seemed to me that boys got to do all the fun stuff and it was particularly galling to watch my twin brother do incredible stuff like join the Cub Scouts -- my mother was a Den Mother so the boys met at our house. Jon had an enviable blue shirt and yellow neckerchief. The Cub Scouts were involved with awesome projects: wood-burning, knot tying, and making Pinewood Derby cars. Once Jon got to make a robot out of a bunch of boxes. I still remember the dials and buttons that he drew on the front.

By that time I had joined the Girl Scouts who earned badges for things like embroidery and cooking, boring compared with the nifty stuff of Boy Scouts got to do.

As twins, we were always in the same grade at school but never in the same class. We avoided each other like the plague there but home was a different story.  I liked the wholesome Beatles but Jon listened to the raunchy Rolling Stones. I still remember the cover of their album Sticky Fingers which had a fully functioning zipper. It seemed impossibly evil.

Jon told me about radio stations that had such strong signals they even reached faraway places like Creston. I remember listening to the silver box radio on Sunday night in the kitchen of our big old family house. "Time of the Season" by the Zombies was playing -- it was 1969. After the song ended, a voice blared "Fifty thousand watts of music power -- K-Double - A Y Little Rock."  Suddenly far away Arkansas was there in our kitchen in southwest Iowa.

Jon with his first wife

Jon married first, a sweet girl that he was madly in love with. Later they moved to Colorado and I didn't see much of him. The marriage didn't last but he married again, fathering two daughters who make him proud. We occasionally talk or e-mail, but not as much as we should.

Jon hasn't had a perfect life, but, last I checked, I haven't either. What Jon does have is what I would classify as a willing attitude. He is ready to help out when needed and do more than what is required.  He faces trials, just like the rest of us, but he doesn't give up.

What would life be like without a twin brother? Far less interesting. I am so thankful that I was blessed with one.

Happy 60th birthday, Jon!

The future that never was

Back when I was still working, I went to a conference in Seattle. As I flew from Springfield, Illinois, to the West Coast, I read a magazine article that talked about nostalgia for a future that had never materialized -- a future that was so well imagined at the Seattle World's Fair in 1962.

That year, when I was 7, the nation was in the grips of space travel fever. When John Glenn orbited the earth three times that year, I was glued to the screen of our black-and-white TV. I longed to go to the Seattle World's Fair, certainly the embodiment of the nation's bright future. The icing on the cake was the premiere of The Jetsons, a futuristic cartoon show replete with robot helpers, instant food, and space taxis.

So I was full of anticipation as I arrived in Seattle for the conference. Finally I'd get to see what was left from that long-ago fair. The first evening I walked down to a shopping center and boarded the monorail. It seemed a little clunky but I rode out to the Space Needle, which was also underwhelming. They both seemed reminders of a bygone age or more precisely an age that never materialized. And they hadn't aged particularly well.

Come to think of it, a lot of things never materialized. For a while in my teens I was a fan of science fiction, and a particular favorite was The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. Written in 1950, five years before I was born, the book is a collection of short stories set on planet Mars and featuring conflict between human colonists and Martians.

The book contained many haunting stories but the one that struck me most was called "The Martian." The story featured a human couple who live on Mars but ache for their dead son Tom. One night during a thunderstorm they see a figure that looks like Tom standing outside. In the morning, the man finds a child who looks like Tom helping his wife with his chores. After speaking privately with the being, the man learns that he is a Martian with an empathetic shape shifting ability. Because the couple wants so badly to believe he is Tom, the Martian has taken on Tom's shape.



However, when the couple goes to town that evening, they become separated from Tom. The man hears that another family has found their dead daughter and he goes to their home. He sees the Martian, now taking the dead girl's form. He convinces the Martian to return but as they run desperately through the town, each person that the Martian passes sees him as someone else, a person they have lost -- a husband, a child, a criminal.

"Before their eyes he changed. He was Tom and James and a man named Switchman, another named Butterfield; he was the town mayor and the young girl Judith and the husband William and the wife Clarisse. He was melting wax shaping to their minds.They shouted, they pressed forward, pleading. He screamed, threw out his hands, his face dissolving to each demand. ....  They snatched his wrists, whirled him about, until with one last shriek of horror he fell."

Life on Mars never came to be. Humans have never lived anywhere other than Earth and the whole book was about a future that never happened. But that doesn't make it less interesting to me.

In the 60s, there were many things we thought might happen in the future. We were optimistic, or at least I was,. The Space Race was embraced by the culture at that time and it was easy to get caught up in the excitement of the moment.

I want to think that time was simpler or more innocent or even better. But the truth is, it's the past and that is what I remember fondly. Things often turn out differently than you expect, but that doesn't mean they turn out worse.

My family (minus Dad) in 1963

Body image -- too fat, too skinny, never "perfect"

1971

Even before being diagnosed with MS I had problems with my body. I didn't like it as a teenager and I don't really like it now. But the difference is, now I try not to think about it. When I was a teenager I thought about it a lot.  Back in the 70s, I actively hated my body. I know this because journals that I recently had my husband bring up from the basement recount in livid detail my musings from that time. Overweight with frizzy hair, I was sure that nobody would date me. I wrote endlessly about all the guys I had crushes on but nobody had a crush on me. I could hardly wait to get out of my hometown.

In the course of my life recently, I ran across an article called

1972

"Revisiting My Teenage Anorexia at 63." For 2 years in college, I too was anorexic and I was interested to see how this woman, only 3 years older than me, thought about her dive into that horror. My first impression was that she was brave because she had included a photo showing an obviously bony younger self. I see pictures of myself during this time and wince in disgust.

The oldest of five children, 30 years ago I was on a mission that I could never complete -- that of attaining perfection. Exhilarated by the freedom of college, I decided to take control of my body. Never one to do anything halfway, I pretty much quit eating. I was determined never ever to be overweight again. So it was cereal for breakfast, bouillion for lunch, no dinner, beer with friends every night. Also, I walked everywhere – 10 miles to the mall? No problem. Think of the calories I’d burn!

1976

Diet and exercise had the desired effect at first: All my friends complimented me on my newly svelte self.  However, the routine soon turned on me. After attaining semi-perfection (never quite there), I couldn't stop losing and couldn't start eating. Each time I decided to indulge, I regretted the bulging stomach that I had the next day. There was no moderation, no in between, it was feast or famine and I decided that famine was better.

The author of the article, Sara Ferris, wrote that two caring authority figures

1976

finally helped her out of her anorexia. That was my experience too. My college counselor, seeing my emaciated frame, suggested I visit the student counseling service because "they helped my son" who had been pretty messed up in other ways.  I hesitated -- Did I dare risk eating again? Wouldn't I just end up fat? Then one night I decided that, try as I might, I could not correctly control my life and I had nearly botched it to death.  I was down to 85 lbs. God said, "Well, why don't you give me a try? I love you, you know, and I thought you'd never ask." The next day I visited the counseling center.

1977

By the time I graduated the next year, I was back up to 110 pounds where I stayed until I became confined to a wheelchair a couple of years ago. I've gained 10 more pounds since then and am not happy with myself, but the weight gain doesn't have its former power over me. As I gradually lose my physical capabilities, the essential me seems even more important. And, oddly enough, it isn't connected to my body.

I have been extremely afraid that my daughters would repeat my anorexic experience. So as a result I have overcompensated: I continually reinforced the dangers of dieting and the need to love their bodies. I made many mistakes in mothering but this was not one of them -- I have not passed my anorexia on my children. Perhaps this was the best lesson I learned from what could have been a fatal experience.

Chelsea, me and Emily 2014

A Tale of a Boy

Once upon a time, a baby boy was born to two young people. He was blonde-haired and blue-eyed and always looked so clean that his mother thought he should be in magazine ads. Soon the little boy was joined by a little sister and later still a baby brother and another sister.

His parents moved to Springfield and he went to Southern View Elementary and Southeast High School. He played baseball and was a Boy Scout. When he was in high school he was in a rock band and had a girlfriend. He graduated in 1971.

After he graduated from high school he worked at Fiat-Allis and eventually decided that factory life was not for him. So he went to Lincoln Land Community College at night. After he graduated from junior college, he went to Western Illinois University at Macomb. Around that time he got married to a girl that he'd gone to high school with. He graduated from Western and came back to Springfield. He had one of the first degrees in information technology and that made him very employable. He worked at Horace Mann and then for a company that had gas stations in the area. He worked hard and invented the first gas pump that talked to the cash register inside. He also got to travel some including an overseas trip to Holland.

Unfortunately, his marriage didn't last, and he started running around with two other guys, going to the bars even though he didn't drink much. Once he was at a bar with his friends and a woman about his age walked by. She thought he looked interesting and asked about him. One of his friends said "You won't find anybody better than him." The woman asked him to the dance. He said no. Despite this refusal, the woman and the man started dating and eventually were married.

The woman had been married before and had a young daughter. Together the man and woman had their own child, another daughter.

The man and the woman's marriage had ups and downs but they stayed together. The man was never bored -- he had hobbies that included magic, woodworking, guitar playing and photography. The woman didn't have any hobbies and she had a number of weaknesses that caused lots of problems, but the man stood by her anyway.


One day the woman was diagnosed with a progressive incurable illness. Instead of leaving her, the man took care of her as she gradually lost many of her capabilities. He took her to church every Sunday, cooked meals because she couldn't, washed his own clothes, and never complained. Everything he did said he cared about her.

The guy in the bar was right -- I couldn't have found a better man than my husband, Ron.

Happy birthday!

On giving things up and the joys of parenting

Me and my van in better days

Yesterday was a hard day. I decided that I should give up driving.

I made this decision after having a heckuva time getting into and out of the County Building parking lot last week. I had driven my modified van downtown to get a certified copy of my daughter's marriage license, something I didn't think would be too difficult. And it wasn't, except for the driving part.

Oscar and me?

I got in to the parking lot easily enough --  if easily enough means that the attendant came out to give me a ticket rather than me unbuckling my seat belt and grabbing it from the automatic dispenser. But when I attempted to leave the parking lot it was a different story. I had to make a sharp right hand turn which I apparently didn't make quite sharp enough because I ended up scraping the bottom of the van on the curb. The attendant had to leave his booth and steer me through the exit lane. It was a very humbling experience. I arrived home happy that I hadn't hit anyone or damaged the van, but unwilling to take any more risks.

Giving up driving is a big step -- now I know how the elderly father of a friend felt when he came into the garage and his car was gone. He started crying. Giving up driving means relinquishing some independence and draws the circle of your life in just a bit more. Sometimes I think that circle just gets smaller and smaller until you die. Kind of depressing isn't it? Well, read on.

There is a bright side to any situation; but sometimes you have to look harder for it. Yesterday the bright side came in the form of my amazing children. Luckily it was a day off for both of them and the older daughter, after hearing of my plight, drove out and took me to lunch. Boy was that an improvement in my mood -- I went from feeling trapped to feeling loved!

After a long and tasty lunch, she brought me back home and later on I Skyped with my younger daughter who lives up near Chicago.  Skype is one of the best inventions ever! She works with disabled children and was very sympathetic. It was uplifting just to see her.

When your kids are young, you wonder when they will stop needing so much from you. But I never expected that when they grew up they would give back so much. And right when I needed it. The kids are more than all right -- they're a gift.

So how DO you pronounce PechaKucha?

Back in the summer of 2010, Ron and I were pleased to see that Springfield was the location for a new event called PechaKucha Night, and it was going to be held at a bar on the east side of town so somewhat close to us. I figured it was pronounced the way it looked: Peacha Coocha. The Iowan in me concurred. Of course we planned to go.

I found out at the event that the Japanese word is actually pronounced pe-cha-ku-cha (or "chit chat") with equal stress on each of the 4 syllables and is not unique to Springfield -- it's a worldwide phenomenon in over 700 cities. Originally thought up by some architects in Tokyo, the basic idea has a simple object: to get the presenter to be succinct. Each of the 10 presenters gives talks about 20 images for 20 seconds each. This forces the presenter to come to the point quickly, specifically in 6 minutes and 40 seconds. It's harder than it seems -- in many cases it is easier to ramble on and on and on than it is to be brief.

Since the first PechaKucha Night event was going to be held at a bar, we figured it would be a casual and fun evening. It was.

That's not to say that the presenters were perfectly attuned to the whole PechaKucha zen. There were some presentations that were blatant commercials and in one case, a presenter tried to sell the audience CDs after his speech. But the evening was still enjoyable and if we hated the presentation, we knew it would be over soon. An added benefit was when we noticed that most of the members of the sold-out crowd were close to our age. Wow, an event in a bar that we could attend without feeling uncomfortable!

The quarterly PechaKucha nights continued and last year I finally got involved when I heard through a friend that the organizers of the event were thinking about cashing it in because it was so difficult to get good presenters. Since I have a lot of time on my hands now that I am not working I decided that perhaps I could help out. Thankfully I could.

Ron gives a memorable PKN presentation

The core organizers, selfless but very busy people, needed help promoting their event and presenters, for the most part enthusiastic neophytes eager to talk about their topic whether it be the circus, community gardens, exotic vacations, volunteering, being in a commercial, donating a kidney, or making historic building with Legos.

I plunged in, compiling the results of feedback, building an e-mail list and sending out marketing e-mails. I also tried to organize the tons of information about presenters acquired over the years. More than anything the work has enabled me to feel needed -- a basic necessity for everyone, but very rare for someone who is severely disabled. Finally, something I could do!

An email

Hopefully, PechaKucha Nights can go on indefinitely in Springfield. They are always close to sold out so there's no lack of attendees. What there is a need for are presenters -- after five years the obvious people have already presented and we're trying to dig a little deeper. But it is fun and it provides a way to meet new people. And that is a wonderful experience.

Kindness Counts

Chelsea and Becca at her wedding

When Chelsea was about 10, and she and her friend Becca decided to offer a class to kids through Rochester's Summer Recreation Program called "Kindness Counts." The exact content of the class escapes me now -- I must be getting old because I'm having a marked increase in my "senior moment" count. However, the name has stayed with me because I think it is so relevant.

Now stay with me -- I know this is going to sound pompous -- sometimes I think that our society is becoming increasingly less kind. Maybe it's because of the increase in the "me"- centered social media or maybe it's the decline in religion but either way, many people seem to be out for themselves.

Anne Frank

However,  each time I attempt an outing, this theory gets shot in the foot. When I return from the grocery store or Bible study or coffee with friends or even shopping at Target (one of my guilty pleasures), I am convinced that, like Anne Frank so memorably said, "...in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

Why do I feel this way, especially when one of my many wise theories is being debunked? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that at the grocery store, shoppers (usually not even the paid clerks but instead people running to the store on their lunch hour) will invariably ask me if I need for them to snag a product out of my reach. Usually I'm just sitting in my wheelchair staring lustfully at some fabric softener placed on a high shelf. These people don't have to help me but they usually do. And I guess it is just out of being kind.

Bible study attendees

The women in my Bible study are the same. Of course, you would expect women in a Bible study to be helpful, but I don't take it for granted. These women are facing challenges in their personal life like bad bosses, unruly children and abusive husbands. But they never talk down to me and they are always willing to hold the bathroom door for me or get me a cup of coffee. Plus I am treated with respect, just like a normal person would. Wow!

The group of women that I have coffee with each week are just as delightful. (Of course, the fact that I'm having coffee pretty much equates to happiness for me.) These women are thoughtful -- moving a chair out of the way so I can join them at the table, asking me about my day, and helping me with my coat without me having to ask. It's in their nature to be kind and I look forward to this pleasant time every week.

During the 60s, Glen Campbell recorded a song called "Try A Little Kindness." The lyrics leave something to be desired but the fact that Glen Campbell was extremely attractive helps. Here is the chorus of the song:

"You got to try a little kindness, yes show a little kindness
Just shine your light for everyone to see
And if you try a little kindness then you'll overlook the
blindness
Of narrow-minded people on the narrow-minded streets"

Sappy? Yes. True? Yes.

I realize not everyone is religious and not everyone is a Christian, but I believe it pleases God when we help one another. Jesus said:

"...‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me.'"  Matthew 25:40

When people are kind to me it makes me want to be kind as well. What kind of world would it be if we were all kind to each other? Glen Campbell might have been on the right track.