86 THINGS THAT MAKE ME TICK

I saw this challenge on a blog:
Write between 75 and 100 things that make you who you are. The idea is not mine, but the list is.

1. I am ridiculously organized.
2. I love good books.
3. I love visiting and making memories of new places.
4. I love helping.
5. I love children.
6. I am still hopelessly in love with my high school sweetheart.
7. I'm convinced I have several very interesting, fun people living inside my head!
8. I love the way I feel after I have forced myself to exercise.
9. I love the ocean.
10. Rivers frighten me.
11. I love to travel.
12. From the first moment I saw him, I cry inexplicably at the sight of Ian McKellen.
13. I have been told that Ian McKellen was profoundly significant to me in another life.
14. I am a firm believer in "favorites" and "bests."
15. I am naturally ambidextrous.
16. I am an old hippie.
17. I am terrified of being homeless.
18. Having a clean house is very important to me.
19. I love my name.
20. I am not competitive when playing games but will do anything to prolong the fun.
21. "Steak and salad" is my favorite meal.
22. I love sincere people.
23. I am motivated by schedules and love planning.
24. I love crossing things off lists.
25. I love talking on the phone.
26. I love animals, but do not want a pet.
27. I hate concerts: they're too loud, too dark, and too people-filled.
28. I do not always wear sunscreen.
29. I really dig my family!
30. I like cooking more than I ever thought I would.
31. I have a crush on Sean Bean.
32. My favorite flowers are daisies.
33. I despise grocery shopping.
34. My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.
35. I want a haircut that I can fluff and go.
36. Autumn is my favorite season.
37. My two nephews inspire me to no end.
38. If I could have any job in the world, I would sing in a musical on Broadway.
39. I am 5 feet, 3.5 inches tall but always round it up to 5'4".
40. I love taking long walks alone.
41. I am extremely expressive with my face.
42. When I read books aloud, I voice and animate the characters.
43. My favorite cold treat is Chocolate Chip Ice Cream.
44. My favorite hot treat, besides tea, is my homemade Ginger Carrot Soup.
45. I enjoy outside chores like washing my car, mowing the lawn, gardening, and re-staining the deck...
46. I love people who are on time and become frustrated with those who are late.
47. I have begun to embrace my personal history.
48. I went to Woodstock… and spent a lot of time at Studio 54.
49. Whenever I stop to notice a plane flying overhead, I always wish I were on it.
50. I love starting my day by watching the TODAY show.
51. I love to entertain.
52. I wish I had become an actress.
53. I am addicted to a few select Websites.
54. Blogging is much easier for me than keeping a journal.
55. I love the Internet and do not know how I functioned without it.
56. I can be very nostalgic and sentimental.
57. I am OK with life's occasional good-bye's. (Probably a throw back from my days as a foster child.)
58. I think I would make a fantastic interviewer because I am notoriously curious!
59. I will turn off a show or movie I am enjoying if I hate the commercials supporting it.
60. I suck at crossword puzzles and scrabble. It is a tremendous source of embarrassment to me.
61. I find a bad movie unforgivable.
62. I dream of owning and running a Bed and Breakfast to satisfy my love of entertaining.
63. I am currently writing a terrific story.
64. I like supporting locally-owned establishments.
65. I always try to use proper grammar, and I never feel that I have adequately succeeded.
66. I believe in stereotypes.
67. I favor organic foods.
68. I love teaching myself things that intimidate me (HTML) and feel proud when I master it.
69. I have a storage unit full of things that I have not seen in 10 years. (However, it is organized perfectly.)
70. I love email.
71. I love being at a stadium to watch sports (especially soccer and B-ball), but hate watching games on TV. Except for hockey. I detest hockey all the time!
72. I love being productive.
73. I love writing, even when I am writing lists about what to write!
74. I am desperately unhappy with where our country is headed.
75. I am so terrified of going to the dentist that I need to tranquilizers for 2 days before I go.
76. I love all things Celtic.
77. I dream of someday living in a cottage in the Scottish Highlands.
78. I will never have plastic surgery.
79. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I know I once lived in Scotland.
80. I have recently committed to write 500 words a day.
81. I love the OUTLANDER Series by Diana Gabaldon.
82. I always have music playing and it usually acts as a soundtrack.
83. I love little shops and quaint villages with little family owned shops and detest mall shopping.
84. I never pay full retail for anything!
85 I can squeeze a dollar until the eagle cries!
86. I volunteer my time and skills whenever I can.

A MADISON COUNTY EVENT!

For Connie

Whenever I would spend time with my beloved pal, Connie, there was always a towering pile or an overflowing tote of reading material close by. It was our intense need to devour the written word that introduced us seventeen years ago and immediately sealed our bond as girlfriends. We’d share stories, articles, novels, science projects, recipes, medical advice, you name it. We’d read it and proclaim ourselves overnight experts on any subject that dared to challenge us. Very few writers passed our stringent expectations and those who did became our immediate heroes. We spent many an hour picking their style and cadence apart until we’d discovered every literary trick they had up their proverbial sleeves.

Connie and I knew we had a good thing going. We’d meet at least once a week for lunch and about twice a month for dinner to chat about our hobby, uh, passion, uh, obsession…all right, addiction. No matter what the discussion, debate or argument, we’d always end the meeting by acknowledging how lucky we were to have found a partner with whom we could freely share our secret worlds of words.

Unbeknownst to me, however, this calm, sophisticated air of intellect and debate was about to change in a most profound way.


Connie’s desperation to speak to me one Sunday morning after Service was palpable. She vigorously made her way through the meanderers lingering about the church aisles and took hold of my forearm. Hastening me away from the pastor, she interrupted his efforts to guide me in selecting the next week's music.

In a hushed but deliberate tone, she instructed me as only a teacher can. “Put aside everything else you are reading and read this book first. The Bridges of Madison County. Got that? The Bridges of Madison County. Stop and get it on the way home. It’s an easy read. You’ll be done with it by tonight and then we can talk. I will phone you at about 8 o’clock to discuss it.” She went on to say it was the story of a photographer – a National Geographic photographer - who had found love while on assignment. Connie knew what a sap I was for a wonderful love story. She also knew I had begun a lifelong love affair with National Geographic when I was a teenager. Insisting it was a book that had been written with my psyche in mind, she said it was my kind of read. Trusting that she knew my likes and dislikes as well as I knew them myself, I did not question her authority.

I knew what I had to do; Barnes and Noble made a sale that day.

Upon my arrival home, I put the kettle on and changed my clothes. In order to read the perfect book, one must be completely unconstrained and have all significant creature comforts close by. This was going to require that I brew a large pot of tea. I freshened up the sugar bowl and sliced a plump, fresh lemon. Then I selected my favorite mug from the cabinet and made up a tray to take to my study. I placed it strategically on the table next to my reading chair. Next, I turned off the phone and the computer. I selected Bach to accompany my read and inserted several hours' worth into the CD player. My favorite fuzzy throw was the last item on my list. I picked it up and made my way to the sanctity of my favorite chair for a reader’s version of an afternoon delight.


As I made my way through the character introductions of the first few chapters, my brow became more and more furrowed, my glasses needed constant adjusting on my nose and I could not seem to keep from fidgeting. I cannot imagine why Connie would have told me this was the book I had been waiting for; I just don’t get it. This is not the fine writing in which we are typically interested... It was all I could do to keep from being completely distracted from the story by Waller's high-schoolish style, or lack of style as the case may be. She does not know me at all, I fretted. ...And after all this time together, talking books. Go figure. I consoled myself by deciding that it was the story itself and not Waller’s writing that she wanted me to seek after. I did as was expected of me.

Before dinner, I was approaching the final chapters and took a moment to refresh myself. On my way back from a trip to the necessary room, I deliberately crossed my study to turn my phone back on. Connie would soon be calling. While standing at my desk fussing with the phone, I picked up a handful of tissues in anticipation of where the story was clearly headed. They sat next to my empty teapot awaiting their turn to be my significant creature comfort.

As the story and the day drew to an end, I had become consumed by the emotions stirred up by this story and the two people about whom it was written. It didn't seem right to subject them to the harsh glare of my halogen reading light. I lit one single candle, in their honor, and let it burn while I dabbed my flooding eyes and pulled my throw over me. Curling up into the barrel of the chair, without realizing it, I assumed a fetal position. Seems Mr. Waller was not the literary klutz I had originally presumed him to be!


It was the ringing of the phone that awakened me. Connie knew I’d have finished the book by nightfall and wanted to hear my thoughts. I wept as I shared my torn feelings of compassion and disdain for both the author and the couple. Honoring or condoning adultery on any level caused a dichotomy within me.

As we concluded our conversation, I outlined my plans to get to the library first thing in the morning. I felt the need to weed through old issues of National Geographic until I found a photograph of this phantom photographer. It seemed odd that his name did not ring a bell with me. The suspense of not knowing his face was driving me quite mad with an insanely morbid curiosity.

For some reason, Connie found this amusing.

I didn’t care, though. Next morning, I leapt out of bed in anticipation of the day. After hurriedly consuming my morning pot of java, I enthusiastically made tracks for the library and my personal version of heaven: hundreds of issues of National Geographic!

For some reason, the librarian had been expecting me, and … she was amused.

It hit me as I sat at my table in the research room clumsily trying to balance a teetering pile of slippery yellow magazines. The research Librarian had also seemed to be expecting me and also seemed to be... amused. It was an impeccably planned, flawlessly executed practical joke. Connie, my serious friend, my bossy, opinionated, teacher friend had pulled it off. And I, her streetwise, instinct-proud, sentimental friend, had risen to the bait. I took hold of it: hook, line, and sinker.

It further dawned on me that it was more probable than possible that she shared her expectations for my unwitting victimization with more than just the two librarians.


As you can well imagine, Connie turned out to have been one of the most significant women in my life. We shared many a practical joke after that – on both the giving end as well as the receiving. We dubbed that particular one our “Madison County Event.” Through the years we often referred to it, laughing each and every time as though it was all brand new to us.


My dear, delightful Connie is gone now, but the memories of her and of that magnificent "Madison County Event" still linger warmly in my heart. I think of her often and most especially whenever The Bridges of Madison County or National Geographic or Robert James Waller unceremoniously come to mind.

____________________________


A few years ago, while on a weekend trip with my friend Barb, in celebration of my 50th birthday, I visited the covered bridges of Lancaster County in Pennsylvania. I do not recall whether or not I mentioned Connie or shared stories of her, but she was there, in my heart, and for some reason… I was amused.


CM

3/1/2006
© Copyright 2006,2007 Carol Marsella. All rights reserved.

There, but for the grace of God...

If you substitute foster father and foster mother, and realize that I did not meet up with the same end, I could have written this poem:

My name is Sarah
I am but three,
My eyes are swollen
I cannot see,

I must be stupid,
I must be bad,
What else could have made
My daddy so mad?

I wish I were better,
I wish I weren't ugly,
Then maybe my Mommy
Would still want to hug me.

I can't speak at all,
I can't do a wrong
Or else I'm locked up
All the day long.

When I awake I'm all alone
The house is dark
My folks aren't home.

When my Mommy does come
I'll try and be nice,
So maybe I'll get just
One whipping tonight.

Don't make a sound!
I just heard a car
My daddy is back
From Charlie's Bar.

I hear him curse
My name he calls
I press myself
Against the wall.

I try and hide
From his evil eyes
I'm so afraid now
I'm starting to cry.

He finds me weeping
He shouts ugly words,
He says its my fault
That he suffers at work.

He slaps me and hits me
And yells at me more,
I finally get free
And I run for the door.

He's already locked it
And I start to bawl,
He takes me and throws me
Against the hard wall.

I fall to the floor
With my bones nearly broken,
And my daddy continues
With more bad words spoken.

"I'm sorry!" I scream
But its now much too late
His face has been twisted
Into unimaginable hate.

The hurt and the pain
Again and again
Oh please God, have mercy!
Oh please let it end!

And he finally stops
And heads for the door,
While I lay there motionless
Sprawled on the floor.

My name is Sarah
And I am but three,
Tonight my daddy
Murdered me.

A comic of Comics...

My little one and I spent the day together, just the two of us. One of the things we did was to make use of our photo editing gadget and tell a story comic-book style. What a blast we had. I cannot remember laughing so hard. She made up a terrific story that was fun and funny, witty and clever! What a thrill or me to see this very special story-telling talent in her!

The icing on the proverbial cake was at bedtime, when I was tucking her in. She pulled me close and whispered in my ear that she had written in her diary about our day together and put her writing into her special things box as a keepsake memory along with the comic.

It just does not get better than this!

Carol

I HAVE BEEN RELEASED!

I still don't like getting old but this somewhat puts it in perspective. While I did not write it, I could have and indeed have often written things so much like it that when I received it today, I thought it was mine, having made the cyber-rounds and come back to me. Frankly, I am still not altogether sure.

~o0o~

The other day a young person asked me how I felt about being old. I was taken aback, for I do not think of myself as old. Upon seeing my reaction, she was immediately embarrassed, but I explained that it was an interesting question that I would ponder and let her know.

Old Age, I decided, is a gift.

I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt. And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror, but I don't agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend. I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant. I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.

Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon?

I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60 and 70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over the memory of a lost love .. I will.

I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances and foolhardy snickers from the young'uns.

They, too, will get old.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And eventually I remember the important things.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? Broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.

As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.

So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day. (But ony if I feel like it!)