Home is where the headstones are

With the twins entering preschool this fall, I decided it was time to reclaim my running legs. So I went for a walk/run the other day in my new town along a route recommended by my sister-in-law.
The route took me through a local cemetery, which was appropriate; By the time I got there, I wanted nothing more than to take a long rest.
So I walked.
I have run through many cemeteries over the years, but I haven't walked though one in decades. Not since I was a child. As a child, I would run from stone to stone, seeking out familiar names and looking for the grave of my sister, who died as a baby when I was only two years old.
I derived a sense of comfort from cemeteries back then even though I was generally terrified of anything involving death. The bodies that lie under my feet were those of relatives or the relatives of friends. They were people who were part of my history.
I felt, oddly, at home.
But I did not get that sense here.
Here, in this cemetery, in the community where I will live for the rest of my life, where we will raise our four children, where my husband grew up, was evidence of a certain status I will never achieve. I am an outsider. I always will be, no matter how deeply entrenched I become.
And that is okay.
I have my own hometown.
My own cemeteries.
I have another place that has fused within my core and will always be part of who I am.
But our kids don't have that.
Two were born in Arizona, and two were born in Cincinnati.
Their roots have easily come loose with each move, leaving little or nothing behind. (Well, not as easily for the older kids this time around. We had to tug a little harder and their leaves are still a bit droopy and wilted from the shock, but I am confident they will recover and flourish.)
I had never understood the need for the formalities of cemeteries before, for gravestones and memorials and family plots. My irrational fears dictate that I be cremated after death, and I hadn't given much thought to where my ashes would land.
My husband has strong feelings though, so I agreed long ago to his request that, when our souls are long gone from this world, my ashes will lie with him, wherever he might choose.
But on this day, I started to understand something. I understood that this isn't just about me. This is about our children and their children and their children. This is about that feeling, that sense of belonging.
Home.
Our hope is that this is the place where our children will grow roots so strong that no one and nothing can rip them out, regardless of where they settle in adulthood. This will be the place they can come home to no matter how long they have been away.
A sense of history and of their place within that history will help those roots grow thick, deep and strong.
Cemeteries provide some of that nourishment.
A great deal more than I realized.
And this cemetery, in particular, provided me with nourishment of a different kind. After passing all those gravestones-- lingering long enough to read the names and the dates of death and birth and realizing that they were often far to close together --I found the motivation to pick up my pace again.
It was hot.
I was (and am) horribly out of shape.
But I ran.
Just a couple of quarter-mile stretches.
But I ran.

Verizon and the secret phone number.

We moved recently and my husband is working from home.
He needs a second phone line since he is telecomuting, so I ordered one along with another jack.
Unfortunately, Verizon, the only phone company in this area, arranged an entirely different installation date for the second line and neglected to tell us.
Here is my conversation with the customer service representative.
This begins after I was informed that the line will be installed the following week.
I had just one more question.
A simple one, I thought:

(Please note that I did not record this conversation. I had no reason to believe it would be worth relaying, so I didn't take notes either. In other words, I have paraphrased to the best of my recollection. But my recollection is pretty good. This, I could never forget.)

Me: So what is the number for the second line?
Rep: I can't tell you that. It's unlisted.
Me: But I ordered it.
Rep: Sorry. I still can't tell you. It's unlisted.
Me: Oh, so I'll find out when it's installed?
Rep: No. We can't tell you what the number is. It's unlisted.
Me: That makes no sense! I ordered the line. How do I find out what the number is?
Rep: You can make a call to another phone and find out from the caller ID.
Me (pausing, thinking about the probability that if the number is unlisted, it won't show up on caller ID): Can I request a specific number?
Rep: Oh yes. You can do that.
Me: And then I'll know what the number is?
Rep: Yes, then you will know what the number is.
Me: Okay then, how about 814-555-1212 (Note: the number has been changed to a fictional number to protect my husband's productivity.)
Rep: It looks like that's available.
Me: Then our second line will be 814-555-1212?
Rep: Well, we can't guarantee it, but since it's available, I'm pretty certain you'll get it.
Me: Okay then.
Rep: Is there anything else I can help you with.
Me: I really don't think so.

Helen Thomas: she didn't know when to quit

I was never thrilled about political reporting.
I did it when I had to and I covered politics to the best of my ability. But my heart wasn't in it.
Perhaps it's because I have a former lawyer for a father who could turn any discussion into a unwinnable debate. Maybe it's because I have a bunch of brilliantly braniac siblings who argue with far more knowledge and logic than I ever care to have.
I argue from my gut.
It's just who I am.
But still, the whole Helen Thomas thing makes me sad.
I respected her.
Newsrooms are sexist. I hated that about my former career. Most of my male editors and colleagues were more than fair and, generally. open-minded. But far too many were not. I could tell those stories here, but I will not. I will not because of female reporters like Helen Thomas, women who paved the way and gave me the courage to fight back.
I will not because of the male colleagues and editors (my husband included) who also respected female journalists like Helen Thomas (and me) and who listened and took action when I needed their help. (Rich Sullivan, I have to mention you here. You were my rock.).
I will not tell those stories out of fairness for those who are trying to create change.
Rehashing old hurts would only result in backward steps and threaten the accomplishments of women like Helen Thomas.
But, for all her accomplishments, Helen Thomas did not know when to quit.
Because of that, she stepped backward for all of us.
And she lost my respect.
As we age, most of us tend to become less tolerant of incompetence, of the views of others and of inefficiency. We become less able and less willing to exercise caution in our expression and, in journalism, that's when it is time to quit.
Helen Thomas probably knew that she had reached that point, but she had neglected something vital on the road to that front row seat in the White House press room. She forgot the need for a life outside the newsroom. Outside politics.
So when her time came, long after she lost her patience with the political world around her, she clung to her identity as a journalist. She continued immerse herself in a world that she found less and less tolerable, a world that began having trouble tolerating her.
This became publicly clear in 2006 when she referred to George W. Bush as "the worst president in American history." She is entitled to her opinion, but any good journalist knows that cautious expression of those thoughts is vital to credibility and so is the ability to rise above our own feelings and beliefs. Even the best columnists, those who are allowed to be subjective, back their opinions with evidence of some sort to lend themselves credibility.
Similar outbursts followed until this final unforgivable declaration, Helen Thomas' suggestion at a May 27th White House event that Jews should " ... get the hell out of Palestine... Remember, these people are occupied, and it's their land; it's not German, it's not Poland's."
Thomas then added that the Jews should go "home" to "Poland, Germany ... America and everywhere else."
She later issued an apology, but it was too late.
Helen Thomas resigned from her job with Hearst Newspapers at 89 years old on June 7 after most every other major organization she was affiliated with had already denied her and dropped her. Her resignation should have been a glorious moment, a celebration, a time to relive her accomplishments.
A toast to an icon.
Instead, it was a moment of shame.
It was shameful, not only because of her remarks, but because of it's broader implications for women. Her drive to prove herself as a capable woman in a man's world led to obsession, obsession with a career that has a natural ending long before life ends.
It left her with a singular passion.
And with nothing else beyond the end of that career.
It left her unable to quit.
It shouldn't be that way.
Helen Thomas is free to believe what she chooses about Palestine and the Jews. Like it or not, we Americans can't deny her the right to an opinion and as a retiree, she could have gotten away with it. Sure, plenty of folks would have been critical, but her words would not have carried as much weight.
But on May 27, she was a journalist.
I hope we can all put this into perspective.
I hope we can understand that this Helen Thomas is not the same Helen Thomas who made history as a White House institution.
I hope I can.
Then, maybe, I can salvage at least a little of that respect.

The fourth anniversary of that moment in the Starbucks bathroom

Four years ago today, I woke up feeling pregnant.
I tried to shake it.
It was silly, I thought.
I assumed it was my cynical nature kicking in: I was finally freelancing regularly for a magazine; I had started querying agents for my novel; I was editing a book for a well-respected graduate school; and, in a few months, our youngest would start kindergarten.
Something had to go awry.
But that pregnant feeling only grew stronger by the hour.
By mid-afternoon, I broke down and took a test.
And as I stood there in that Starbucks bathroom, watching that second line grow stronger, I also watched my writing career fade. I was 40 years old and about to have my third child (and my fourth, as it turned out!). I would never get this freelance/novel-writing thing going full force, I thought.
I was ready to surrender.
But my husband, a former journalist/author turned techie, wouldn't let me. He pushed me right back into the writing battle even though he just as shocked, bewildered, scared as I was. He made sure I was armed with a well-charged laptop. He made me face that Starbucks bathroom, the scene of my perceived defeat, once again.
But not right away.
Tom did allow me a sabbatical of sorts.
He had to.
I was horribly sick and tired that first trimester and beyond. I found out why during my 20-week ultrasound; I was carrying two little guys in there. Two beautiful, perfect and healthy baby boys.
By the time my stomach had improved, my belly was so big, I couldn't reach the keyboard. My fingers were too swollen to type anyway and I was on partial bed rest with two older kids to care for.
My husband didn't mention my writing much and neither did it.
The first few months after the twins were born were a sleepless fog of nursing, diaper changing and shuttling the older kids back and forth to half-day and full-day school and their activities. Tom was still traveling frequently then and we had no family here to help us.
It was all we could do to stay awake for another day.
But by that fall, things had started to settle a bit. The twins were sleeping better, my husband's travel schedule was less hectic, the older kids were both in school for full days. I was getting antsy and, I admit, somewhat depressed. And my husband knew it.
One night in November of 2007, he pulled out my laptop after all the kids had gone to sleep and showed me this site called Blogger. Just start a blog to keep your writing fresh, he said. No big deal, he pushed. Just do it for fun.
And I did.
My first blog, The Boys: Raising Identical Twins, stirred something in me again. That stirring inspired me to pick up the novel and give it a good overhaul. I was surprised by the insight I had gained by being removed from my manuscript for so long. I eliminated major characters, wrote new chapters and deleted others.
I started querying again and one, day, when the twins were two and a half years old, I got the email that led to the happy dance.
I signed with Roger Williams of The Publish or Perish Agency.
Now, four years after that second line appeared in the Starbuck's bathroom, my novel, Spring Melt, is under submission with major publishing houses; my first short story is due for publication in the fall issue of Aethlon, a journal of sport literature centered at the East Tennessee State University; and my second novel is well underway.
Yes, the twins did affect my writing career, but in a good way. Our entire family dynamic has changed since their birth. The older kids have become more independent and have shown a capacity for love and responsibility that blows my mind. The twins have taught us both to both prioritize and relax. Enjoy life more. (Right now, they are squirting hand soap all over the bathroom. So what? Half an hour of fun for $1.99.)
I have learned to write more efficiently and to concentrate on the projects that are most important to me: no more book editing. I have done all this and they are not even in preschool yet. I am 44 years old, I have three-year-old twins, a 10-year-old son and an 8-year-old daughter, yet I am still writing, and I believe I am writing on a more mature level than I was before The Day of the Stick.
My creativity did not whither the day the twins were born, in part, because my husband encouraged me to nourish it.
So, on this day, on the fourth anniversary of the appearance of those double lines, I thank him.
I thank him for loving me, pushing me and believing in me.
(And I would greatly appreciate it if he would pick up some more hand soap on the way home.)