A Lifetime of Friendships: Part 1

One of my former high school classmates that I became acquainted with again on Facebook often makes me think about how Facebook brought many of us back in touch. It made me also think of the friendships throughout my life, especially since I moved quite a bit when I was younger, and so there were many lives touched and then separated along the way. I started a mental run down of my first friendships, and got lost on tangents in my mind along the way. Although I might end up with a stream of consciousness set of articles, I thought I'd start to write them down any way. Here is Part 1.

The first friends I remember were those I made after age 3, which was when my family first moved to Oak Park, Michigan. We lived in a modest three bedroom house on Church Street, about a half mile south of 9 Mile Road. There was, of course, my usual playmate: my brother Ricardo, and I remember him from disjointed, fuzzy, half-moment memories from before this time, like when we lived in Yonkers, New York, and the two of us road our tricycles around the living room, much to the consternation of our downstairs neighbor. I remember being scared when she came to the door to complain, and then later not being scared, because she became a good friend to my mother, and adored us. I was probably somewhere between 2 and 3 at the time, which means Ricardo was between 3 1/2 and 4 1/2 years old.

In Oak Park, there were many kids on our street. The one I remember best was my "best friend", Lori Mayer. She lived across the street and was an only child. I wasn't allowed to cross the street alone, and neither was she, but sometimes we did and then got into trouble. I remember us playing Barbie from each side of the road and her being delighted when I ran across with my Barbie in hand, and then ran backwards across again, before we could be caught. She kept wanting me to do it again, and I think I complied a few times. We were 4 then. I remember us saying the same thing in unison and her telling me that was a co-in-ci-dence. Her father had just explained the word to her, and she taught it to me.

We were both friends with Denise, also our age, who lived about 4 houses down from me, on my side of the street. Denise had an older sister, and I think an older brother too. The sister pushed me and Denise too high on the teeter-totter on the swing set in their back yard. Denise got scared, but her sister laughed and wouldn't slow us down. I dragged my foot on the ground to stop us - de rigeur practice for speed control. My foot went under the foot rest and ended up between the ground and it. I screamed in pain and cried, real tears and real screams, not the crocodile tears I used as a young drama queen when I didn't get my way.

I have a picture in my mind of my mother, wearing navy shorts and a navy and white striped, sleeveless top, hearing me and running through the unfenced back yards, over the flower beds that divided the space, to Denise's yard. She carried me home, and later, at the emergency room, we discovered I'd broken my leg. I had the cast on for the rest of the summer, or so it seemed. The cast on my small leg went all of the way up my right thigh, even though the break was close to the ankle. I remember going to Howard Johnson's for all-you-can-eat fish fry night and a "little girl" asking her mother why I was wearing such a big sock. She must have been 2 to be little to a 4 year old.

I had a walking cast and was really bad about using the crutches - they were a bother. The neighbors were really nice to me. I got so many gifts! My babysitter drew flowers and other pictures on my cast, so I was sorry to say goodbye to it and leave it at the doctor's office when they cut the plaster off me, and placed it in a bin of other removed casts, all of which dwarfed mine, less than half their size. I was also saddened to see the teeter-totter on the curb awaiting the trash pick-up. It was my fault for not waiting a little longer to begin slowing down.

Nothing related to the swing set incident, but Denise was not a great friend. She was my first acquaintance "friend" and not a true one. She played with me as a second choice. Either we played with Lori, or if Lori wasn't available, then she'd play with me. I had the feeling that she and Lori talked about me, and that the talk came from Denise, not Lori.

I had other playmates on the street, but proximity, age or something else, made Lori and Denise the ones I remember best. There were Janice and Richard next door, but they were much older, though not old enough to babysit for us. I loved that their names were almost like Ricardo and Janet -- our names. There was a girl a year younger named Jodie, with whom I also played Barbies.

I remember another girl, although her name is lost to me. She lived half a block away - a big distance, but only a few houses farther than Jodie. She was likely the first African-American friend I had. I liked her a lot, but within a short time, suddenly all of my other playmates were not allowed to play with her because she was "colored". I was mystified by the word, and completely did not understand. I heard that their family was "block busting". Again, I did not understand. Fortunately, my parents were not like the others, and I was NOT forbidden to play with her. She lived sort of far from me, given our ages, so I am fuzzy about our friendship. I think either we moved or they did, but until then, we were friends, just like any of the other kids.

I remember a girl I knew from school, and I think it was when we still "lived on Church". She was from a Dutch family, although I don't recall her having an accent herself. She was pretty, with long, straight, dark hair and bangs across her forehead. She was sweet and gentle, but one of the few friends I knew who "was not Jewish". I asked to have her at my birthday party one year and I was very happy, letting out a sigh, when my mother said "that's ok", when I told her the friend wasn't Jewish. I remember when we invited her she said she didn't have money for a gift, and of course, we said we wanted her to come any way. She brought dutch chocolates. I felt privileged to have her come to my party.

My mother had a good friend, Mrs. Sandles, and she had a down's syndrome son named Lee, who was my age. Lee was main streamed in school, and always struggled. As usual, I was blind to differences and played with him as if he was any one else. I didn't understand why other kids did not treat him well or want to play with him. I remember going to a birthday party of his where we played all kinds of games, including some where you needed a partner, and someone saying "let's have his girlfriend be his partner". It surprised me to be called his girlfriend...

When I was 7, we moved to another house in Oak Park, a nicer one, where Ricardo and I each had our own bedroom. I lost touch with Lori in moving, and although I met her again in High School much later, we were never in the same circles. She is a Facebook friend to me today.

I ran into Lee Sandles again in High School and found him withdrawn, very sad, and teased by the other kids. I don't think he remembered me, and there was something about him that made me afraid to approach him. I wish I had. I've heard that he passed away within the years after graduation, but did not know what happened. My mother had lost touch with his even before we moved back to Michigan.

On the house on Dartmouth in Oak Park, we went to a different school, Roosevelt Elementary, which much later became a school for special needs children. I remember being shocked by a girl named Julie, in second grade, who did not care if her underwear showed as her skirt flew in the breeze when we were spinning on the merry-go-round as the boys were pushing it for a bunch of the girls. She thought me a priss, and I was most shocked that she didn't care when you were supposed to. It was an era where girls wore dresses and that made some playground stuff hard for a tom-boy like me that would prefer to be upside down on the monkey bars, and was just getting indoctrinated that my panties should not show... I don't remember the context, but I remember her talking about being in "Hurricane Hilda", and that proving that she was something (tough, smart, reckless, better than me?) that I can't recall.

Julie was not a friend either, but Diane Merrich was my best friend. She had short, dark, curly hair and an unusual contagious laugh. The other kids always wanted her to laugh on demand to hear it. She lived two or three doors down and we played together all of the time, sometimes with her younger sister, Lisa. Her older sister, Karen (?), was a little too grown up for us, being about 2 years older. After I moved we wrote to each other for several years, and then lost touch.

During our time apart, she also moved. My move was to Gainesville, Florida and hers to Farmington Hills, Michigan. When I moved back to Michigan, I wrote her, but I don't think we ever got in touch again. I ran into Lisa at a gym in Ann Arbor, Michigan when I was in my mid to late twenties. She was the one giving me the obligatory tour the first day. She told me that Diane was married or about to get married and still lived in the Detroit area. I think Lisa was attending University of Michigan or maybe Eastern Michigan University, both very close to the gym.

In second grade I had another friend from school named Harold who I used to play with on weekends some times. We had to go to each other's house by car, so we did not play that often. He was the first boy that was a real friend of mine. Again, in High School, we saw each other again. He was also one of the underdogs who always was teased. I don't know why though. Even in 9th grade he seemed to have the weight of his oppression pressing down on him, making his shoulders stoop, and barely saying hello to me or to anyone. I think we might have had an odd class or so together, but I did not reconnect at that time.

Another friend I enjoyed a lot, but did not get to see much was a girl named Rochelle. I could swear she lived around the block from me, but maybe it was another block or so away, and I would have needed to cross the street to see her. I liked to play with her, and was always very happy when my mother arranged for us to play. I think I knew her because of our mothers. I don't know if I knew her last name and sometimes I wonder if a girl from my High School graduating class named Rochelle is her or not.

When I was 8 we moved to Gainesville, Florida, where my father earned his PhD in Mechanical and Aeronautical Engineering at the University of Florida, and I, at first, thought that Gatorade was derived from actual alligators. I spent a lonely third grade year at school, teased mercilessly by the other kids, playing kick ball with the boys at recess because the girls didn't like me. There was a nice, but unattractive, girl who was asked to show me around the first few days, and I liked her, but never got close. There was one of the first of the "beautiful but mean" girls I've known in my life, named Jill, who always asked me why my hair was not brushed and why my skirts were so short. (I was growing, but my mother didn't notice). I remember taking the stitches out of the hem of a skirt while wearing it at school, trying to make it longer. Even in the days of mini-skirts, the skirt was a bit short.

At home, across the street, lived a girl named Martha Williams who became my best friend. She was cool and everyone liked her a lot. Our street - NW 40th Drive -- was the dividing line between school districts. She went to the other school. In the neighborhood, we were fast friends, and she made me cool enough for the other kids. Ricardo and I used to play dodge frisbee and softball with Bobby, Jimmy and Michael Lamb, a large kid named Jesse. Lauren, Lindsay, and Lucy Layton lived next door to the Lamb's and we climbed the huge tree in between their homes. Lauren was my age, and much too prissy for me. Lindsay and Lucy were a bit younger, but much nicer. I remember asking their mother, after she had gotten her hair "frosted" why she would want to make it grey. Across the street from the Layton's was Julie (?), and her german shepard, King. She was beautiful, and Bobby Lamb had a crush on her. I had a crush on Bobby. They were both the same age as my brother. Ricardo called Julie's hair "egg shell hair" because it was long and straight and very shiny. I did not understand why he didn't like it, when I thought it was the ideal hair.

The Layton's had a mean chihuahua named Chi-chi, but we ended up with one of her pups, Sandy, shortly after my 9th birthday. I used to go over to see the puppies everyday after they were born, and it was only natural to have one offered to us. My mother, terrified of dogs her entire life, said yes to that chihuahua puppy, and we had her for 18 years. Except for feeding, which bonded Sandy to my Mom, Sandy was "my dog", and I loved to spend time with her. I read dog books and provided what little training she had, when I was nine.

In fourth grade, the school district line changed and Martha was in my class. Things changed and I was accepted because I came along with Martha as part of the package. Martha's mom was divorced, and so they lived as just the two of them, along with their dog, Cucha. Her mom was very young looking and I called her Martha's sister by mistake many times before I really got to know Martha. Her mother's name was Mary, probably one of the few times I knew a first name for a friend's mother or father. Martha taught me to dance to rock and roll to a Monkees record and I remember hearing the Nancy Sinatra song "These Boots are Made for Walking" at Martha's house. We used to climb on her flat pitch roof, shimmying up a support post on her porch, and playing up there. My Dad yelled at me when he caught me up there once and made me come down. She had some gerbils, and they quickly became lots and lots of gerbils. She used to sell the babies back to the pet store.

After I moved to Alabama, when I was 10, we began to write to each other, and probably continued that through some time in junior high. I saw her once when I went to Florida for Spring Break in college with a car full of friends. She was working at a Burger King, and we stopped to eat there and I got to talk with her when she was on her break. She had stayed in Gainesville and went to a local Community College. I don't know if she went on to a 4-year college after that or not. When we were moving, she was starting to attend a private school beginning in 5th grade. She was smart and her mother wanted her to have a better education than Gainesville schools provided.

In 5th and 6th grade in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, I had a rough time with friends. We lived on a cul-de-sac (then called a dead end street) with only five homes and there was one other kid, Michael Elder, but he went to private school. He was a year in-between me and Ricardo in age, and we played with him a lot. We met their family and found our house because his family belonged to the one Jewish Temple in Tuscaloosa. His father was a holocaust survivor, much older than my parents, and had the concentration camp tattoo on his arm. He was quite eccentric, but it is now more understandable to me than at the time. Mike's mom was not Jewish, but I'm not sure that was clear to me back then. I remember picking pecans from her Aunt's tree somewhere else in Tuscaloosa and my Mom learning how to make real southern pecan pie. She had an apple head chihuahua and that was when I first learned that there were pear heads (like Sandy) and apples, like hers.

At school, the kids didn't like me. Being Jewish, having foreign parents, and being a yankee, were bad starts, and dressing in the home made clothes my mother made me and being out of style did not help either. I never had a real friend in Tuscaloosa, and it made me very very sad. I used to cry on my way home when I was teased and called names in school. My mother picked me up in a shopping center across the street from the school. I remember one day bursting into tears as I stepped in the car (since I was trying to hold it back so the kids did not see me). It was not long after we moved, so when my mother asked me what was wrong, all I could say was "I miss Martha". It was only a part of the answer, but I did not have a chance to give more, and my mother's aping of me later that day when she told my Dad about it made me, perhaps wrongly, never trust her with a confidence again. I was 10.

There was a girl who was a "frenemy" named Brenda Pennigton. Sometimes I thought she was my friend, but she was trying to keep her distance. There was another girl who hated me beyond any reason. Her name was Vicky Raymond, and she would go out of her way to push me into walls, and certainly to call me names. Tuscaloosa was another place where I rarely played with the girls at recess, because they wouldn't let me. Every once in a while I got to jump rope with the class, but usually I either played alone or the boys would let me play kickball with them, since I was good enough.

For a brief time we had other neighbors with kids on our street. Maria moved next door with her family, into a house owned by the Edges. The Edges had owned the entire street at one time, and now owned a vacant lot at the entrance, and two houses, one of which they lived in, and one they rented. They were down on their luck, and he drank. He stopped when they became "saved". I remember going to a true Southern Baptist Revival on a Wednesday night, with the Edges and my Mother. I still remember the analogy from the minister of how "we are the glove and god is the hand in the glove". It was an experience.

Maria spent time with me mostly because there was not much else to do in the neighborhood, but I thought she was cool, and I wanted to be like her. She was a few years older than me and I'm not sure where she went to school, or if I knew her only in the summer. I know they moved because the Edges wanted to move back into that house, and they did not want to move the other, smaller house across the street where the Edges lived. I also remember she had a brother, much older, who had been in a rehab program of sorts and had hepatitis from his drug use. It was about 1971, and I was 11.

After Maria moved, the Edges rented the smaller house to a family with about 6 children and I don't remember the number of adults. They were poor, and the kids were kind of left on their own a lot. The oldest girl was my age, but did not go to school with me. I remember my parents took over some old clothes of mine, including a maxi dress that the kids in school said was too short on me. The taller-than-me older girl wore it happily, and my Dad commented that it was not too short for her to wear. (Ah, perspective). I used to play with those kids, but my mother was not happy about it. Some of the other neighbors complained to the city about the number of people living in the house and they were forced to move.

When we lived in Alabama, my Dad taught at the University of Alabama during Fall through Spring, and he worked at the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama in the summers. He helped design the lunar rover. We lived in an apartment complex with a pool and lots of kids, and there I was accepted and well liked. If only I could have lived there year round! After the second summer, and the end of the two-year summer program for professors, we ended up moving back to Michigan, where Dad went back to his Mechanical Engineering job at Ford Motor Company. We moved back to Oak Park, and I began Junior High, a particularly difficult age for moving and making friends. -- More on that in the next installment.

Clarification?

I used to think I was a good writer, but apparently not. My last post received a lot of comments on Facebook, and many of them made me think I did not send the message I meant to send.

My main message is that there are people in the world who have declared their desire, and are actively trying to motivate others to act, to reduce the freedoms we have in the USA, and that people in other countries have, by putting into place their version of law, based on their religion.

We need to be aware, be observant, and guard our rights through the legal, peaceful means we have. This includes making our lawmakers aware of what we want, and asking them to be steadfast in protecting our constitutional rights.

No matter which group is being fanatical and trying to impose their views on me, I resist it and think it is not right. I defend their right to speak their mind and request what they want, but there are limits to the actions that follow, if it impinges on rights we have agreed to have in our society and under our chosen government.

A hallmark of our government is its ability to change. That is generally a good thing. I just don't want the Bill of Rights to be repealed. I think that is far too much a core of our society and the structure of American Government. If it is in danger, we must protect it and ourselves to continue in the vision of our founding fathers. I don't want to see those rights eroded.

Precious Freedom

I saw a scary movie last night. There were no ghosts, goblins, monsters, or aliens from other worlds in it. It was scary because it had to do with the erosion of American ideals from within our borders as a next step in a move to bring sharia law (Islamic Law) to everyone on the planet. The movie was called "The Third Jihad" and talked about the "cultural jihad" already underway world wide.

Now I'm a very tolerant person, accepting other's differences and also recognizing that I have often been a minority. I have always wanted to learn about and accept other's cultures. It's one of the things I love about travel -- it gives an opportunity to see and experience new things. I like talking to people, and learning about how we are similar and how we are different.

I do this with an attitude of respect and acceptance, even if the culture and choices are not ones I want to make part of my day to day existence. I believe in embracing diversity and being strengthened by the unique talents we all bring to bear.

What I struggle with, is those who are not tolerant, who feel they should tell me how to live, even if I live within the law, not harming any one or any thing. I support the freedoms we have in America and recognize that our nation was founded as a place where these freedoms and human rights would exist.

The first settlers in America were those seeking religious freedom. While within their tight communities there were strict codes of conduct, those in that community chose to be able to practice their religion, and they accepted its strict rules. They allowed those who did not believe like them to live outside of their community.

I have a problem with religions that indicate that everyone must be converted to that religion in order for the fulfillment of prophecies to come true. There are those who would force the conversion, or kill those who do not believe. To me that is not acceptable. A benevolent g-d would not work that way. Fundamentalists of all ilks frighten me.

I am happy to have the freedoms we have in America: freedom of speech, of the press, of religion. I am glad we've evolved to the point where we have equal rights regardless of gender, religion, race, etc. I am happy to have the ability to criticize government leadership and policy, and to influence change. As an educated, independent woman, I am glad to be living in a time like ours where women have the freedom to be educated, pursue a career, be a full time parent, or to do anything else they desire. I am glad men have these rights too.

I believe in tolerance. I believe that as long as my rights are not infringed upon and you are not causing harm or breaking laws that what you do is not my business, nor is mine yours.

A place where there is free thought, free speech, free action, and opportunity for all: this is the America in which I want to live.

The movie scared me. It outlines how radical Islamic leaders clearly state that they want everywhere in the world to obey Islamic Law. There would be no separation of Church and State. The choices would be to convert to Islam, submit to it, or be killed as an infidel. Women would have no rights and could be killed by their family for offenses like talking to a man or not wearing a head scarf or being raped. Homosexuals would be executed. Corporal punishment and violence would be the rule of the day. Muslims who believe in less strict interpretation of Islamic law would also be dominated and subject to the same harsh rule. The movie mentioned a case in the USA, in Georgia, where a father performed an "honor killing" because his teenage daughter did not want to wear a head scarf.

Today some Islamic countries do not allow other religious structures to exist. No churches, synagogues or practicing of any other religion is allowed. Carrying a bible is a cause for arrest. Women are accosted on the street if hair is showing under their scarf or if their skirts are not long enough, or their coat is not loose enough. They can be arrested for this.

The movie indicated that we and other western countries have our freedoms used "against us" by being a way for propaganda to be spread, for "political correctness" to undermine our ability to say what appears to be happening. Any slight criticism of anything Islamic is a major issue and is an instance of prejudice and intolerance.

Take, for example, the Danish cartoon depicting Mohamed. Instead of being satire, as we accept political cartoons of all kinds here, it was an international incident and the cartoonist received death threats. There were public apologies. There were many more examples. The movie said that every time we back down this way, instead of standing up, we lose ground. We open the door wider for giving up our freedoms in the name of being tolerant and politically correct.

After the movie screening, there was a panel discussion. I was struck by a comment made by Lieutenant Colonel Allen West, who had served in Desert Storm, Desert Shield, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Afganistan, and several other operations that I don't recall well enough to write their names here. I consider him to be knowledgeable on the subject of Middle Eastern Islamic ideaology. The audience applause cut off the last part of his statement, but basically it was that if tolerance is not a two-way street, then there is a problem.

I see intolerance of anything other than Islamic law in the outcry against things like the cartoon, and the message the Imams and some world leaders are clearly articulating: that Shariah Law should be the law of every land, and that those not following it, or not following strictly enough, are infidels and need to be converted or killed.

I believe in tolerance and acceptance. I believe in human rights. I believe in the Constitution, and in the ability of the people to change the government with ammendments to that Constitution. I believe in guarding those freedoms, and not giving them away. As Benjamin Franklin wrote "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety. " I believe in our way of life, even with the many lifestyles I would not choose and the problems we may have. It is still preferable to losing freedoms and liberties and living in a religious police state run by radicals.

This scares me, and I want to influence my political leaders to help stand up for our freedoms, with a watchful eye to not letting them be quietly eroded away in a cultural jihad, that can be won simply by allowing the birthrate to create a majority within a few generations. In America, tolerance must work in both directions.

Perception

It's been a while since my last post. Of course, this is not because I have not had thoughts, but because I've had lots of them, not much time, and wonder if telling too much in a blog is a bad idea. I'm very honest with myself and would choose to be honest in any form of communication, but I don't know if airing my flaws here is the best idea.

I marvel at times how different self-perception and the perception of others can be. I feel I go through life, achieving plenty, but also carrying a lot of self-doubt, self-criticism, and not always the confidence I'd like to portray. However, I guess those thoughts don't detract from what I'm capable of doing, or from how others see me. I think I am capable of doing anything I believe I can do. That's very different from believing I can do anything I'm capable of doing.

There are times I've been tired, have not worked out, and don't think I can push myself as hard. Then I do it, and I realize that the self-doubt was more laziness talking, and not reality. I think that is a metaphor fo more than just pushing myself physically. Those mental obstacles are also self-made, and not reality.

Have I said it before in this blog? A favorite quote is one I saw on a poster when about to rent a sailboat with friends for a week in the Bahamas. We were renting a boat the day we wanted to leave because the boat we had reserved had been damaged by the people renting it the prior week. The quote:

"The difference between adventure and ordeal: Attitude."

I think Attitude drives everything. Do I want to be in a good mood or a bad mood? Does the chewing gum that somehow landed on my lap as I slept during my flight this morning ruin my whole day (and my pants) or is it something I deal with (spending time in the restroom at O'hare picking gum off of my clothing) and move on? It was NOT my gum, and I have no idea how it got there, but no, it did not ruin the whole day. Even seeing the Spartans come so close to another NCAA Basketball championship tonight and then let it slip away does not ruin my day (although if they had won it would have been great).

When I walked Destine without a leash around my neighborhood last summer and a grouchy neighbor started in on me because she might poo in their yard if not on a leash... Well I was in a great mood that day and just let it roll off me. I didn't stop to tell him I always carry and use bags, or that she poos on the leash too - it's one of the reasons we go for walks. I thought a few of those things, and often attach her leash before we pass his house, but it did not turn the beautiful, sunny, mild day into anything less enjoyable. He probably thinks I didn't care. More, I didn't care to spoil my day by a meaningless debate.

It's a choice. Being grouchy or being happy is a choice. Which events you focus on can make all of the difference. Do I think only of the negative, or think mostly of the positive? Do I believe in myself more than I doubt myself?

Life is much better when focusing on the positive in myself and in others. What you look for in people or events is what you find. If I look for the good I find it, and that's what I choose to do.

Educate Tomorrow

I guess it was in November 2005 that the Miami Herald published a special section on Philanthropy and highlighted a number of charities in South Florida. I read about one called Educate Tomorrow (ET) and was moved to donate to support them. Their local program helps foster kids who are between 15 and 23 and will age out of foster care and are eligible for certain programs if they stay in school, even after they turn 18 and become independent.

ET assigns these kids mentors that work with them to learn life skills, set and meet goals, apply to colleges and vocational schools and generally, to make it after leaving the foster care system. I've donated money to them each year since learning about them. Finally, I went this week to a training session to become a mentor. Once the background check is complete, I will attend some events to mingle with mentees and see if there is someone I click with to mentor.

I feel for the kids in foster care, with really no one to turn to for help and support, and no one to teach them how to become responsible adults. That's not to say that many don't do just that on their own, but they do have a handicap without consistency in their lives much of the time. I don't know how I would have done without a plan and a little help at 18. I had jobs and saved money, but my Mom and Dad saved their money during my entire childhood to send me and Ricardo to college. I always knew I was going. I could be independent, and relish that independence, because I was not worried every moment, or tempted every moment, and because I had role models, however imperfect.

At the mentor training I learned that there are over 518,000 kids in foster care in the US. 35,000 of them are in Florida, 5000 in Miami-Dade county, and 1500 of those in the 15-23 year old age range. Thanks to ET, the kids in Miami-Dade know that they are eligible for the Road to Independence program which offers free tuition in Florida public colleges, universities and vocational schools. They need the grades and to get accepted, but they can not only go for free, but they can get a monthly stipend until they are 23 as long as they are in school.

That's where the mentors come in, to help encourage them and work with them to apply themselves in high school, to take SAT, ACT, and other entrance exam tests, to fill out college applications and financial aid applications, and to apply themselves and avoid distractions and get their education.

This will help them from being part of the:

55% who do not graduate high school (after leaving their foster homes at age 18 - and before graduation)
51% who are unemployed at age 22
42% who are homeless within 12 months of aging out of foster care at 18
40% on welfare
25% who end up involved with the Juvenile Justice system
69% of females who give birth within 4 years of turning 18 and aging out

Cell blocks are full of inmates who were once in foster care.

It seems like such a smart thing, to keep the kids from falling away from becoming a productive member of society and to give them the leg up they need to achieve goals. It's the kind of charity I like to contribute toward: one that enables the recipient.

Kids who have been disappointed by people and the system their whole lives might take some time to trust and respond, but it seems like a good thing, to mentor them and help them learn how to build a real life. I hope the process moves quickly and I can get assigned someone soon. I hope I'm up to the challenge and can do some good. I won't be the coolest mentor a kid can have, but hopefully I can make a difference in their life and make sure they have a bright future.

www.educatetomorrow.org

Teen Angst

In joining Facebook, having a High School Reunion, and reconnecting with classmates I haven't really known in a long time - if ever - I find myself thinking about being 13 again.

I moved back to Oak Park, Michigan when I was 12 and about the start Junior High. I stayed in Oak Park through High School graduation, making it more "where I'm from" than any of the places I've lived as a child (Sao Paulo, Brazil; Yonkers, New York; Oak Park from age 3-7; Gainesville, Florida; Tuscaloosa and Hunstville, Alabama; and then Oak Park again from age 12-18). I don't know if you recall, but 7th grade is a terrible time for kids. It was hard being the new kid. My own situation was that I had parents who were not very involved or understanding about things in my world. I had stopped even trying to tell them way before I hit 7th grade, so they were not where I turned to handle teenage or childhood angst. Mostly, I wrote, cried to myself, and went to school any way.

I know those days scarred me. Not just 7th grade, but the years before that of being the new kids, and after that of not really being accepted. I used to think about this quite a bit, and finally got over it, even if I know it colors how I deal with people even today. It's really all you can do - just get over it. Otherwise, you let it keep hurting your present and future, and not just the past. Although Facebook has made this rise to the top again, I want to put it to bed again and move on. I'm not that 13 year old self any more. Even at 13, I wasn't the person others saw. My inner self was too strong to be picked on and didn't deserve it any way.

The funny thing about reminiscing on Facebook in public or private messages is that it seems everyone - almost without exception - seemed to have had their own demons to face. Whether it was problems at home or something else, there seems to have been a lot of lack of awareness of others and either aggressive behaviour to cover it up, or some other facade. We all seem to have felt terribly alone and lonely, even those who were "popular".

I always knew the ones who picked on me and belittled me were covering up for their own insecurity, but even I did not realize how true that was.

It makes me want to reach out to all of my pre-teen and teen friends and tell them to look with empathy on each other, to be kind, to recognize what they have and not just what they might lack. I want to tell them to support their friends, and their brothers and sisters, to stand up for each other and love unconditionally, and to tell those they love that they do so. Do you think they'll listen?

25 Things?

On Facebook recently, there has been a chain letter of sorts floating around. "Notes" can be written and added to you Facebook profile. The chain is to write a note with 25 Random Things about you, and then tag 25 Facebook friends on the note. By tagging them, they see your note, and are, in turn, asked to post their own 25 things. You tag the person who tagged you so that they can know you've posted your note. I am enjoying this tremendously.

I was tagged fairly early in this process, and wrote my note quickly, without taking the time to post the most important or interesting things, just the first things that came to mind. In retrospect, this might not have been the greatest idea. I posted one thing that was unintentionally controversial, and it caught someone's attention as having a negative connotation. This is what I wrote about in my last blog entry. I decided not to go back and edit the 25 things to remove that item, but I wish I'd kept that one to myself.

In reading everyone's 25 things, I have learned a lot about people. It's been especially fun to read the things from people I have not seen since High School, and who I may not have known well even back then. In writing my own, I realized I could come up with far more than 25 random things. If I were writing it now, I'd probably do better. In light of that, I'll add some more "things", although I'm not sure if I have 25 or not. I'll make these different from the first 25 - you'll have to look at my Facebook profile to see those.

1. Before age 18 I lived in Sao Paulo, Brazil; Yonkers, New York; Oak Park, Michigan; Gainesville, Florida; Tuscaloosa, Alabama; Huntsville, Alabama; and then back to Oak Park.
2. After age 18 I lived in East Lansing, Michigan; Evansville, Indiana; Ann Arbor, Michigan and Doral (Miami), Florida.
3. I've been a scuba diver since 1986.
4. I became a scuba instructor in 1989, and retired from active instruction in 2007.
5. I've dived all 5 Great Lakes.
6. I have been an active cave diver and technical diver, but have not done either in quite some time.
7. I've been to North and South America, Europe, Asia, and Australia. I also dived in Egyptian waters, near the Israel/Egypt border, so I can claim being in Africa, but really, it doesn't count.
8. I speak French, and am beginning to understand Spanish, but consider myself a beginner and I can't get a sentence out in Spanish without only being able to think of the French words.
9. My beloved dog, J.D. (Janet's Dog) died and a few months before my Mother passed away suddenly in 1993. It was a bad year.
10. I love reading, puzzles, photography, and, of course, scuba diving. I take underwater photos too, but I am still using film for that with my trusty Nikonos V.
11. I like to cook, but typically only do it when I am having guests over. I like having the leftovers for meals during the following week. I'm a decent cook.
12. None of my relatives lived near us when I was growing up. My paternal grandparents both died before my parents met. My maternal grandparents, uncle (and aunt) and two cousins lived in Sao Paulo. My other uncle (and aunt) and cousins lived in New York, but we were not close until more recent years.
13. I've visited Brazil twice, when I was 7 and again when I was 11. I've been to Israel (Dad's birthplace) once, when I was 26.
14. The first Sitchin born in the US was my nephew Eli, closely followed by his brother Wyatt.
15. It you meet another Sitchin, they are doubtless a relative.
16. My parents were related by marriage when they met (and that's how they met). There is Sitchin family in Brazil (Sao Paulo only, I think).
17. Both of my Grandfathers were from the same town in Ukraine (Golovanevsk). My maternal grandmother was from Romania and my paternal grandmother was from Baku (now Azerbaijan, then Russia).
18. When I became a naturalized citizen (at age 7), we changed the spelling of our name from Sitshin to Sitchin. Coming from Hebrew and Cyrillic (Russian) alphabets, it is still an approximation of the sounds.
19. Before I got interested in computers, I thought I'd be a writer some day. I don't write much any more, but I have had some scuba articles and photos published.
20. I had a creative writing scholarship to Michigan State University. It was small and basically paid for the English class (usually creative writing) I took each term.
21. I'm lucky to have quite a few close friends - one's I can count on and who can count on me.
22. I miss my friends from Michigan, but I still manage to see them when we travel together to dive destinations.
23. I believe you see in others what you are looking for, and that if you look for good, you will find it. Conversely if you look for faults, you'll find that too.
24. I believe people accuse others of the things they themselves are guilty. (A jealous ex-boyfriend led me to that one.)
25. Being alone is better than being in the wrong company.
26. My uncle from New York is the author of more than 10 books, in countless languages now, on Ancient Civilizations. I go to most of his seminars when he gives them, but wished I had been closer to everything when he was also traveling with groups to various sites and museums. It is fascinating, whether you buy his theories or not.
27. I maintain websites for my own site (where I learned how to build one) with scuba photos (home.comcast.net/~janetsitchin/index.html), in part maintain my uncle's site (http://www.sitchin.com/), and for two dive clubs, the one in Michigan and a national one that is a SIG (special interest group) of another social organization. Fortunately none take a lot of time. I've gotten lazy with my own and generally post photos to flickr now instead of the web site.

I think that's all for now. Again, I did not go off and ponder for days on these things. Some are things I've thought about over the last few days, others I just thought about as I wrote. I think none are controversial this time. Although that controversial one did open a dialog, and helped me to begin getting to know an old acquaintance again, so it wasn't all bad.

Why can't I learn?

I consider myself a nice person. I try to be kind, polite, considerate, and help others when I can. Usually, I think most people would agree that I actually am nice, and would say the things I just said are true.

Sometimes, despite my best intentions, I screw up. I say something thoughtless. I write something thoughtless. I am in my own world and I'm rude: stepping in front of someone without ever having seen they were there and about to step that way. If I do something that is hurtful, I always feel terrible. Even the little mistakes make be feel badly, but the ones where I hurt someone's feelings are the worst.

I recently wrote something personal, and shared it, never thinking as I wrote that someone else might take it the wrong way. Although financially conservative, I am socially liberal. Live and let live, it takes all kinds, and everyone has the right to choose the way they want to live as long as it doesn't infringe on someone else's rights. Then I go and say something dumb and thoughtless.

South Florida is very diverse. Many people think that there is a large Cuban population, and there is. But there is also a large Venezuelan, Argentinian, Brazilian, Haitian, Jamaican, Jewish, Gay, Russian, Honduran, Senior Citizen, etc., ... you name it ... population here too. I work with a diverse population too, from around the USA and the world, so every other kind of group, religion, nationality, sexual preference, ethnicity, age, etc., is represented. I embrace it, enjoy it, and have friends representing countless of these groups of people. I can't even keep track, and I don't try. I love them all for who they are inside, and I enjoy their uniqueness.

I envy the young people today who really see all of the diversity as an irrelevant blur. I grew up in a time when fences were falling, but there were still distinctions made, and self-imposed division and social segregation. Equal opportunity meant knowing which group people belonged to so that you could have x number from column A and y number from column B, etc. I guess, try as I might to not let any of that matter, I still see the differences. I note them, even though my choices and actions show that I put that aside, and I see the person more than anything else. I'm not as perfect in this regard as I wish to be.

So if I write something about myself that implies something positive or negative about a group of people, is that letting bias show or is that because the lines have blurred and my level of acceptance is such that I didn't expect anyone to take offense? Or is it just that I wrote it too quickly and didn't think about the implications?

In this most recent case, it was the last one. I didn't think. Did I also let my bias show? I didn't mean it that way. Has political correctness gone too far?

I recognize that we are all human and make mistakes. I'm always trying to improve and to be a better person. These kinds of mistakes happen when I'm rushed or preoccupied, and never on purpose. Why can't I learn from this and avoid the mistakes? Is there a way to avoid being preoccupied or rushed? Is it possible to be completely in the moment, poised and perfect every time? Should I just accept that I'm human, and so is everyone else, and that sometimes I'll fail to meet my high standards? I'll make mistakes, and will need to apologize. Is an apology enough? If I'm such a nice person, why does it happen? Is it because I'm such a nice person that it bothers me and that I care, and feel badly that I've made the mistake? Foremost is the question, why can't I learn and be better? Why must I stumble? What can I do to improve and change?

Ah, Dogs

Anyone who knows me personally knows that I love dogs. They make me happy. They love unconditionally, and they have a joy for life we could all learn from.

I've had three dogs in my life. The first, just after I turned nine was when I lived in Gainesville, Florida. A neighbor had a chihuahua and bred her. We ended up with one of the puppies, Sandy, and never renamed her ourselves. My mother had been terrified of dogs and always resisted my brother and my own pleas for a pet. The day I was offered the puppy, the mother dog, ChiChi followed me home. Sandy fit into the palm of my nine year old hands, and somehow my mother said we could keep her. I was elated.

Sandy and Ricardo in Gainesville, Florida - 1969

I checked out the dog books from the library and taught her to sit on command. Come and walking on a leash were not great successes, but I did what I could. She was "my" dog, but was also very loyal to my mom, since she fed her. When Ricardo, my brother, and then I left for college, she was 100% my mom's dog. She lived to be almost 18 and was her feisty self until the last couple of years.

She might have been a chihuahua, but she thought she was a bigger dog. We had a big scare when we lived in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and she was loose in the large, hilly, unfenced yard. We heard barking, and then a dog scream. The German Shepard behind us had enough of her, had her in its mouth and was shaking her. I don't think he meant to hurt her really. Ricardo was in the wooded vacant lot, chopping wood for our fireplace, and axe in hand, he was the first one there. The Shepard dropped her, and we took her back to the house. An hour later she had a bubble under her skin. She had a punctured lung. The vet had her wrapped in a tight bandage, and she ended up just fine, but it did not teach her any lessons on picking fights when you only weigh 7-8 lbs.

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J.D. in Evansville, Indiana in 1984

When I got out of college I moved to Evansville, Indiana for my first "real" job. The three month old Beagle-Spitz mix I named J.D. (Janet's Dog) was adopted from the humane society. I had a smart, loving, loyal, well behaved friend. She loved people and expected everyone to love her the way I did. I was 23 when I got her, and better able to take action on the dog book advice, and also took her to obedience school. My mother told me if I ever found a man as devoted to me as J.D. was, I should marry him. I'm still single, so maybe that was way too high a bar...

J.D. moved with me to Ann Arbor, Michigan and had an admiration/toleration relationship with Sandy when they were around each other. J.D. did the admiring and Sandy reluctantly tolerated. You know those young upstarts! By that time Sandy was at least 15 and J.D. was one year old. J.D. would not bother me as I slept, but the moment I woke, she'd be on my chest, licking me reluctantly fully awake.

I lived in an apartment when I got J.D., and also when I moved back to Michigan in 1984. Once she "escaped" out the sliding glass door in my Ypsilanti apartment, where there was a parking lot and careless drivers. It had happened before in Evansville, but there it was not as risky. I called her, but she was having too much fun running around the man made lake, and didn't want to come back.

I learned to use the "Death Voice" -- actually, I learned I had one -- and she came right away. I punished her by putting her bed by the front door, which was hidden from the kitchen. I washed dishes or something without letting her join me for maybe five or ten minutes. To J.D. this was a tragedy for me to be mad at her for so long and not let her apologize. The lesson was enough for the rest of her life. Any vocal tone from me anywhere near the "Death Voice" brought her instantly in line.

She moved with me into my first house, which had a big fenced yard perfect for her. I was home sick from work one day and I heard her barking like mad in the yard. I walked outside, a little bleary, and wondering if a school kid from the adjoining elementary school was harassing my sweet, gentle, friendly dog. I couldn't imagine what would make her bark so frantically.

There she was, on top of the picnic table, jumping up and down on her hind legs (she balanced really well, doing her grizzly bear imitation), barking at a squirrel she had trapped in the tree as it chattered loudly at her. This same squirrel taunted her all of the time, but this time, it had no place to go.

I saw her and had two fears: that she would fall off the picnic table as she jumped up and down, or that she would catch the squirrel. I took care of both by grabbing her and putting her on the ground. This gave the squirrel a chance to run down the tree and to the power lines and safety. J.D.'s fun was over though, and she was disappointed. Later I saw the squirrel chattering at her often. Leave it to J.D. to make "friends" with a squirrel.

In 1992 J.D. was diagnosed with lymph cancer. She was being treated by a fine local vet, and a vet at one of the finest vet schools in the US at Michigan State University in East Lansing, Michigan. We did doggie chemo-therapy which is much less aggressive than with people, and has as a goal to preserve quality of life. She lived another year. I had to put her to sleep in April 1993, just shy of being 10 years old. It was a very sad day. There would never be another dog like J.D.

Much as I love dogs, I didn't have another one myself until two years ago.

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I had started thinking about getting another dog, especially when my friends Matt and Andrea started fostering dogs from the Humane Society. I came really close to adopting their first foster puppy, a Jack Russell Terrier mix named Blondie. Blondie was too stubborn though, and I wanted a trainable dog. Filomena was a wonderful sweet, well behaved foster dog, but she was huge - similar to the breed of Marmaduke of cartoon fame - is that Great Dane? I took Filomena on a walk once and when she wanted to play with me, I realized she was too much dog for me.

Fate stepped in on January 26, 2007. I was procrastinating during my morning pre-work routine and was a little on the late side leaving the house, but would still be on time. Then I was behind slow traffic: a driver who decided the school zone went for a mile or so longer than it did, a gardening truck with a trailer of tools being pulled, both when I could not pass, and then I was blocked by two semi-trucks who decided to chat in the middle of the two-lane road, cab-to-cab, not expecting traffic in the empty office park. Everything delayed me.

Then, 2-3 miles from the closest home, a 1/4 mile from a construction site that had no activity for some time, in an almost empty office park, 1/2 mile from my office, a little yellow dog came out of the bushes on my way to work. I stopped my car, not sure what to do, thinking I could not leave the dog where it was, because a car might hit it. There was no one around, and with the location, someone had dumped the dog. There was no collar. It was a little scared, but seemed like a nice dog. I thought it was old because of the white muzzle and wide backside. I put it in my car and thought about what else to do.

It was too late to turn around and leave it at my house, and the place was not puppy-proof, especially if I was going to leave it alone. Thankfully, it was a cool day for South Florida, I could take the dog with me to work and leave it in my car while I went inside and called the Humane Society, thinking I could get the dog fostered. I was job hunting and heavily considering consulting jobs, with lots of travel. Not the best situation for owning a dog. The Humane Society recording said to call Miami-Dade Animal Services for a stray. I did and ended up taking the dog there, putting my name on the list to adopt if the owners were not found. (Note: never again! Taking her to Animal Services was a big mistake.)

Before I drove her there I decided I should see if the dog was male or female -- the answer was "Pregnant". Making an even longer story a little shorter, she got kennel cough immediately, no one claimed her within the 5 day window, they wouldn't let me adopt her because she was pregnant, then they aborted her puppies, almost euthanized her (remember I was on the adoption list), and a rescue organization that tagged her and saved her life helped me get her out of doggie jail. The day I found her, everything put me in her path. I named the corgi-mix Destine (des-teen), making her name a modified version of the French for fate and destiny, and making it feminine. I never realized how difficult a name that is for most people. She and I like it just fine.

Destine, the day I brought her home, February 4, 2007 - Doral, Florida

I was trying not to become too attached to her, since I knew I probably could not keep her, but when I brought the groggy, hacking, belly shaven, stitched up little girl home, how could I not become attached? She needed gentle care.

I accepted a job offer, for one of the consulting roles I was considering, and really needed to find her a home. We both got lucky when friends from my synagogue let me know they were considering getting a companion for their Shiba Inu mix, Dora. Both dogs were about the same age, with Dora being 2 and Destine's age estimated at between 1 and 2. We ended up with a co-ownership arrangement, where I am primary owner, paying the bills and getting dibs on her when I'm home, but she is part of their family when I travel. When I am home longer, we arrange play dates for the dogs, and I sometimes let her stay there overnight so they can enjoy her.

Destine is not like the other dogs I've had or known. She is sweet, loving, faithful, affectionate, and smart, but she also worries. She has a sadness in her eyes. She is a little afraid of new people, especially men. She follows me from room to room and is seldom not in the same room as me when I'm home. She loves to be in the yard, but only with me. I bought a doggie door and she learned to use it, but until recently, she would not use it unless I went outside too.

At Dora's house they were painting and sanding. Dora is very sensitive to dust and has allergies and skin conditions. To keep the dogs out of trouble, and healthy, they stayed at my place by themselves during the day for about a week or so. I was traveling. Matthew (Dora's owner) would come by and check on them, feed them, and sometimes work from my house instead of his so that they were not alone too much. Being alone together is always better for the two dogs than just being alone. Dora did not need a person around to enjoy being in the yard. After she learned to use the doggie door, Destine didn't mind using it even when I'm not going out with her. She loves going out in the yard and lying in the sun.

Destine is playful, smart, loyal, and listens to me. I can walk her without a leash in my gated community if not too many people or dogs are around. Other dogs distract her; she wants to greet every one. She is less trusting with people and is imperfectly obeying me and not chasing kids on skateboards, ripsticks, bikes, skates, etc., or the joggers and others that move quickly through the community. When I take her places, she enjoys the car ride, is thrilled to be there, but within a short time, she wants to leave. She is worried about being left behind. She gets a little scared and overwhelmed when I have a lot of people over, and will sit close to me for protection. She'll lay quietly at my feet under the table as we eat.

With those she loves and trusts, she is a sweet, gentle companion. She loves interacting with people. In contrast, her "sister" Dora is not as personable. In Destine's other family she lays by Matthew's feet when he works in his upstairs office, and by his mother-in-law's when she watches TV down stairs. She goes to Janet (her other dog-mommy is also named Janet) for love and petting, and oh yes, she plays with Dora.

Dora and Destine, December 31, 2008 - Doral, Florida

There is nothing like watching them play, and watching Destine run, pure joy on her face. When I walk her in the morning she prances around, running here, running there, checking on me. When she is on leash she has learned not to pull, to sit when I stop, and to wait for me to release her verbally if I remove the leash, but she'll never walk like an obedient dog right next to me unless forced. I've had her almost two years now. I hope she'll learn to be more trusting and relaxed. If she didn't occasionally lunge at people when I walk her and if I could get the sad look out of her eyes 100% of the time, she'd be a perfect dog, sweet, smart, well behaved, not to mention as cute as can be.

Traveling After Living in Paradise

I have two assignments coming up (Yeah!), both in northern climates, with potential for the second one to be meaty and keep me busy for quite some time (Yeah, again!).

I've become a Miami wimp as far as cold weather, being here almost 11 years (in February). I noticed it when I was working in Memphis for a project in November 2008 and the weather was colder than I expected that week. I had a coat, but not my warmer winter coat. It's much easier to ease into colder weather than it is to come from sunshine, green grass, and 80 degree (F) days and lows in the 60's during a cold snap to gray skies, brown grass, and lows in the 30's. That just ends up being a bit of a shock. It does make coming home sweeter.

I guess I'll be getting a real dose of winter this year, traveling to the Northeast and to Canada beginning in about a week. I should see which sweaters fit and are ok for wearing to work, and scotchguard the winter boots I haven't worn in 10 years since they are bulky for travel (and gym shoes work pretty well as long as the snow isn't deep). I'll have to use the bigger suitcase to fit the bulky winter clothes.

Maybe I'll get to ski, throw a snowball, enjoy the crisp air on my face, practice taking photos of sun on snow and icicles on trees. I hope that any gliding on ice is something I initiate, and not a surprise (oooohhhh... splat).

The thing about being in Miami is that you don't even think about a coat. The week after being a little chilly in Memphis with the wrong coat, I almost left my coat at home when I was headed to the airport. I was 2-3 miles from home when I realized I had left it in the laundry room at home. We don't have coat closets here, and I hung it there to keep blonde dog hair off my black wool coat.

So I'm in the car debating, do I really need it? Do I have to go back to get it? The answer was Yes, I do need it. I'm not going to shop for another one in Memphis the way I might if I realized I left my hairbrush at home and I'm going to be very unhappy without it. It's good I usually leave early, with lots of time ,when I head to the airport.

I keep a light jacket in the car in case a movie theater or restaurant is over-air conditioned. Other than that, you just don't need them most of the year here. I took Destine for a walk this morning and didn't realize it was in the 50's, so I was outside in just a thin shirt. I thought about going inside and getting a jacket or something, but decided I better start to get a little hardened to cold.

If I lived in Michigan right now, I'd be thinking it was balmy... It's a matter of perspective. It's perfect weather for jogging - just cool enough to make it nice and not get too hot and sweaty. I should go put on sneakers and take advantage of that. I like to open all of the windows in the house and give it a good airing when the weather cools down like this, especially since the house gets stuffy with no air movement when the air conditioner isn't on.

As I hear of winter storms across the country and my Michigan friends shoveling constantly, I look at my green grass, blooming Bougainvilliea, palm trees, and blue sunny skies, and sigh. It's nice to be able to enjoy this at home. I may miss it when I'm traveling for work, but at least I get to come home to it every weekend. When I first moved here and was diving off boats in Fort Lauderdale, I saw people parasailing on the beach, sailboats and other pleasure boats out, etc., as we ran parallel to the beach and back to the marina. All I could do was grin and say to myself, "I really live here!"

On Blogging and Reunions

I've been inspired by a former high school classmate, Kevin Mittleman, to start a blog. Since this is January, it seems an appropriate time of year. Why keep a blog? Well, there have been a number of moments in my life when I wished I'd had a diary to go back and see what I was thinking back then. A blog is that diary, isn't it?

I joined Facebook a few months ago, ahead of the curve of most of my friends and colleagues by a few weeks or more. Although compared to the initial demographic for social networking, I am "old", it's been fun reconnecting with former classmates and co-workers. Some classmates I have not seen since graduation, and since I joined leading up to my 30 year reunion in November 2008, that was not only a long time ago, but also made for a nice "pre-reunion".

In fact, it made me feel like going to the reunion, even though the timing and location were not ideal. The reunion was in the Detroit area, over Thanksgiving weekend, when I have no family in Detroit and always visit Seattle, Washington and my brother over Thanksgiving. I decided to do a "fly-by" and spent about 24 hours in Detroit - just long enough to attend the reunion before heading home to Miami.

Only a couple of the friends I was closest to in high school were at the reunion, but it was fun hearing what they'd been up to since I lost track of them around the time of college graduation. What I realize is that I really needed much more time, because a good sit down and catch up was not really possible when you were trying to say hi to a lot of people. One former classmate asked what I'd been doing in the last 30 years, and slightly tired of repeating it, and not very good at it anyway, I said, "Absolutely nothing." We both chuckled, but I never did get a chance to tell him anything.

I'm getting a little off track here, because I wanted to write about blogging. Kevin Mittleman was not someone I knew well in high school. I was on yearbook staff, and sometmes think I know someone when I really never did. Kevin was probably not in any of my classes, and we weren't friends. We just didn't really know each other at all. I was the shy, bookish, nerdy girl in all of the advanced classes, and he was in another crowd. He wasn't one of the guys who teased me in Junior High or High School, so all I can say is that he was probably a little nicer than some of the folks who made me pretty miserable, especially in Junior High, because he left me alone.

Before I moved to Miami 11 years ago, I was beginning to help plan the 20 year reunion, and had a chance to meet some former classmates. It was nice. I've never been the same as anyone I've ever met, and was the outsider in those school days in Oak Park, but I did have a common base with those people, maybe more than anyone else I'm likely to meet in my life. After being away from that for so long, there was an element of "coming home" to seeing them again.

When we started gathering on Facebook, I decided to befriend some former classmates and use it as a way to not only re-connect with some of the people I knew, but to connect with some I did not really know. Kevin was one of them. Kevin has a blog.

I feel I've gotten to know Kevin more from his blog than anything, and I hope that is okay with him. He's a good writer, and he thinks about a lot of the kinds of things I think about: esoteric, philosphical things; things rooted in childhood, and how they've shaped adulthood; painful things that are happening to him, and also silly things that make him smile.

I've enjoyed his insights and wish to capture my own. I want a place in which to describe my ideas - no matter how crazy. For example, I never understood the dot-com boom, and was not surprised to see it go bust. Similarly, the housing boom, and my own rising property values, seemed out of proportion, so I am not surprised to see that implode. I think things are sometimes made to be more complicated than they need to be -- or is it just something I can see that others can't or won't? I'll start my "how to fix the housing bust and it's reverberations" entry some other time, but writing that down is a reason for blogging.

Will anyone care to read my new blog? Hard to say. I might send the link to a few people and see what they think. If I'm totally inane or boring, well, maybe this will be just for me. If my human experience and thoughts engage someone else, so be it. I can only hope that somewhere along the line what I have to say is of interest to someone and more than that, the place I take in the world produces something that matters.

I used to think my writing might be a legacy, but other than technical articles I have not written much, and I have not tried to be published often. I have a scuba article or photo here or there, but no legacy, no great american novel. My IT work is high quality, but not legacy worthy. I don't expect people to say about me "she was one of the finest data warehouse architects I've ever met." Well, I'd love that in a job recommendation, but not as a eulogy.

As a eulogy what would people say right now? I think they would say that I'm kind. I'm a friend when they really need one. I'm compassionate. Whether it was teaching them something new, or helping when they needed a hand with something, I was there. I think that is about as good a legacy as any, and sometimes I think it is the reason I had a lonely childhood - ever the outsider - to learn compassion and forgiveness. Sometimes I think it is why I have not found the love of my life and had a houseful of kids. I'm "free" to help family and friends when they need it, and otherwise I wouldn't be.

It does make me happy to be able to help others, to listen when friends need someone to talk to, but I do hope that someday I meet my soulmate, and he and I can both take care of each other and those we care about. Will it be my turn someday? Soulmate, are you out there?