"Aren't I the lucky one?"

I didn't want to go. It would take us over seven hours to get to New Jersey. I had to take three days of vacation time. But my husband, Bill, insisted it was the right thing to do, so off we went. And I quickly realized he was right.

Last Friday, Bill's Aunt Jeanne (also his godmother) passed away. She was 94 years old. Her life was remarkable on many levels.

She was born in 1919. Consider that she arrived a year after the Great War ended, and that certainly puts things into perspective.She attended college for two years, taught elementary school and married James in 1941. Her husband, my mother-in-law's brother, died at 44, leaving her with 8 children aged from 2 to 19. James, a brilliant executive for a major corporation, was able to provide for his family's future. But I cannot imagine raising 8 kids by myself.under any circumstances. (She never remarried.)

From 1948, the family lived in New Jersey in a suburb of New York City. Through the years, Jeanne, a staunch Catholic, was true to her faith. She was always teaching others, but at the same time, she was learning and growing. She went back to college and earned her bachelor's degree. She performed various duties at her church, which included being a lector, supervising the Paperback Book Rack in the church, and leading a book discussion group. Jeanne also traveled extensively and participated in eight Elderhostels.

But wait, there's more...

Jeanne's brother drowned when they were children, and Jeanne had a terror of being in the water. In spite of this, when her children were growing up, she forced herself to learn to swim. In her community, she was a rabid crusader for a community pool where everyone could swim (which, thanks to her tenacity, the city did build).

All of this is pretty amazing stuff, but what really struck me was how she continued to grow spiritually.  In reading about her faith, you might want to pigeon-hole her as a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic who followed blindly -- and you would be much mistaken. She was serious about her beliefs, but she was also pragmatic. There were many times when her initial reaction was to say one thing, but having considered the situation, she would relent. She was willing to listen, process and then make up her mind. This is what I admired most about her.

Am I done yet? Not quite.

In February, when she learned that she had cancer, the doctor presented her with several options for treatment. She said "no" to all of them. She said she'd had a good life and was ready to go. She wrote her obituary and planned her own funeral. There was an open casket, and while I don't usually think the body looks much like the deceased, I have to say that I swore she had a satisfied little smile on her face.

After the funeral, Bill's cousins hosted a luncheon, and several people came up to tell stories that helped illustrate Jeanne's life. It was a beautiful tribute to a life well-lived and a wonderful send-off.

She did good.

Changing Channels

Thinking back, I'm not entirely certain why I signed up for the Reiki class. Maybe because it came up during a psychic reading I had a couple of months back. Reiki had been suggested to me before, but I'd never acted on it.

Chakras

In any case, there I was, sitting in a chair in a grammar school classroom, a little nervous and uncertain. When it was my turn to explain to the Reiki Master why I was there, I shrugged and said I felt compelled but I wasn't sure why. She asked if I had any interest in becoming a Reiki Master myself. I said I was taking one step at time, that I wanted to make sure I didn't suck at it before I continued. She assured me there's no wrong way to do Reiki and that she was confident I would do just fine.

People who know me also know I'm into all that "woo-woo stuff." So I don't think it was a total surprise that I took the class. The timing seemed right, with my kid in college and me casting about for the next chapter.

I'm glad I landed on Reiki. If you haven't rolled your eyes and abandoned my post yet, here is a quick 411 (as the kids say).

Reiki was rediscovered by Dr. Mikao Usui, who was born in southern Japan in 1862. He went on a quest to learn how to heal by channeling energy. For years he studied in monasteries and libraries in the East and in the West. He learned Sanskrit and studied Buddhist teachings. At the end of his studies, the story says that he went on a mountain and for 21 days contemplated all he'd learned. On the 21st day he had an epiphany of sorts, after which he was able to heal himself and those around him.

Dr. Usui began to teach others how to use Reiki. The word Reiki is a combination of two Japanese words (Rei and Ki) and does not translate easily. Essentially, Rei is a higher intelligence and Ki is energy, kind of like "the force" in Star Wars. This energy, guided by a higher power, creates the ability to heal.

One cool thing about Reiki is that it's non-denominational, so there's no push to follow one religion or another. In fact, my Reiki Master told stories about healing people of various faiths.

So, I've completed the Reiki I class, which is about healing myself. At some point over the summer, I'll probably take Reiki II, which teaches how to heal other people.

For now, I'm content with the feeling of rejuvination that I get from practicing the rediscovered art. Will I ever go on to be a Reiki master? Once again, my mother's words of wisdom come to mind.

We'll see!

A Tribute to Flickers

We watched The Maltese Falcon the other night for the umpteenth time. I wasn't sure I wanted to sit through it again, but my husband insisted. So I settled in to the familiar story, told in noir style, of a treasure hunt littered with casualties. I still don't get the attraction between Mary Astor's and Humphrey Bogart's characters. Mary Astor is just an asshole as far as I can tell. But the movie is so beautifully shot and the story so well told, that I settled in and found myself noticing things I hadn't before.

That's the beauty of a great movie.

Others favorites that we've viewed over and over include Casablanca, Wizard of Oz and Citizen Kane. In the category of holiday classics, I still enjoy It's a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol (appreciated in its many forms, including Mr. Magoo's version and Scrooged), The Ref and the Bishop's Wife.

In another category altogether are the guilty pleasures, the movies I watch with my son. There's the pair of Adam Sandler flicks, The Water Boy and Happy Gilmore. Plus Uncle Buck, My Cousin Vinny.and Animal House (with a preamble to remind my kid that, while I find the movie hilarious, I in no way condone these kinds of shenanigans in real life).

Then we come to the movies that are mine, the ones I watch when the house is empty of testosterone. The Bridges of Madison County. The Desk Set (or any Hepburn/Tracy flick). Educating Rita. The Enchanted April. First, I go to the Baskin Robbins at the corner, grab me a milk shake, then hunker down for a couple of hours of pure escapist joy.

I also enjoy early comedies, a la Charlie Chaplin, the Marx Brothers and W.C. Fields. And who can resist Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and their amazing dancing and wise-cracking humor set to the music of Cole Porter?

My tribute to film would not be complete without mentioning the 15-minute favorites. My husband, like many males of our species, is a compulsive channel changer. It is not uncommon for him to land on one of several movies for which we always seem to catch the last 15 minutes. We've gotten so we know some of them by heart. They include, first and foremost, Rio Bravo. Also The Shawshank Redemption, Green Mile, and the Guns of Navarone.

If I had to, I could live without cable television. But I'd be hard pressed to go on without my favorite flickers.

This weekend, we'll be watching The Quiet Man, in honor of St. Patrick's Day. And yes, I'll still roll my eyes a little when the woman says, "Here's a fine stick to beat the lovely lady." But I'll laugh and love it all the same.

A Tribute to Old Socks

"Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." 

I learned this little ditty during my two-year stint with the Girl Scouts. Wanting to give proper credit to the author, I turned to the Google to see who owned these words of wisdom. It seems the jury is out. The response was mostly "anonymous" -- except for one website, which attributed it to composer Joseph Parry.

This morning I awoke with this chestnut, complete with its jaunty tune, going through my mind. What stuck was the thought of old friends and what they bring to the party. I thought about a pair of old socks. How comfortable they are, how they keep your feet warm and safe, but you don't think about them much. They're just there, day in and day out, doing their thing.

Then I started to compile a list in my head of why old friends shouldn't be taken for granted. Now I'm going to torture you, too. So here we go.

1. You can pass gas, and an old friend will pretend nothing is amiss, even when the green odorous waves are overpowering. (I'm talking about women friends here, obviously.)

2. They know what to do when you're in a foul mood. (In my case, it involves giving me space. And lots of it.)

3. They let you talk when you need to, even when they've heard that song before.

4. A friend will read your blog faithfully. And not tell you when it put them to sleep or made them itchy.

5. You can depend on a friend to pull the random cat hair from the back of your sweater. Or tell you there's a piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth. Or that your socks don't match.

6. A friend knows when you need a cup of coffee. Stat.

7.  There are codes between old friends that only the two of you understand. Sometimes you only need to say a word or two to crack them up.

8. Old friends pretend to believe you're going to stick with your latest project, even though they know it's probably going to head off to the same place to die as all of your other new projects.

9. With all of your foibles and shortcomings, and despite the fact that you sometimes take them for granted, an old friend puts up with you.

10. Old friends just know. And they don't hold that against you.

To all of my friends (and family, who double as friends), know that I appreciate every one of you.

And, please, don't take the "old sock" thing personally. I meant it in the best possible way!

Ich Bin Ein Amerikanerin

We were watching one of our favorite movies last night, Casablanca. The Germans were the bad guys (naturally). And they got to the part where the German leader stood up and led a rousing chorus of a patriotic tune from his homeland. Laszlo jumped into the fray and struck up the French national anthem, resulting in tears all around and a lump in the throat.

(Artist's Rendering of German Stuff)

The Germans are pretty much always the bad guys. Which makes it tough being almost all German. To this day, I feel a slight revulsion to the country of my ancestors. Maybe this is just growing up as a Baby Boomer. Seeing those images of Hitler and the throngs of people shouting "seig heil" and jabbing their arm in the air. All that turning a blind eye -- or worse -- to a genocidal maniac.

When my son was growing up, he wanted to pretend to shoot people with the umbrella. (We didn't buy him toy guns, but kids do improvise.) He wanted to know who the bad guys were. My husband said the Germans. I took exception, and pointed out that, while my husband is Irish, our son is half German. So my kid shot his umbrella at the Nazis instead.

Of course, my ancestors sailed over here in the 1700's and 1800's, so they arrived long before the taint of either of the World Wars. And the German traditions were pretty much washed out of the gene pool by the time they got to me. This sometimes makes me a little sad, because we didn't have a lot of customs handed down to us. Our menu was often right out of Betty Crocker and was a combination of Depression frugality (city chicken) and 1960's ingenuity (Chef Boyardee pizza from a box). I sometimes imagine it would have been cool to hang out in the kitchen with plump, elderly aunts with thick German accents who worked together to concoct heavenly strudel and dumplings to die for.

As it stands, the only thing left of my Germanic ancestry is swimming around in my bloodstream. Even the name of my birth went away when I got married. There are times when I wonder what part of me is the German part. The dark sense of humor? The depressive tendencies? My secret fascination with lederhosen?

At the end of the day, it's unfair to attribute my weird make-up to any particular country. I'll just call myself an American (sans "Native") and leave it at that.

Given that we are a melting pot, this designation seems appropriate.