Thursday, July 5, 2018

The Beloved Blue Convertible 2005 - 2018: An Obit of Sorts

The Beloved Blue Convertible was towed away by the ETV Endowment car donation wrecker today after an unexpected demise on Friday following a fried engine and radiator resulting  in a breakdown on I95.

After a consultation at a Walterboro mechanic’s shop, the decision was made not to repair because of the considerable expense that didn’t make sense for the 13-year-old vehicle with 185,000 miles, a cracked dashboard and tattered upholstery.

The Beloved Blue Convertible is survived by her driver, Reba Campbell, who will miss her style, stability and bike rack that always made it easy to find the car in a parking lot.
 The Beloved Blue Convertible was predeceased by her favorite travel companions, Beaufort and Dixie, the golden retrievers who loved the car as much as her driver did.


The Beloved Blue Convertible brought her driver much joy. She took the driver to many great biking outings like the Swamp Rabbit Trail in Greenville, the beach at Amelia Island, the Colonial Parkway in Williamsburg VA, and the riverwalk in Columbus GA, plus the countless trips to Litchfield and Hilton Head with bikes attached to her trunk.

The Beloved Blue Convertible had several memorable adventures including a ride in the Cayce Christmas parade with Miss Greenville Scottish Games and Dixie plus a movie cameo with the Chick-Fil-A cow in the back seat. She was always up for something fun.



While some may have called the Beloved Blue Convertible  messy, her large truck space meant the driver could keep all sorts of emergency provisions on hand at all times – a beach chair, spare tennis shoes and flip flops, random gym equipment like boxing gloves, weights and a jump rope; bike maintenance products; a spare bike helmet; dozens of old CDs; three yoga mats; a dozen books; Armor All; extra sunglasses, reading glasses and night driving glasses; a music stand; dog biscuits; three beach towels; two hand towels; extra uke picks and several dozen grocery bags. All of these emergency provisions have been transferred safely to the driver’s new vehicle.

The driver asks that in lieu of memorials, friends and family deliver a random act of kindness to someone as a way to repay all the people who extended their kindness and generosity to her after the Beloved Blue Convertible’s breakdown and subsequent demise.

The driver wishes to gratefully thank the following people who served as her Beloved Blue Convertible’s village during its happy life and recent rapid demise: the driver’s many friends and family members who endured 13 years of really hot or really cold rides because of the driver’s need to have the top down at all times unless it was raining or below 60 degrees; Jack (Porkchop) Miles who thought the driver was really cool in the neighborhood driving what he thought was a Lamborghini; Bill and Patrick at Complete Car Care who the driver always trusted implicitly with automotive decisions; Ren Bradley for his perpetually sound advice about all things automotive;

John Peters who, as a kid, loved to jump into the back seat without opening the door when the top was down and who drove to Walterboro on Friday night to take the driver to Charleston after she was stranded; Elizabeth Foster for giving the driver a bed for the night after the breakdown and helping arrange a rental car; the Highway Patrol dispatcher who didn’t dismiss the driver’s fear and feeling of vulnerability at being stranded; Walterboro Mayor Bill Young who brought his truck to pick up the driver and her bikes and gave them a safe place to wait after the car was towed;


Tommy at RPM Automotive in Walterboro for allowing the driver to leave the Beloved Blue Convertible in his shop’s lot over the holiday until it could be towed away; the ETV Endowment for its car donation program that allowed the driver to part with her Beloved Blue Convertible knowing it would have another life; Zeke Bennett for the BMW referral; and Colby Alley at BMW of Columbia for his patience and non-salesy approach to selling the driver a new car.

A memorial service for the Beloved Blue Convertible will be held at a later date in conjunction with a celebration of the driver’s new car.



The earlier story of the Beloved Blue Convertible’s final days is available here.






Sunday, July 1, 2018

The blue convertible - is it time for her to retire?

I have a number of friends who have recently retired. They have all told me they “just knew it was time.”
 
I wonder if my beloved 13-year-old blue convertible is trying to tell me it’s time for her to retire. She had a major meltdown on the interstate this week when she completely cut off just yards short of an exit (thankfully). It made me realize I may have been ignoring the signs she’s trying to tell me something.
 
 
Two AAA calls in one week. A perpetually lit “check engine” light that my longtime trusted mechanic assures me is just an electrical glitch. A remote that will no longer take a new battery, so I’ve been using the key to unlock the door for months. Cracks in the dashboard. A shredded sun visor. A few holes in the back seat upholstery.

If car years are the same as dog years, then she’s 91 and well past retirement age!

 
Maybe this incident on the interstate is her way of saying “we’ve had a really good ride” (185,000 miles worth to be exact) but maybe it’s time for her to retire to a less stressful life of in-town travel. No bike rack to add to her weight. No dog to drool on her seats. No yoga mats to pile up in the back seat.

I’ve never considered myself a car person. I always thought the only kind of car I would actually buy for myself would be a convertible. I drove practical, fairly unmemorable cars from the time I got my license.
 
My first car was my grandfather’s 1964 Dodge Coronet 440. I went to college in a two-door orange Monza purchased from my dad’s secretary. I went to Washington after college in a two-door Mazda GLC. After that it was a series of hand-me-downs from family members – my mother’s Mazda 626, my dad’s Cadillac, my mother-in-law’s Chevy Cavalier.
 
When I took a job 13 years ago that then offered a car allowance, my long buried desire for a convertible was ignited. After considerable research and substantial “purchase angst,” I settled on a blue Toyota Solara with a black soft top. It was hard to locate, but a car buying service found one in Georgia, and it was delivered to my driveway on New Year’s Eve 2005.
 
I have so many happy memories these past 13 years associated with this car.

She willingly took on a permanent adornment of a double bike rack three years ago and has suffered the indignity of minor bike pedal punctures and scrapes to her bumper.
She’s taken me many miles to that have included many great biking locations like the Swamp Rabbit Trail in Greenville, the mountains at Kanuga, the beach at Amelia Island, the Colonial Parkway in Williamsburg VA, the riverwalk in Columbus GA. And that’s not including the countless trips to Litchfield and Hilton Head with bikes attached to her trunk.
 
 
My Dixie loved my car as much as I do. She would always have a big dog grin when sitting in the front seat next to me – ears flapping in the wind. On long trips we finally reached a truce to keep her in the back seat when I learned to block the front seat access with a clothes basket and folded beach chair. She would snooze on her own yoga mat in the back seat, front paws always dangling off the seat. Although she died in January, the windows still bear her nose smudges and the upholstery has evidence of her drooling tongue when she slept.  
I got great joy when I could surprise my then-elementary aged nephew to pick him up from school in the convertible with the top down. He and his friends would barrel out the door and jump into the back seat without opening the door like Magnum PI, and we’d set off for a breezy ride across the Cooper River and ice cream on the other side.
 
But this recent breakdown on the interstate was really scary, and I think she’s telling me it’s time for her to retire.  
I’ve been to a lot of really happy retirement parties lately that involved videos, slide shows, scrapbooks, good food and kind words. Maybe it’s time to figure out an appropriate send-off for my blue convertible that doesn't involve a tow truck, AAA, the highway patrol and a village of people to get me and my bikes home.


Friday, June 8, 2018

Another conundrum of adulting: Aging or Ageless?

I suppose part of the art adulting is examining the issue of age. Are we aging or ageless? How old do you have to be before you qualify as elderly, old or middle aged?

Is it when you start having those age-related medical tests like a colonoscopy, mammogram and bone density test? Is it when you qualify for the senior discount at the pharmacy? Is it when the server calls you ma’am instead of miss? Is it when those old people cartoons on napkins don't seem so funny anymore?
It just gets more and more confounding. I’m closer in age to one 40-year-old friend’s parents, and recently realized I’m several years older than a 31-year-old friend’s mother. A friend two years behind me in high school already has three grandchildren while another friend my age still has four kids in middle school.

I’m finding it more and more difficult to look at random people and tell their age. Growing up, I identified “my age” as someone in my grade at school.

When I moved back to Columbia ten years after college graduation, that “my age” definition seemed to have shifted as people I’d known growing up who were, at the point, “way older” or “way younger” became “my age.” That first grade girl who remembered me as a 12th grade cheerleader introduced me to her husband as someone she went to school with.

In my mind when I was growing up, old always equaled looking, dressing and acting a certain way. That certain way involved panty hose, a weekly beauty parlor appointment and lipstick.
I haven’t bought panty hose in 20 years. I go to a salon and not a beauty parlor  - and that’s only once every couple of months for a color touch up. The closest I get to lipstick is Burt’s Bees lip balm that I keep in every pocket, drawer and bag I use.

A recent NPR radio program really got me thinking about the idea of age. When I'm on vacation, one of my favorite indulgences is having the time to listen to the full hour of my favorite NPR programs live, in real time.

One topic that kept me intrigued was about the consequences of middle age. I was raptly attentive until I realized the host was using 40 as the benchmark for middle age.

While I can’t exactly pinpoint when I consider middle age to kick in, it certainly isn’t 40! Most of my 40ish friends are still negotiating carpools, soccer schedules or orthodontist appointments. To me, that doesn’t square with middle age.


Yet, everything the host and guests talked about was relevant to me … except the 40 part. So if I’m 17 years past this magic mark of 40 that defines the descent into middle age, where exactly does 57 fall on this age spectrum?

I’m on the barely trailing end of being a boomer. I’m on the early end of contemporaries who are retiring. I have long-since received my first solicitation for AARP membership. I now qualify to live in my parent’s retirement community. So am I middle aged? What’s the next phase? Old?


There was lots of discussion on this radio program about why age does or doesn’t matter. Is it just a number on a driver’s license? Should age drive our decisions? Should we consider age more a matter of how we feel not how we look?

A painful back injury last summer made me realize that age does impact how I feel. I’m fairly active. While I’m typically the oldest (by far) in a workout class, I can usually keep up pretty well. But when I went to the doctor to figure out what I needed to do to make this injury better and ensure it wouldn’t happen again, all he could offer was “stop aging.”

I recently saw a black and white photo of myself doing something I enjoy immensely – playing the uke with my friends in our band, Serious FM. After one recent outdoor performance, a friend shared some photos he had taken us. They were artfully edited black and white photos that clearly illustrated our joy, concentration, fun and passion in playing. I was blown away by his thoughtfulness and grateful to be able to witness us playing through the lens of his camera.

Later, however, I went back and looked at the photos again. Somehow the lens that had reflected joy, fun, focus and passion the first time I looked, was now showing off my age spots, wrinkled neck and sagging jawline. How’d that happen? 
I immediately realized I was looking at myself in a judgy way that I would never look at my friends in those photographs. I quickly recalibrated my thought process recalling how one friend said he thought I looked like a “badass” in the photos (I took that as positive feedback) and another said she thought I had “good shoulders.”
Maybe they too had noticed the age spots, sagging jawline and wrinkled neck but what really came through was the fact we were enjoying the heck out of something we were doing just for the joy of it.

And that’s ageless!

 
 
 
 
 
 
Read the earlier posts in my series about adulting:
 
(photo credits: Shell Suber)
 

Monday, April 16, 2018

Slow down and stop “adulting” so hard

Published April 13 in MIdlandsLife 

We all know “adulting” can be difficult. It’s the job that’s forced on everyone over the age of 21 that could include a daily work routine, personal commitments, health scares, money issues, family responsibilities and unanticipated twists in the road. 

My recent post on the idea of just having fun got me musing about how fun fits into rigors of adulting. Over the past few years, I’ve attempted to take some breaks from adulting so hard and tried a few things that revolve around creativity, new experiences, fun, and just slowing down or showing up. These were things I wanted to do just for the sake of doing - not to meet a goal, achieve an end, or prove something to myself or others. 
 
As I took these occasional diversions from adulting, I was pleasantly surprised to discover nothing bad happened. I never missed work deadlines, overlooked paying a bill, forgot to put gas in my car or left the dog out in the rain. Actually lots of good happened, and I've realized that a little adjustment in my definition of adulting can bring bursts of joy, new friends, a little sense of adventure and some much-needed respite that I didn’t know I needed.
 
Here’s a little of what I’ve discovered: 

It doesn't matter if you aren't good at it (whatever "it" is).
For me that “it” is music. For most of my adulting life, I lived under the false impression that everything should be a means to an end – meeting a goal or expectation, whether mine or someone else’s. I've written about this before when exploring the art of creative dabbling versus regimented "doing" and came to the realization that the fun can be in the journey of the practice, rather than the destination of the perfect.

Admittedly, I don't have an untapped musical talent, an undiscovered angel's voice or even a basic sense of rhythm. I always thought these apparent shortcomings that meant the delight of playing music would be forever lost to me. I listened as others in my life talked about the "zone" of playing music. Sure, cool for you, I thought, but I figured I’d never experience that because I'd never be good at music.
 
Enter the magic of a little yellow ukulele and a diverse group of people I play music with who live the belief you don't have to be good - you just have to show up, try, play and have fun.
 
A conversation with an artist friend over the holidays drove home this idea of "not being good at something.” We were talking about my uke playing. I gushed about how much fun it is, but I punctuated the conversation by saying "but I'll never be good at it." She stopped me mid-sentence. She said "never say you're not good at something." Enjoy it. Try it. Learn from it. That's more than enough reason to do it (whatever that "it" is).

That conversation kept gurgling around in my brain, and I finally recognized the fact she was exactly right. I realized it was easy to lose sight of the fact that the practice journey is far more important than the perfect destination. And I do love the practice, but more importantly I love the fellowship - with my Uke-a-Ladies (+ Steve) sip 'n strum group,  my adult rock band class, my Sunday morning church group, the  occasional uke jams at Sims Music and the library, or my weekly lesson.

Not once has anyone ever told me I had to be good; actually no one's ever said I had to be adequate. All I have to do is show up, be a part of things and have fun. 
 
I had been adulting so hard, I’d forgotten how much fun it is to just have fun.



 

 

Thursday, March 22, 2018

Fun.

I’m usually not one to wear a silly sequined fedora and oversized t-shirt while standing in the rain for an hour on a chilly, windy Saturday morning. But on St. Patrick’s Day, I did just that, along with dozen or so other adults and a handful of kids playing music on a parade float gliding down Devine Street toward the rabble in Five Points.

It was fun. Period. Just plain fun.

The idea of fun is something that’s often lost on us grown-ups. We spend so much time “adulting” - taking care of business, taking care of family, taking care of work, taking care of everything but ourselves – that fun never even registers as a priority.

But I’ve been working on finding fun, and on St. Pat’s it came in the form of those silly clothes. 
Actually the silly clothes didn’t make the morning fun – they just made me feel more a part of the fun. The real fun was getting caught up in something bigger than just me - something that made people smile, laugh, sing, dance and just have a good time.

I am learning to play the ukulele by taking an adult rock band class at Freeway Music, and we scored a spot on the school’s parade float to play several songs the mile or so down Devine Street into Five Points. Our band, Serious FM, consists of three guitar players (one sometimes playing mandolin), a drummer and my uke. My other Freeway class – the Sip ‘n Strum Ukeladies – marched and played alongside the float.

We had carefully watched the weather all week trading texts about who was in charge of chasing away the rain. On Saturday morning, we arrived at the appointed spot to meet the float. We were garbed in wacky green glasses, silly hats, green beads, Freeway Music t-shirts and rain ponchos.

Organizers had said the parade would happen rain or shine, so at 10 a.m., we launched – in the rain. 

Once the wheels on the flatbed started turning, however, we were the rock band and the ukulele band … not the professionals, parents, caregivers, spouses, coaches and bosses we “adult” as every day. For that hour, we rocked, we skipped, we sang, we strummed, we danced.

As we rode toward Five Points, I had a flash of that saying “dance like no one is looking.” In glancing around at my friends on and around that float, I think each one of us was living that for an hour.

If the elderly piano teacher of my youth had taught me to play the way we are learning music as adults, I might have ended up at Carnegie Hall (or at least in a honky-tonk music hall). Back then, performing meant playing a scary one-person recital of uninteresting classical music on an empty stage. That wasn’t fun. 
This is fun.
Of course, it’s fun to discover I can actually learn to play an instrument through sheer practice, patience and perseverance. But it’s also fun to discover the fellowship and friendship from people I never would have met otherwise.

And we all deserve a little fun, right?


Friday, January 12, 2018

Our Dixie - the gifts of a much-loved dog

This sweet girl quietly left our world Wednesday afternoon. Our beloved Dixie curled up in a sun puddle on the patio and just didn’t wake up. I’m imagining her heart just gave out from the effects of a serious recent illness and powerful drugs she had been taking.

While her physical heart may have stopped beating and her physical fluffy body is no longer here, her real heart will always remain a presence in my life.


Yes, everyone thinks their dogs are special. And Dixie was. She came to us as a 2 – 3 year old rescue with two sets of vet records. We chose to believe the one that made her younger so she’d last longer. She was probably 13 when she left us.


After the death of our beloved Golden, Beaufort, a friend found out about Dixie from a friend. Dixie had been in two families who just didn’t have time for her. We saw the flyer, fell in love and agreed to take her on a week-end trial run.



She showed up almost nine years ago with a thick red leash looped around her belly because she was so hard to control. All she came with was a bag of dog food with an old measuring cup, her vet records and that red leash. Her first evening with us was spent at the neighbor’s house with lots of dogs, kids, noise and food. We quickly discovered she was an expert counter surfer. She was hooked and so were we.

She had mischievous energy. Up to her last day, she was scavenging the trash can, licking dishes in the dishwasher and hiding contraband she had stolen off the counter. She would “tunnel” between your legs or give you a wet nose nuzzle when she wanted attention. She could block your path with her big fluffy self - forcing a stop for a quick ear scratch or belly rub.


Dixie was a creature of habit with three places in the house where I knew she could always be found. Every morning at 7:45 she jumped up from her chair in the sunroom barking at something – I never did figure out what. She knew when a certain light switch clicked it was time for bed. She had an intuition for what her “people” needed and gave it unselfishly.

 
As Dixie got older and more mellow, she became my beach travel companion. This was our happy place.



Last summer, I decided we needed to fit her for a sandwich board that said “therapy dog for people on vacation who miss their dogs.”

She was a magnet for kids on the beach never tiring of small hands groping her ears, pulling her tail or rubbing her belly (which she would quickly show at the slightest interest of anyone). So interesting how she loved kids never having lived with any.

At the beach she became a regular at several of my favorite restaurants, to the point one waitress knew her name and knew to drop exactly three ice cubes in her water bowl. At Thanksgiving, two families “rented” her for their holiday card photos.


One of my happiest moments with her was just a week or so ago as we sat quietly on a very cold beach watching the final magnificent sunrise of 2017.


Dixie’s serious illness in late October now makes me reflect on what a gift we had with these last weeks. She was a little slower but still up for a walk, or even better, a ride in the convertible. She’d rest her head on the side of the car with her ears flapping out like the flying nun. I was forever coming up with cartoon bubbles to describe what I was sure she was thinking.

Three beach trips, miles of walks, hours of nuzzles, not to mention several trash can disasters and disappearing food items filled her last weeks. We had some great adventures over the past few weeks - visiting Soda City, eating lunch with a friend on the patio at Salty Nut, making a Still Hopes visit, riding in the Cayce Christmas parade. I hold those memories so dear.




Now, I feel her physical absence intensely  - the click of her toenails on the hardwood floors, her nighttime sleep stirrings, her nose pressing at the patio door when she wanted to come in, her fluffy presence at the gate when I pulled in the driveway, her dance around the food bowl, the language of her eyes saying she’s ready for a little attention – or even more her eyes saying she knew I was in need of a little attention.


She’s left a hole in my heart, and I’m working on accepting her death with gratitude for her life and what she taught, gave and how she loved.


Anyone who doesn't believe dogs have souls, can smile and love, just never met Dixie to prove them wrong. Several friends have told me Dixie won the lottery when she got us. I know it was the other way around.

Rest in peace, sweet girl.
 



 
 

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Are you a "wordie"? Celebrate National Word Nerd Day

Today is National Word Nerd day. This might not prompt the same reason for celebration as National Ice Cream Day or National Take Your Pet to Work Day for most folks. But for people like me, National Word Nerd Day is a chance to get your word freak on.

In anticipation of today's celebration, I was reading back through some of my previous  posts about my pride in being a "wordie" (I think I like that description better than word nerd) - describing pet grammar peeves, writing poetry about my love of a purple pen or describing the joy of receiving a hand-written note. Who else but a dedicated wordie could write about the relationship between smoking a pork butt and writing?

A quick glance around my home and office illustrates it’s clear I qualify as a world class word nerd. Just a few examples:
·   Your choice of clothes illustrates your word nerdiness. My “grammar police” t-shirt is always on the top of my t-shirt pile when I open my drawer. I have jewelry made from old typewriter keys, and I know the brand of typewriter.

·  The most treasured possessions you keep on your desk scream word nerd. Mine is a mocked up copy of the ETV program guide the staff gave me when I left my job there many years ago. The cover art was a photo of me dressed up as the “Grammar Police.”
 
 
·  You get your jollies from sharing funny newspaper typos and  cartoons with like-minded word nerds. I ove the fact that this is a frequent topic of texts with my young adult goddaughter.

·   You read the AP Stylebook for fun and make waves with its editor when you disagree with an entry. I recently raised a question about a particular entry in the 2017 edition of the Styleboook. I actually got a response from an editor noting my question was an issue worth considering. I’m anxiously awaiting release of the 2018 edition to see if the change got made.

·   Your bookshelf is laden with old and out-of-date dictionaries, thesauruses, AP Stylebooks and books about writing, editing, writers and typewriters. I still have my eleventh and twelfth grade grammar books, plus my “Elements of Style” book from college freshman year.
·   The topic of sentence diagramming is worthy of stopping the car to pay attention to a news story on the radio. This NPR storyabout diagramming sentences gave me a driveway moment this week.
 
·   Your beach reading list includes a stack of word nerd books. This summer my list included "Between You and I," "The Typewriter Revolution," the new edition of "The Elements of Style" (which includes beautiful artwork), and a re-read of my old favorite “Woe is I.”

But I recognize just because I self-identify as a wordie doesn't mean I don't fall victim to my own typos and errors - that's part of the territory. This is taped to my computer as a reminder. Sometimes I just get carried away with the words and don't pay enough attention to the rules.

 
Fellow wordies, share your own word nerd stories!