LOFT LIFE: You can find almost anything in this library

I told you I like to go to the library in our apartment building--both for its “hot spot” wireless offering, and because it’s where you meet people in our residential community.

The truth is, I really want free Internet. The meeting people part, though I do enjoy the memory of, is somewhat annoying, especially on weekends, when I want to hear the crashing, smashing and complimentary sounds of Bejeweled while I listen to my Internet radio and maybe play another (card) game. I am a great multitasker. No matter that it has been proven that multitasking is a bad thing--inefficient, to say the least. I like it! And, on the day of rest, who cares about efficiency!

So, on this particular Sunday, I was ecstatic to see the other two people, a young father and his young daughter, were on the non-outlet side of the library, so I could plug in, play to my heart’s content, with no danger of battery-drain

One should never make assumptions.

I couldn’t help but hear this dear little girl and her questions to Papa.

“Do you want me to read?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” came his distracted reply. He was busy doing something on his laptop, and had evidently allowed her to choose a book from the vast number on the floor to ceiling shelves--all donated by residents, many of them grad students.

“I can’t read this,” she added. 

“OK,” again distracted.

“Do you want me to read because you are working? Is this my work?” she asked, searching for logic as she tried again to make out the words.

“Um-hmm,” he said.

“You mean I should be working if you are working?” she asked.

“Um. Sometimes,” he reasoned.

“OK. But, I hate to read.”

Children are so in the moment.

When can I work with you?”

“You mean you want to go to work with me? he asked, momentarily stunned.

“”Uh-huh.”

“Well, you first have to learn a lot of things--and read,” he triumphed, still unaware of her library selection.

At that comment, I just had to help. I presented myself to the table, asked if it would be OK for her to visit me on the other side of the room (about 15 feet away), separated by a partial wall.

“Sure,” Dad smiled, a bit hesitant at the unexpected stroke of luck.

“What is your name?” I queried.

“Janella,” she said. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent as JW would say.)

“OK, Janella, that is a very pretty name. All the kids call me Auntie M,”I told her. Her father smiled. How harmful could Auntie M be, he must have thought.

“Why don’t we go over to my table for a minute,” I said, and we walked hand in hand, her pigtails bouncing and her smile widening.

“I think maybe you like to read if you find the right book,” I told her, hoping to turn around this dangerous curve in her learning road. “Let me see what you have been reading,” I asked for the book.

Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka. Good grief.

I’m pretty sure this Czech-Austrian author’s works haven’t made it to the second grade reading list--even these short stories.

“Oh my. I wonder if your dad even realizes what you are reading,” I laughed. So let’s find something more to your liking--and maybe more on your reading level. You did say second grade, right?”

“First there was first, and then second. Going into second.”

“OK then. Do you like stories about animals? People?”

“Not animals. People,” she affirmed.

“I think I have just the thing in my room,” I said.

Her father preferred for her to stay with him. I scurried down the hall, found a third grade primer I had hanging around on the shelf in my living room, and hurried back.

“I think this is a good one,” I said, handing Three Friends to her. My son read this one in elementary school.

“Is it a long book?” she asked, I imagine with new fears of long books all looking like Kafka.

“It has chapters,” I said, “but it isn’t that long.”

She plowed right into the story of the kids visiting a farm. No hesitation at all. 

“You can read aloud if you like,” I told her, thinking I should be sure she was having no trouble reading it.

“Wow,” I said. “You are quite the reader.”

“I told you I was in second grade,” she beamed.

Realizing that now I was stuck, listening to a third grade book read by a second grader, and no longer free to play cards, Bejeweled, or even listen to my radio, I had to chuckle at myself. 

Once a woman in my church asked me if I would like to be Mrs. Santa for the Christmas event.

“I hate children,” I told her.

Being the literal type, not prone to hyperbole, she said, “Oh, but you’re so good with you daughter.”

“Oh, I don’t hate my children,” I assured.

When I related this to my oldest daughter, she laughed. She knows me.

“Well, as I recall, it was Santa who spent the time with the children,” she assured. “Mrs. Santa, I believe, ran the toy shop, which you could do.”

This is simply to tell you that being confined with six three-year-olds during a nursery duty at church, is my idea of torture. I spend the whole time looking at my watch, hoping it will soon be over.

I know. How awful a person am I! You don’t have to lay on any further guilt. I mean what kind of woman doesn’t dote on three-year-olds?

Anyway, seven-year-olds are a bit better. At least they can carry on a reasonably interesting conversation. But that really has its limits.

So here I was, listening to her, wondering when her father would call her back over, torn between my need to make sure she grows up loving books, and my need for Bejeweled clicking, crashing and complimenting. Quite a struggle really.

Then she began to show me her missing and loose teeth. This wasn’t going to be a short visit. She was truly charming. It is I who am the curmudgeon. (Never actually heard that word describe a woman before.)

“Do you do the tooth fairy at your house?” I asked.

“Uh-huh, but look. I am showing you my teeth.” An earnest little lass.

“I see. OK. Do you like the book?” 

“Yes. Look, I finished the first chapter.” She showed the Chapter Two heading.

“Have they gotten to the farm?” I asked.

“No, they are still in the car,” she laughed at me.

Not too much later, her father got on the phone, arranging dinner. I think he requested it in the library. I groaned. But, the answer appears to have been negative. A few minutes later, he told Janella they had to go to dinner.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her.

She hesitated.

“You may take the book,” I encouraged.

Big smile, “OK. Look Daddy, I have a book!”

“I am not sure you or I could read Kafka either,” I chided him. “Probably a good idea to check out what she is reading.”

That was probably unnecessary, unless you realize that she had skipped from first grade to the summer of 2010 to Kafka’s short stories with the erroneous generalization that she hated reading, and that it was work (Kafka) comparable to her daddy’s daily toil. I mean who wouldn't have drawn that conclusion? Second grader or no. 

I like to think I rescued her before it was too late. I like to think one little hour of skipping Bejeweled has its rewards. 

LOFT LIFE: Getting fit for decades to come--I hope

In my never flagging zeal to stem the advance of the aches, pains, diseases and decay of old age, I have entered into a new fitness program: boxing.

I know, kickboxing is nothing new. But, I mean actual boxing. For my birthday I requested an Everlast 70 lb. punching bag. The one the professionals use. Now, not being your actual athletic type, I didn’t realize what this meant. All I can say is it’s a good thing we have 20 foot ceilings in our loft apartment, because this 70 lb. baby requires a stand that is 7 feet high! Wow. I am so glad we live in a loft apartment. This wouldn’t have worked in the two-story colonial.

I don’t know why, I just felt like putting on gloves (included in the Wal-Mart deal), was sure it would be something I'd do every day. Well, I mean putting on the gloves and punching the bag. Maybe even kicking it when I get braver. It’s a kind of workout that seems more fun than just treadmilling to a TV show.

My concern is that I might break a thumb or a wrist doing this. So I called my daughter, who does kick boxing, and who has quite a bit of fitness training, for advice. I like it that she’s surprised by my attitude, that I am not winding down, I’m revving up, even in my old age.

She did want a picture of me at the punching bag to verify I wasn’t fibbing. Then she  proceeded to answer my questions: “Well, you probably won’t overdo it, because you won’t be able to hit it very hard at first. In fact, why don’t you just first get used to it, push the bag, get a feel for it.”

I did that, it helped.

She called again a week later, suggesting I might want to get a personal trainer to show me the moves.

“Where does one find a boxing coach these days?” I asked, picturing Carol Channing in Thoroughly Modern Millie, taking boxing lessons, and liking that image of me too. (You may have noticed by now, from reading my stuff, that a lot of really good life suggestions can be had from the movies.) 

“Just put it out there,” she suggested, because in my family there is kind of a mystique about me that when I say I want something, it usually appears at my door, or close by soon after I state my need or wish. “I think it’s God,” she said. “Kind of like when a child tells a parent they want something, but the parent doesn’t do it right away. The parent waits to see if this is a real desire or just a whim.”

So OK. I put it out there for Him to hear.

Do you know, the NEXT DAY the front page of the paper I only get on Sundays and Thursdays had a picture on the front page of the Local section of a female with boxing gloves on!  Under the picture was a caption that said she was training for a match at a martial arts studio--only 3 miles from my apartment. Wow. God is a parent who responds fast. 

Maybe He thinks I need this sooner than later. After all, almost daily I count up how many Christmases I probably have left, and how many vacations. Maybe I will have more if I get a boxing coach and do the punching right.

In any case, I am sparring away, feeling better every day about it. I feel stronger. I was grating cheese the other day and 10 minutes of grating a hard Turkish cheese didn’t tire me at all--which it usually does.

I will go to the martial arts studio as soon as we return from our trip.

Oh, and I also got a Water Pik TM. They promise healthier gums in 14 days. 

So with my healthy gums and stronger upper body, I expect to add a couple of decades to my life. Hmm. Maybe I’d better put that out there for Him to hear too. :)

LOFT LIFE: A pause for the comma

I believe I suffer from comma phobia. You heard me right. I have a sincere wish to avoid the little rascals altogether. They frighten me. I think it started when I proofread school papers for my daughter, and she would get downgraded from my removal of her commas. This was then exacerbated when my best friend, Gail, a former college professor, raised her eyebrows at my journalistic use of commas, far sparser than her academic comma usage.

Let me also tell you, it is a point of honor for me that I scored 99th percentile in punctuation and grammar on my high school achievement tests. Every year. It is the only academic area where I can say that--except for my ability to recognize and name every instrument in the orchestra. But, that’s irrelevant here. I could diagram sentences with the best of them; I rarely got below A+ on any English grammar, spelling or punctuation test. 

So it rattles me that I am insecure in my use of the innocent comma. 

I think some of the confusion stems from the transition from high school and college writing to journalism, where different expectations for comma usage exist, as I have already said. But, something inside tells me it is more than that.

Lately I find myself insecurely adding commas where commas have never gone before. It’s a mixture of respect for Gail and her ilk, and fear of seeing them furrow their brows at my dearth of commas. I can almost hear the clicking tongues of the schoolteachers as they read my well-thought out commas. 

I am no longer sure whether or not my meaning is clear without them; I end up giving the comma the benefit of the doubt, then I subject myself to more pain and suffering by re-reading my text and wrestling over whether to remove many of them.

I realize I cannot have this conversation with just any Tom, Jane or Sally, but  I know you care. I implore you to consider how much anguish we writers endure for the sake of clarity versus creativity, and accuracy versus enjoyable reading. Therein is the real problem: for some, enjoyment has nothing to do with accuracy; for others it is the very rock on which they stumble when their rules are not followed, and they cannot, for the sake of incorrect grammar, allow themselves to enjoy even an artistic sentence or phrase. It’s the old chalkboard squeak or the symphonic dissonance that they just cannot bear.

Much of the dilemma has become clearer to me in the reading of Lynne Truss’s delightful book, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, where she devotes an entire chapter to the worthy, small, but mighty, comma. (Truthfully, she is mostly an apostrophe kind of gal, but she does wax humorous in the comma chapter). Since the title of her book belies her disdain for misuse of the comma, I guess those little dears are important to her too. I mean, in case you haven’t figured it out, her title refers to Pandas who eat shoots and leaves. But, if the comma is erroneously inserted where it doesn’t belong, you will think the Panda has visited an eatery, had some dinner, shot the patrons, and exited. All because of a comma. Imagine!

Truss carefully explains that where the college student (or professor) might write: red, white, and blue, the journalist, me, would likely (definitely) spare you the "third degree" and write: red, white and blue. Actually, I get as frowny over Gail’s excessive use as she does my lack of. It seems to me that Gail and her colleagues simply insert commas, willy-nilly; I pride myself on deciding whether inserting that comma will better clarify the meaning of the sentence or not. If not, I restrain myself. I consider that a virtue.

The most illuminating part of Truss’s explanation is the origin of the little mark, and how it was used as much to allow the reader the proper tone, like in music, where pauses become part of the joy of reading aloud, as it was for clarity. She points out that the whole problem began when we started reading silently.

So, now, I really get it. This is the pith of the matter: I write for audio--always have. My stuff is meant for radio, bedtime sharing, reading aloud to one’s self. I think audio. Maybe that is why I need to be alone to write. I can’t have other noises around, or I don’t know what my words will sound like.

There you have it. I am giving myself permission to place commas only where they will “sound right." I will know. Hopefully, you will agree. Not sure I will persuade Gail though.

Loft Life: Sharing

It’s kind of a long story why we don’t fork out the $150 a month for cable TV and broadband Internet to have in our own personal space--our loft apartment. It started when I read the pamphlet on Cox Cable and was reminded of my dealings with Charter. We had cable back in 1995 for a year.  I found that most of what we were paying for, we didn’t want, and the few things we enjoyed weren’t worth the $150. There were many outages, and dealing with the company was less than pleasant, so we cancelled. Later we got Dish Network, which we really enjoyed. 

But, when we got tired of the slow speed of dial up--which took us much longer to tire of than it did for most, I went online and investigated Charter’s broadband-only choice, keeping Dish, even though they didn’t offer a fast Internet option. I ordered Charter’s hardware for wireless online and set up an appointment online. It seemed like a good choice until the day of the appointment when no one showed up. After several emails and phone calls, I  heard the Charter rep say, “Oh, now I see the problem. You owe a balance of $2.33 from 1996.” This was 2006.

“A," I said, "I do not have a balance due that I know of, because no bill to that effect was sent to me, or I would have paid it. And, B, are you really telling me you are going to forfeit the $2000 per year we are willing to pay for Charter because of a balance of $2.33 which we do not owe?”

He replied, “Well, I see your point, but it is too late. It has already gone to collection.”

That slippery slope of frustration, escalating to uglier emotions began to creep in, and I was reminded of why I hadn’t had cable for ten years

“You are going to ruin my credit over $2.33 which I do not owe?” I panicked.

“I cannot help you, but I will give you the phone number of collections,” he offered.

I sighed, took down the number, and called collection.

“Oh we sent it back,” they informed, they too realizing the idiocy of it all.

A different rep at Charter confirmed it had been sent back and then cancelled. By then I knew I just couldn’t do cable, even if it were the fastest and best Internet available to us in our rural town.

So seeing the Cox brochure brought all that back, and I just don’t want to deal with a cable company. I do hear people in the library discussing their own frustrations with Cox billing mixups, confirming my choice.

And, one of the attractions of the loft life we were shown when we were considering this particular loft complex was the offer of a library “hot spot” which had free wireless. Since it is in our building, and we only have a short walk down the hallway to the library, this felt like a really good option.

I had visions of meeting clients in the library to interview them for resumes, and then having access to the Internet to email their final copies to them, right there in their presence. I thought Jay and I could make a date of it at times, and take a walk down the hall to tune into our Netflix Instant Play feature and watch a movie or a TV show there. I saw the library as a way to get me out of my three rooms, nice as they are, and feel a bit like I am “going to work.” 

I've been using the library wireless arrangement now for six months. I have yet to post a flyer for resumes. I've done a couple just because I met people who needed them. It didn’t happen in the library. Jay and I did watch Season Four of Dexter there, but often someone came in, right in the middle of the show, and we had to turn it down so low (due to our superior sense of good manners and sharing, it being a library and all) that we could hardly hear it, which did affect the tension of the show, and that, of course, made it less entertaining. So we rarely do that any more either.

I do walk down to the library daily from my loft, because it does seem like a good idea to designate it a work space.  More often than not, there are people there, making work less productive. Conversation is optional, but one does have to appreciate that community is part of the charm of loft life, and really something I now look forward to.

What I did not count on were the negatives of the public space. They aren’t too serious.

One, as I have said, is that quiet is a given. People do answer cell phones, and most step outside to be polite. There is conversation--students discussing  study questions, business people working out their plans, and parents with children. It is a small space, and there are only two tables with four chairs each, set on opposite sides of the library room, with ceiling-to-floor bookshelves on both sides. 

The lights in the library are very bright, to the point that I have considered wearing my visor to shade my eyes from the harshness. Turning the lights off is possible if I am alone, but inevitably someone comes in who wants to read or look for a book, and the lights must be on for that.

In the winter, there is heat, and it is almost unbearably dry and hot. Hydration is necessary to make it more than a half hour or so which I imagine is just the time period the management is expecting. And, if you do stay, and continually hydrate, that requires unplugging, packing up and leaving to visit the apartment, and then re-packing and going back, in the hopes that the outlet will still be available.

Which brings us to the final problem of the outlet, because there is only one and the distance from the table at the other side of the room is too far to use this outlet. This forces people to either share a table, even if the other one is vacant, or to let their laptop batteries dwindle.

I’m discovering some cultural differences in the concept of sharing and what we Americans call “personal space.”

There’s an Asian couple (I mention their ethnicity because I believe their culture has different rules for personal space), who sit at the other table, and when their batteries run out, they come over to where I am sitting, next to the outlet, and instead of taking a seat at the table and plugging in, they drop to the floor beside me, really right under me, and sit on the floor to plug in there.

“You can’t sit under my body,” I say, feeling very uncomfortable with anyone even hanging over my shoulder, let alone sitting at my feet.

“Just testing,” the Asian man says. “Battery out, just testing,” he repeats.

I tell him he cannot sit there. I motion to the seat beside me at the table. He doesn’t want to do that. I know he isn’t “testing” because I know he has been at the other table long enough for his battery to be low. It is his way of getting a few more minutes.

Another time, his wife did the same thing, which is why I am convinced that they do not have a problem with sharing spaces in close quarters, and that it is a cultural thing.

I remember Asian friends telling me that in their countries they live with several families in one house.  Another observation was in the ‘80s when many Vietnamese families shared houses while they got established in jobs, careers, and could move out and have their own houses.

I suggested this economic method to my children and was met with astonished stares and wrinkled brows. Americans are big on space. They do not share well in small spaces. 

I am sure my annoyance with this man and woman sitting on the floor seemed as unreasonable to them as their floor-sitting seemed to me.

It would help a lot if the management would install an outlet on the other side of the room. At least then, four people would have access instead of two.

But, even with these deficits, I am still reluctant to fork over the big bucks for loft connection. I could do AT&T, but am told that to get speed, it is expensive. 

I am considering an IPad, because I would not need wireless from Cox if I purchased the 3G model. Then, I would only need the library for laptop work, and could do email, listen to music and Internet radio, view movies, and play games in the comfort of my own loft. I would also have a lighter portable so I might be able to lift my luggage better when traveling. (see I’m sorry I’m a woman story, April 2010). Something tells me to wait for 4G, or at least Christmas for the second generation of the IPad.

Until then, I will continue to share, work and converse in the library, and hope there will be no more floor sitting. I feel some concern that as the lofts become fully occupied, the eight seats may become less available and my system will have to change. 


I see tours for prospective renters, always stopping to tout the benefits of free wireless in the library. It doesn't escape me, either, that I look like a permanent fixture on this library portion of the tour. The upside is, maybe with more tenants, they will be able to afford another outlet. :)

Loft Life: Personal Freedoms

My husband announced the other day that he kind of misses yard work. I suggested he find some friends who want their lawns mowed, and assured him his whim would pass. 

What he may really mean is he misses being outside more--having a place to put a lawn chair and read, or a porch, or a deck for barbecuing, or something more on that order. 

Because, I assure you, that when he had an acre to mow, the “extras” like edging and trimming, and certainly digging and planting, were not his bailiwick. He did have a fondness for his fruit trees. I remember when one summer we left for two weeks, and came back to windblown fruit trees, where his cherished first harvest of plums lay on the ground, he was truly sad.

But, he's a metal kind of guy. Tinkering, garage projects and the like always trumped yard work of any kind.

It did get me thinking though about our apartment/loft life which, for me, affords us the freedom to pick up and leave, travel, with almost no notice at all. And, since hubby works at the airport, convenience, added to freedom, makes travel very easy. We have been to California four times since March, three times for business, and once for our youngest daughter’s lovely Santa Barbara wedding. It was so wonderful to fly out for five days, and come back to loft life that hadn’t changed at all: no lawn to mow, no weeding to do, no pets, no major cleaning or laundry to catch up on. It really is quite amazing to have a loft apartment and just have so much freedom to do what we want to do here, and then to travel whenever we like with no arrangements to make for any of the home owning responsibilities.

Occasionally I look at the houses we pass on the way to church, or to the mall, or a friend’s house and I wonder if I will ever want to change this loft life status. There is a down side. When we get an invitation to a holiday celebration, we feel a bit awkward that we don’t have a place that lends itself to entertaining large groups, so we feel that there isn’t the reciprocity we know is good manners. One family consistently invites us to share in their family picnics and holiday festivities. We love them so. And, this is when I contemplate whether we should be looking into buying something here in Connecticut. 

But, then I think, maybe there is a more creative way to accomplish this. A park, a beach, a time share property. Something other than giving up this amazing lifestyle of freedom. I’ll keep you posted.

LOFT LIFE: Thank you for serving

It’s May 30, sunny, and I decide to take a walk, happy that the sun is shining brightly, but still in the low 80s so I can breathe deeply and enjoy the mile.

Six yellow school buses, a blue tour bus, two police cars line Main Street, where I walk by the pond. I wonder. A sporting event? They don’t have a tour bus for that.

Then I see a parade, flags, a marching band, a float, and hear a male chorus belt out: From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli, we will fight our country’s battles, in the air, on land, and sea; first to fight for right and freedom, and to keep our honor clean; we are proud to claim the title, of United States Marines. I can’t hear all the words. These may not even be right. I used to know them by heart. Now, I can’t remember them.

It dawns on me, of course, that this is Memorial Day weekend, and these people have not, as I have, forgotten. Especially the Marines. They have not forgotten, I did. At least for today--the very time when we have a national day set aside to remember.

I don’t want to forget this day, and really, on any day, these soldiers, the price of our freedom. A deep prayer rises in my soul. I want to thank them. I want to tell them I won’t forget. 

For two years I have been distributing a bookmark to remind people to pray for the military. I have only had one person, a woman who found me asking for any kind of prayer, repugnant, refuse to donate their dollar, take the bookmark, and promise to pray. Many have donated $10 and promised to hand out nine to family and friends. They seem almost eager to have this token reminder. They also don’t want to forget. Librarians, postal workers, mechanics, church people, hotel staff, bankers, construction workers--it doesn’t matter where they are. They care.

A group running in the Chicago Marathon for the troops asked for 50 bookmarks to hand out to the crowd. Some church women in Florida have asked for 100 to put into their care packages to their loved ones overseas, serving for our freedom.

So, maybe I think I'm trying to do my little something to remember, to remind. But, today I forgot--today of all days. Something in me realized I can never do enough to really pay back these men and women who represent the hundreds of thousands who have protected me, my family, my county, our freedoms. I cannot repay the thousands and thousands who have died, been wounded, physically and emotionally, and who are forever changed by war because they believe it matters.

The least I can do is pray, say thank you, and in my small way, gently remind those I meet to do the same.

I am glad I took my walk today. The sun was shining, the air was clean, the sky was blue, the clouds puffy and white. And, the Marines' chorus reminded me they will continue to protect me, and they, along with the Air Force, the Navy, the Army, the Coast Guard, the National Guard, and the Special Forces--and if I have left any out, they too, are there for us.  

I say a prayer. I am still free to do that. Lord, protect them as they protect us. Keep them safe to return to their families. And, please Lord, tell them I say, “Thank you.”

LOFT LIFE: Love and grace

We’re allowed to love everybody. That’s right!  We’re becoming Episcopalian, and what an eye-opening experience. You would think the communicant’s class would be dry and irrelevant, like what so many believe about “training” classes in churches.

Instead of irrelevant, it is inspiring, vibrant and challenging. I have never been a liberal. I am a conservative, in every sense of the word, except maybe where love is concerned. There I am a convert.

When I was around 12, I was afraid of love. I thought of it like those fund-raising charts with the thermometer and a heart at the top (or was it at the bottom?). I believed, somewhere in my tiny little heart, that if I loved too much or too many, I'd use up in that red zone (Was it blood?). So, I was conservative even in love at 12. Then I discovered God. He made it clear that the more I loved, the more love I would get. That sounded like a good deal, so I converted. I became a liberal in love.

Now, I find I'm also a liberal in grace. The more I give, the more I get. Amazing. Thanks to Father B for teaching how much this can mean.

Before you go drawing conclusions about churches, liberals, conservatives, and even love and grace, consider this:

One communicant related how he felt abandoned by his church after divorce. He wasn’t permitted to partake of the church’s sacraments, or even to continue membership. 

Our teacher paused for a long moment--not wanting to put down any other church, even when they may be mistaken in their mission. After his pause he said something that rang into my heart, and will become part of my meditation for the rest of my life:

“It's not that we (Episcopalians) have a lower view of marriage,” he said. “It's just that we have a higher view of grace.”

Wow. Is there anything more powerful than that? 

I don’t normally use this forum to express views on faith and church. But, this statement captured my attention, my soul, in such a way, I just had to share it.

I’m still a conservative in many areas: I love what our forefathers did in our Constitution, and I don’t think it needs much updating, if any. I think our Constitution may be in jeopardy these days. I think our fundamental American values are being bandied about and juggled for political power and control. But, I believe that God is still in charge.

I agree with taking care of people, things, earth, and whatever else requires us to conserve and maintain what we are stewards of. We must care about health and productivity.  I believe in free enterprise, and I guess that means capitalism. I don’t believe in greed, but I think God is capable of regulating that too. I don't need government to intervene unless a crime is committed.

I believe that local governments do a better job of working and serving in their communities than big government does. I believe that states do a better job of assessing and responding to particular state’s needs than distant federal government does. So in these things, too, I am conservative. 

I don’t think conservatives care less about people and their needs. I just think conservatives have a more efficient and hands-on view of helping than their more liberal, big governments advocates have.

These views do not require my hating anyone--even liberals. My liberal stance on love and grace demands that I pray for and love everyone God loves--and He doesn’t always choose some of the people I might have selected as friends.

So there I am. I have to either do what I believe: love covers a multitude of sins, or, become dogmatic and rigid in my response to someone I disagree with, thus abandoning my faith. I can’t do that. I want a higher view of grace, even when it requires considering another point of view. I want to maintain a high view of my principles, and still leave room for grace.

Please consider this: when you have a gripe, a prejudice, a grievance, a bad experience with someone, a judgement, or even a hurt. Consider yourself as, possibly, the only emissary of grace that situation or person may ever experience.

Shout it from the housetops. Spread the good news. Grace. That’s what my faith is all about.

Thank you so much, Father B. for enlarging my heart.

LOFT LIFE: I’m sorry I’m a woman

Until yesterday, I was feeling apologetic that I consciously plan to find some willing male to assist me in lifting my carryon into the overhead bin on every flight where my hubby does not accompany me.   

I’ve been congratulating myself on having learned from George Clooney (Up in the Air) how to pack, now putting my laptop into my rollaway. Though the quantity of clothing I can fit into my luggage has diminished, my lower back pain has also. I bragged about this reasoning to the last man who helped me, and as he lifted my twelve extra pounds of bag, he commented a bit sardonically, “George Clooney taught you this, huh,” as  even he, with his extra testosterone, noticed the weight.

The fact is, packing the laptop in the carryon has a few inconveniences, even beyond the extra weight: having to unzip my rollaway at security, remove the laptop to a tray, and then having to unzip the bag again to get the laptop back in while donning shoes, raincoat, purse, etc. before starting my trek to the gate--usually the farthest down the C or B terminal aisle. I do have to add, that I feel sorry, especially for businessmen, who have smartly dressed for their next high profile meeting, and now must remove all of the evidence of perfect wardrobe choices, to comply. It is humiliating for us all, but I think it hits some harder than others.

Once boarding, I must attempt to lift said rollaway into the overhead bin. My shoulders just won’t stretch that high without creaking and groaning, giving me a clear signal that this is not lifting I am made for.  

As I said, before yesterday, I did have guilt about this. I would eye the line, looking for a man with the same boarding number as I, friendly but not too friendly, if you know what I mean. I look for a fellow traveler because somewhere in my past travels, I learned that it is not the duty of the flight attendant to assist weaklings with any need concerning baggage.

But, yesterday, on my return flight to Connecticut from California, my whole perspective on this weakling thing changed when a male flight attendant (do they call themselves pursers these days? I just learned to stop saying steward and stewardess.) began scolding a young woman who couldn’t lift her bag.

“If you can’t handle your bag, you should consider checking it,” he chastised, gruffly. His tone was truly a reprimand.

She lowered her chin, looked appropriately shamed, and sat down while he finished her job for her.

I was dumbfounded. Luckily, I had found my willing gentleman right before this event, so the attendent didn’t know to scold me as well.

I wonder if he realizes the ramifications of his suggestion: there is a $15 fee each way for checking the carryon-sized bag, and, only those not strong enough to lift 35 pounds above shoulder height should be, in his perspective, forced to this consideration--even though smart travelers fudge this by waiting until the gate to get told to check the bag, because usually there is no charge at this juncture. Still, this shouldn’t happen with true carry on luggage.

Does being a woman, or being too short mean paying baggage fees is a given? I mean, I have just invested another $60 in luggage to reduce the size of my carryon from 24” to 20” specifically to allow me to enter the gangplank, or whatever that airplane walkout thing is called, without being subjected to placing my largish carryon into the too narrow device they use to convince you that you cannot carry it on. Been there, done that. When my larger carryon had bulging pockets, the gate attendants shook fingers at me, insisting I place my bulging bag within the framework of that structure which showed anyone with a brain the right size for a carryon. That would be any size but the one you are carrying. Surely the overhead bin is NOT as small as this thing they have to prove the point. And, pulling it back out of that structure is even  harder, if you can’t manage lifting the bag in the first place.

Now I have the smaller bag, and don’t fill the pockets to bulging, even though I still place my laptop into the bag, making it too heavy to lift. Mostly, I have trouble with that lift height even without the laptop. I tried removing the Mac to see if that would help, and it didn’t, so I saw no reason to compromise my back and shoulders for the effort. I reasoned that on no flight would the same gentleman be helping me, so it wouldn’t have that, “there she goes again” factor. Also, no flight attendant would be the same to remember my continuous weakness. See, I felt guilt. I felt shame.

So, when this middle-aged flight attendant berated this young woman, something inside me flipped a switch.

“Wait a minute,” I thought. “Just because I am a woman, lacking testosterone, should not mean I cannot have a carryon, and should not mean that all of my trips will automatically cost at least $30 more than my male counterparts. That’s discrimination, is it not? And, in a climate where combating a flight attendant would be a stupid, if not treacherous thing to do, even when it has nothing to do with security or safety, no intelligent woman, which I consider myself to be, would dare question his dictate, which puts us women at a further disadvantage. I am by no stretch of imagination a feminist. But. This is wrong!

So, now, after this event, I don’t feel guilty. Now I feel enabled to start a movement. I can’t decide whether it should be a movement for gentleman volunteers to help weak women, or for weak women banding together to lift carryon luggage. Either would work. I am not quite sure how to muster either group. Should it be a letter to the airline? A letter to the editor? A letter to the president? (I mean, he seems to care so much about all the downtrodden and helpless, surely this would add to his roster of causes.) Or should I just continue to keep a low profile and conscript one nice man per trip leg to assist with the bag, lifting into and out of the overhead bin? 

I admit, it is taxing to continue to come up with the litany of fake impromptu requests. Because whether I feel guilty or not, it is really premeditated, and it is embarrassing. 

This all may become a non-issue if rumors that carryon bags will also engender a fee transpire. But, then, at least, the rules would be gender-fair.   

Would love your input.