Two Pairs of Keds

"One for dress, one for everyday."

Grieving when nobody died.

You’ve been there before.

Something happens. It’s jarring. Shifts seismic plates. Your world turns over, even though it appears, against all reason, to still spin.

You’re bereft. Abandoned. Left alone.

They say there are stages of grief.

In You Can Heal Your Heart, by Hay and Kessler, the authors claim “the five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the one we lost. They are tools to help us frame and identify what we may be feeling. But they are not stops on some linear timeline in grief.”

I must be strange. My grief swims around me like fish under frozen ice.

I wake up.

I’m trying to create plans for progress that will not see the light of day.

No one died and all my family is currently well. I suppose I am grieving a nation.

It’s not that I don’t think time and politics will go on. They will. And long after I’m gone.

It’s just that I grew up believing. My childhood was full of institutional trust. We had John F. Kennedy before I knew he was a womanizer (although, it appears there was consent), the moon walk, and the end of the Cold War. I was conveniently at the end of bomb shelters and just behind The Electric Koolaid Acid Test.

Farm land surrounded me. If I hurt, I walked. My brother walked. We dug in the dirt. We rode bikes. No one worried about our bumps and bruises, unless we were bleeding. And when we bled, the neighborhood came running.

The church was my home. I knew it as a space for community. You got together and you did things for other people. You did not question why you should want to help. People helped people.

I feel like someone drove me out to a far, far plain and left me. If you know me, you are aware I have no internal navigation system, even though I don’t always believe my GPS. This is me, right now.

Lost. I know this country from another time, but I have no compass inside to navigate these roads. I try and disbelieve, but I like to study. I read. I have always read, even if it was cereal boxes or Reader’s Digest crosswords. I seek facts and I grew up in a time when you learned how to validate. This place does not seem like mine. How can we be here? And yet, here we are.

It would be so convenient to blame the media. I am a media person, by trade, and I know you have to feed the beast. These articles, these stories, do not come from a dearth of news and a need to sensationalize. Slashings at OSU. Homophobic rantings online. Hillary rantings on an airplane. Friends unfriending friends. Families reading tools to navigate conversations surrounding the election over Thanksgiving dinner. A man coming into power who has suggested only property owners should vote. My brain finally explodes. What would that do to New York City? I can’t get a read on this. There’s no place to anchor.

But in the dark, when I worry and plan and pray, I think there is no need to fabricate. There’s just so much available. And so I’m grieving, even when I don’t know the dead.



What’s Wrong?

What’s wrong? This isn’t a rhetorical question. There’s just so much garbage. It’s getting harder and harder to tell, anymore, if anything is right. But here are some things I do believe about wrongness.

  1. It’s not okay to be untrustworthy. If you can’t trust me, we can’t have a decent relationship. You will always wonder if I’m going to screw with you. You’ll wonder if I’m going to cheat you or lie to you. I should not say one thing and do another.
  2. I should admit when I’m a jerk. When I’m alone in the dark, I hope I have the courage to say, “Wow, I was a jerk. The jerkiest jerk. I hope someone will forgive me.” If I’m really courageous, I’ll actually admit it out loud. Maybe ask for forgiveness.
  3. There’s a point at which I should shut up. I once heard someone pray, “Lord, don’t let me miss a chance to be quiet.” I’ll just let that one sit.
  4. If people are depending on me, I shouldn’t let them down. Did I make a commitment to you? I am honor-bound to see it through.
  5. There are more important things than being right. Did my righteousness come at the expense of someone else? Was I smiling when I ground their face into the dirt? Then my victory is cheap.
  6. If I am afraid, I should admit it. Fear corrodes.
  7. I am not in charge here. The best I can do is be a good mensch.
  8. I probably should be last in line. I’ve had a life of comfort, privilege, and blessing.
  9. I believe there’s a heaven, a hereafter, where all my friends – Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindi, Wiccan, without faith – can meet and be one.
  10. Love is the greatest commandment. I try really, really hard to get this one right.

I know a handful of people like this. You’re probably one of them. But where did the rest of us go?

I believe there’s an evil. It’s alive and at work. It wants us to believe we’re alone.

This is what’s wrong. That awful voice started, small and insistent: “This is terrifying. This will destroy us. This cannot work.” It gathered up fear in a dust bin and poofed the collected contaminated particles into the air. They continue to accumulate and swirl.

I heard someone say, just this week, why gather people and march? What will that accomplish?

Freedom March, Selma, AL | 3.21.65

I was stunned. It’s like saying, what can one person do, combined with another person, and another, until they all hold hands and link arms and build a community? It’s our only hope. We cannot do this thing, this life, alone.

Everything I see in the media right now insists you and I are alone. I am not. You are not. They’re lying. Certain people are out and out lying.

Evil wants us to give up. That’s what’s wrong.

[P.S. Since this is basically a message to my kids, you know I love you. Now, get to it. The world needs you right now.]


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“Up North” Food for an Army

Those of us who participate in a pilgramage to a place a few hours away – here, in Michigan, that’s usually “up north” – often find an army to be fed on the other end of the journey. After standing in a remote grocery store, shelves out of stock from the crowds, twelfth in line at the cash register, I groused that there had to be a better way to spend my time. While the family was back on the lake, I brilliantly came up with “the camp bag” plan. If this helps you, toast me from your beach chair.

Camp Bags
bagsI’ll be sharing a menu, but basically, you set your menu, write it down, shop before your trip, and pack your bags by the day/meal with a tag on each one. You’ll also need a cooler bag or two. These aren’t as important to tag, because it’s all coming out upon arrival.

Post your menu on the ‘frig when you get there. This may bring to mind “Cheaper by the Dozen.” It pretty much is…for which you will thank me and Frank Gilbreth, Sr. (the motion field study engineer and protagonist.) If the army you’re feeding feels like an entire ark, you’ll like his snappy attitude:

From Cheaper by the Dozen (1950)
Man on street: Hey Noah, what are you doing with that Ark?
Frank Gilbreth: Collecting animals like the good Lord told me, brother. All we need now is a jackass. Hop in!

Oh, sure. You could be fancy and wow your army with foodie menus. I’m a fan. Here’s the question: do you want to spend the day in the kitchen or on the lake? Good answer. So, we’re going to go with the “It’s home-baked!” cookie editreply, taking advantage of ready-made items and cooking/prepping ahead.

This is not a vegetarian menu, although there are certainly enough options: vegetarian chili, veggie burgers (from the freezer section), simple salads, and a baked sweet potato bar with toppings. But that’s a song for another time. Here’s my three-day, people-coming-and-going, variable-number-to-be-fed outline (base-line: 8). One of the pleasures of this menu is that you always have enough to add another plate. The more, the merrier!

Make Ahead Day (or After Work)
It took me about an hour and a half to pull the three make-ahead dishes together, which I had going all at one time. three items blogWith two large stock pots on the stove and the oven pre-heated to 350º, this was pretty easy. Another option for your pork is to let a crock-pot do the work and leave it on throughout the day, while you’re working. The point it that you are not working yourself silly during the vacation or before it, either.

This won’t come as a revelation to experienced cooks. I’m talking to folks who have yet to be responsible for the army and want to get in on the fun.  As I’ve mentioned before, this blog is primarily to leave a cookie-crumb trail for my own kids. (Holly, Sam, and Anne, of course it’s home-baked. You know that.)

Right. I don’t have kitchen staff, either. But I find that people are very willing to do simple chores in the kitchen, especially if you explain that they’re scheduled for a certain item (refer them to the ‘frig list).menu Even little kids get into the spirit of help, setting the table or performing the ever-important kid job of husking corn (adults can follow up on corn silk quality control), if there are people bustling around and they’re part of the fun. Don’t be a martyr. Enlist the troops. Where I would use a helper, I’ve marked it “KP.” (For Kitchen Patrol. It has a nice ring, doesn’t it? More on sharing reponsibilities under Day Two: Lunch.)


Day One: Lunch
Make Ahead Day (if possible):
1. Corn relish:corn relish 1 lg. bag frozen corn and edamame (rinsed), 1 med. green pepper and red onion chopped, 1 English cucumber diced, 1 1/2 c. Italian dressing, 2 T. lemon juice and apple cider vinegar, 2 T. sugar, salt & pepper. Store in a container.
2. Chocolate chip cookies (from a tube, made ahead). They’re home-baked.

Menu. Cold cuts, sliced cheese, two bread types. Canned baked beans: KP can bake in oven one hour ahead of lunch. Fruit (we had sliced strawberries & peaches): KP can slice.

Day One: Dinner
Make Ahead Day (if possible):
Spaghetti (2 lbs. ground beef, 2 28 oz. cans (or jars) marinara, 1 6 oz. can tomato paste, 12 oz. water, two yellow onions (chopped), 4 cloves garlic (minced), seasoning to “brighten” the canned goods (2 T. oregano, basil, 1 t. fennel, 1 bay leaf). Store in container.

Menu. Two-three lbs. spaghetti noodles: KP can boil and drain. Garlic bread: KP can open freezer bag or butter baguette. Simple salad: KP can tear lettuce and chop a tomato, avacado, or boiled egg. Newman’s Original Dressing travels well. Do you have any cookies left?

Day Two: Breakfast
Menu. Bacon, eggs, toast, and o.j..  Each item has a KP assigned to it. Or you be the grill cook. Like bacon in the oven? Great. Do you have a large cast-iron or oven-proof skillet where you’re headed? Make a frittata. (Pinterest it. They’re easy.) I’m taking frozen o.j., since it’s smaller and I’m driving four hours. It doesn’t matter if it thaws, because we’re going to use it…even if it’s for Screwdrivers.

Day Two: Lunch
Sharing the responsibilities:
Don’t pass up a chance to delegate to the troops, especially if they ask. Since I like to manage (aka control) the menu, I assign things I would normally buy. My daughter’s bringing the buns & chips.

Menu. Two pkgs. Vienna hot dogs (we like Koegels, because they’re from Michigan and they’re delicious), two pkgs. buns, chips (Better Made, because they’re from Detroit and ditto). Fruit. We always take this meal to the lake. It tastes like summer heaven.

Day Two: Dinner
Make Ahead Day: Pulled barbeque pork. One 4-5 lb. pork loin. Simmer on stove top until meat is shreddable – 4-6 hours. Seasoning: 3-4 T. kosher salt, 1 T. whole black peppercorns, 4 fresh bay leaves, 2 T. fresh ginger. After cooking, trim fat before shredding. Stir in one bottle of good barbeque sauce. pulled porkI used Famous Dave’s Rich & Sassy. Because, yes, to both.

Menu. Two bags sesame hamburger buns. Potato salad (this trip, it’s my mother-in-law’s famous homemade, but if you don’t have her, you can get it from the deli). Corn on the cob, if I can find it at the Market Basket (we drive by it in Beulah): KP husking. Cherry pie.*
Note on the pie: Of course, you can get these at the bakery. When I was careening around Trader Joe’s, they had a beautiful jar of cherry pie filling and those amazing boxes of non-refrigerated whipping cream. I’m grabbing a store crust and throwing that in the oven. It’s home-baked.

Day Three: Breakfast
Menu. Sausage & scrambled eggs: KP browns the sausage, cracks & adds the eggs. Can hold in the oven for late sleepers. Bakery cake donuts and o.j.  (if we have time, we stop in Cops & Donuts in Clare).

Day Three: Lunch
Menu. Leftovers. Clean out the ‘frig. (Note: If possible, I leave one-person servings of certain items for my wonderful mother-in-law, who lives at the lake all summer. It’s not easy to make spaghetti sauce for one, but it’s great to have a freezer container,
ready to go.)


One of the best lessons I’ve learned from my mother-in-law is that things will hold a long time in the oven on low. Kick back, enjoy the view, and always serve at your leisure. Cheers.






Confession & Confusion of a Social Media Specialist

It’s almost too much to take, isn’t it? Or, it is too much to take, but to ignore the latest tragedy seems childish in the face of such suffering.

Today, the headlines confirm the worst mass shooting in US history. A gunman walked into a LGBT bar in Florida and proceeded to kill people, because, if his father has it correctly, he was outraged by seeing two gay men kiss.

Imagine the panic and pandemonium. The outpouring of blood. Hearts broken. Lives shattered.

And in the background, our Republican presidential candidate, rather than expressing condolences and compassion, congratulates himself on “being right” about terrorism, according to Time news.

Yesterday, the headline was of a deranged fan of Christina Grimmie, who shot her during an autograph session. Reportedly, she greeted her killer with open arms. Shots fired. A life ended. In the days and months preceding, the dead are counted in black men and women. There are stories of rape, abduction, madness.

Part of my job is to create and to reflect news on social media. I struggle. Is it better to spread the word? Does it raise awareness? Direct dialogue that drives discussion? Does it make space for solutions? Or does it feed a future killer? Does the spread of the story create a sense of normalcy: “This happens in America. It’s what happens when people have guns. It’s what happens when people are different than me. It’s what happens.”

My heart wants to unplug. I have a vivid imagination. My empathy comes from a faith that is founded in a creator’s compassion and love for all. What god has created belongs solely to god. We cannot destroy it. We have no right to judge it. What we do not understand on earth may become clear in the hereafter. Or not. It’s possible that when we reach heaven, our confusion on earth simply will not matter.

But here, it’s a mess.

A friend recently attended a conference held by a global consulting firm that handles major national surveys specializing in health care issues and insurance across private and public concerns. What do you suppose was the top health concern of the next ten years?  Mental illness.

My husband works with the developmentally impaired and disabled. There is little funding, few and fewer resources, and a growing list of consumers. You don’t find many “friends of the disabled,” especially when they are adults, rather than children. If a disabled adult becomes a problem, they also become part of the criminal system.

I am not saying that all disabled persons become public offenders. And I’m not saying all public offenders are disabled. What is a family to do, though, if they believe their family member is about to crack? The family of today’s killer has apologized. Too late, but what proactive measures were available?

Evil is on a roll, here, friends. Hell on earth is separation from that which is good and true. To be separated from love, from the basic necessities of life – food, shelter, security – turns animals crazy. The phrase “mad from deprivation” is not poetic. From what are these killers deprived? What deprivation is at work in our society?

I want to unplug. But to remove myself from the reality of the world is a child’s blanket. For goodness’ sake, my prayer is for leadership that examines mental illness and the resources required for a holistic system of care, that can make wise decisions for this growing population. I pray for a legal system that is equipped to identify and prosecute using just measures.

On social media, we will see hashtags that pray for Orlando, for the LGBT community. Anymore, it feels like #platitude.

I was raised on the phrase, “If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say it at all.” Later in my life, I heard, “Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.” Yet, the written word wields power; it can be used for good. Confused about the profusion of social media, I confess to a slim hope that news coverage will drive awareness and fairness to prevail.

(Photo credit: Police officers outside of the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. (Photo: AP) )




Your Treasure Buried

Tempted to Tarry. The mountain rumbles. You can feel it. Beneath your feet. In your chest. As you extend the awning over your courtyard. A change. There is something cataclysmic under the surface. …

Source: Your Treasure Buried

Your Treasure Buried

Tempted to Tarry.

The mountain rumbles.

You can feel it. Beneath your feet. In your chest. As you extend the awning over your courtyard.

A change. There is something cataclysmic under the surface.

Should you move? Take cover? Go to higher ground? Maybe you should visit a distant relative, whether the journey bodes pleasant or not?

The mountain coughs. Spews smoke.

Your children are playing in the street, some sort of ball with changing rules and shouts of laughter. Pull them from the game?

Business is being conducted. The magistrate’s marble hangs importantly over the lintel. Surely, if the village required shelter, he would sound the call?

FullSizeRender (1)A few tiles fall from a roof across the corsia. Shoddy workmanship? No, for the earth moves.

There is a moment, that paralyzing space that comprises fractions of seconds, where you realize that choices are few. What to take? What to leave? To whom do you call?

Pompeii in Ashes.

I have always had a fascination with the visceral story of Pompeii. That fleeting moment where decisions are made to leave, to flee, to stay, to ride it out, captures me. My breath is suspended. What would I have done? What would I do?IMG_2785

I am a terrible material creature. I like my things. I collect. My children know that there are separate collections of holiday decorations, china and dishes, art, and ephemera. By its very definition, ephemera is not meant to last. Why hold on?

Families, time immemorial, have saved the remainders of clans, tribes. We dig for reminders. We crave connection. We want to know that we have and do belong. We wish to leave, for posterity, that which we could not take with us.

Your treasure buried.

Today, I saw the buried treasure of the city of Pompeii. Certainly, there were surviving urns from trade vessels. Marbles and cement, statues, busts, lamps, urns. Wine casks. Pieces of floor and of frieze. Signs, like the one chiseled by a mother to her son upon his death. And IMG_2777amazingly fragile glass. How, precious flask, did you survive twenty-eight feet of ash?

And gold jewelry, the adornment of adults and of children. Was it not so hot that a child’s bracelet would melt? Or was it meant, historically, to be left behind?

I ask myself, what would I take, were I on the run, fleeing for my life? Today’s Syrian refugee experience requires the same question and response. And what, if I knew that my household life would be embalmed for all time, would I wish to be buried?


Thanks to the Kelsey Museum, at the University of Michigan, for its free exhibit. 

Leisure and Luxury in the Age of Nero: The Villas of Oplontis Near Pompeii
February 19–May 15, 2016




Peering up.

Learning, the process of education, is bound to change a person.

This is what we want, right? We want to grow, to gain, to earn, to expand.

Funny thing. You don’t always get to select the ways this impact will occur. You crack open the book, peer under the cover, read the content. And then, your view is changed.

Case in point: privilege.

I have never thought of myself as a person of privilege. Well…I have, in terms of the place I was born on the planet, which pretty much insures that I have a place to sleep, food to eat, and some sort of family life. When I was little, I was aware that running through grass was a pleasure not afforded to everyone. I thought about grass that grows up between blacktop cracks and dandelions that sprout between the sidewalk, the only nature of “city people.” I’m not sure that I thought cities had trees.

But privileged? No.

My first home was a trailer, but we soon moved to a small ranch house in front of the town graveyard near the reservoir. I ran around in flip flops. I went to 4-H camp for cooking and sewing. I hung out at the farm on which my mom grew up. I went to church, then to Sunday dinner, with beef and noodles, mashed potatoes, bread and butter, and pie for dessert. I learned how to milk a cow, bale hay, and put up corn. This is the pretty side.vintage mobile home 1

My grandparents on my father’s side did not come with such a bucolic story line. My dad’s father had VD. He worked on the railroad. Somehow, as a child, I was expected to know that a rail-hand’s ways led to wandering.

Walking home from cheer leading tryouts in fifth grade (I did not make the team, as I was woefully tall and awkward), my mom found me on my sidewalk route and picked me up. She was crying. My dad had been called in by the neighbor’s teenage daughters for watching them through binoculars. Not privileged. More like white trash.

At one point, my dad and his brothers had a physical fight at my grandma’s home one summer which led to years of their not speaking. On this side, my grandfather died young. My dad’s mom went on to marry two more times, one to a hard-drinking veteran who, now that I think back, was probably abusive. The other man was a factory worker with the nickname “Red.” Together, their idea of financial investments were Franklin Mint plates and horrid dolls, which overfilled their trailer.

Cumbered by cat-eye glasses, an overly tall and heavy build, and awkward social skills, by my family’s second move in two years – during the tragically dramatic seventh and eighth grades – I was far away from the farm. I waded into the exotic land of Cleveland and beyond to the professional suburbs of Jackson. I was gasping, out of water. Privileged? Try telling that to a crying adolescent girl.

So much of the way we see ourselves begins its definition in our childhood. Had you told me that the sheer fact that I was white made me special, I would have had no clue. There were race riots somewhere in a dark place called Detroit, with people called Black Panthers, but I thought it was because they were angry, violent people. I imagined their dandelions, pushing up through cement cracks. Did lack of grass make people mad? Crazed?

Now, this notion of privilege is pushing its way off the pages of text. I peer at it, as if I’m looking up from underneath at the surface of a sidewalk puddle. It shimmers and wrinkles. It distorts my view.

The climate of the campus in Ann Arbor makes me think differently about myself. There are people here who don’t want to know me, because they are minorities, different ethnicities, other socio-economic backgrounds. I used to want to travel globally. I thought a smile would open doors. Make friendships. Naive to think that people would rush to meet me, but this is what I thought. I also thought, and somehow still think, that which unites us is greater than what divides.

My youngest daughter used to vent her frustration at her older siblings by stating, in a scathing voice, “You don’t even know my life.” She was maybe three years old and precocious. Is this what we are all trying to say, at any age?

I peer up at this veneer, these days, of privilege. Too late to close the book. Education is a trip beyond your borders where growth seeps in, grass shooting up through the pavement.




The Cost of Calling. Hello?

Frequently, there is a portion of my brain split between two demographics. It’s uncomfortable, neither place entirely comfortable, which is basically how I feel at the sale rack of a shoe department at the mall.

As a social media specialist, also a mantle that is as scratchy to wear as a boiled wool scarf, I frequently explain the technological differences between two subsets of people.

Example 1
Technology Testy: I sit around people who have their faces in the screen of their phone. They are disassociated and rude. How can this occupy all their time? Don’t they see me sitting there?
Smart Phone Savvy: I am away from so many of my friends. Everyone is so busy. A quick text, a SnapChat, and we’re connected. We might not see each other. But we’re there.


Example 2
Technology Testy: No one writes thank you notes anymore. It’s a thing of the past. It’s like they can’t sit down and focus. I’m not even sure, through my gift, that I made a connection.
Smart Phone Savvy: I absolutely loved their gift. I appreciate the money completely. I thanked them when we were group chatting. It’s more significant to tell someone in person. (Pause.) Where do you put a stamp?

I do not adhere to the theory that it’s generational. It’s the Luddites versus Microsoftees (or Applettes). It’s like an extra gene. You’re born with it. You’re not. I have an 80 year old friend and a late-70’s step dad, both smoothly navigating the internet waters. They can search, post web maps, and copy pictures to Facebook with the best of them. And I know 40-somethings who administer the worst websites imaginable.

So it’s a thing.

Yeah. I love technology. I’m endlessly fascinated by the search features we almost take for granted. As a fourth-grader, I can still remember painstakingly crafting a report on Africa from the World BookWB Encyclopedia, magazines, and books, at the library, citing all their locations, with cut-out pictures from the out-of-circulation stack. There is a portion of me that would like to teach students how to use the library like the old days. You will appreciate the variety of locations from which publications originate, dammit.

let your fingers do the walkingBut now, as a graduate student, oh, how I love being able to punch up a topic and let my “fingers do the walking.” This is an old Yellow Pages ad jingle. Don’t know it? Look it up. Wait. You might not even know about Yellow Pages. Well, you can look that up, too.

But here’s where no one gets off free.

There is someone out there. And all they want is to hear from you.

We administer our time, popping texts back and forth with certain people, while selfishly waiting for others to reach out to us. We know, deep down, that we could absolutely make someone’s day with a phone call. Or a text. Or a Facebook post. And we hoard that time, technology misers, because we are busy. Short on time. So sorry. Later.

You could be forgiven, sins absolved, if we still had long distance charges. (Don’t know about that, either? Look it up. You paid by zone and by minutes. It sucked. But it put a precious tag on talking time. You savored each minute and despaired when the object of your affections rang off.) But you are not let off the hook.

The cost today is minimal and maybe that’s why we’ve treated it like a cheap commodity, rather than the rich and expansive asset that it is.

This is not about calling senior citizens, although if that’s the person in your life that needs a ring, great. Do it. But they’re not the only ones. We’re all included. Missing a friend? Disconnected from a relationship? Hello. Pick up the phone.





What’s in an institution?

What keeps us together?

What makes a unit? Unites? Makes ties that bind?

Does it take an institution to create that bond?

Take, for example, a student group or club. I’ve been asked to join MONTS (Michigan Organization of Non-Traditional Students). Divided, we wander aimlessly through the channels and byways that were built for full-time U-M cohorts. It’s a new group. I think there are fourteen members. Will we coalesce? Be more, together?

Another institution: marriage. Left to each other – without the vows, and the paper, and the ceremony before friends and family – are you entering into an institution? All the trappings are called “the institution of marriage.” It’s certainly tougher to break. But does it make stronger links?

I thought, for a long time, of friendship as an institution. I am deeply loyal. I don’t trust easily, and so, I thought the gift of sincere friendship was revered equally. Sure, you have differences. You cause pain. But you commit. Together through thick and think, you endure.

Turns out, I didn’t understand the premise. Friendship seems, now, a sliding scale. Slide in. Slide out. There are times of intensity. And times to walk away. I am stunned by how easy it is for some to walk away. They don’t even look back.

Would some sort of friendship vow (or family vow, for that matter), a formalized institution, raise the bar? Not enough to just be born into a subset. Or to enroll. Should we have formalized ritual at the onset? Declare our intentions?

sorry i'm late girl scout

Take Girl Scouts. This was not strictly a Girl Scout tenet, but it’s where I heard, “The way to have a friend is to be one.” The other night, I was due for one thing or another involving a friend and I did not want to go. This thought kept my foot on the gas pedal and my car headed in her direction. “On my honor, I will try…”

You make a pledge. A solemn vow. It’s not going to be easy to let go, even through the years. You can’t just say, “I didn’t want to.” Or think, “You’re not worth it,” or “But you hurt my feelings.” In the Institution of Friendship, you would say, “…to help other people at all times.”

This group I’m joining, MONTS, well, I’m going with an open mind. I would like to think what I am joining is a supportive group of people who are concerned with the welfare of one another. What I fear is that, like my misunderstanding of friendship, this will be something organized around the wants and needs of individuals.

Not an institution, at all, just another place to slide in, look around, and slide out.


Vintage Girl Scout postcard:
Vintage Girl Scout Uniform photo: Pinterest image (edited by J. Preston) 


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