Corner Archives 2004

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Table of Contents: 2004
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December 20, 2004

Traditional Adjustment
by Sarah Mason

For the past few years I've been spending Christmas in Los Angeles. It's been an adjustment. But it's so much easier to stay put at the holidays especially when your travel destination is far away. So I've adjusted to the lack of snow and general holiday spirit and decor. Los Angeles simply doesn't look like a Christmas kinda town. But that's okay. I've had my tree and I've had my LA family to keep me company.   However this year, I'll really be adjusting my sense of tradition as I'll be spending Christmas by myself.

Christmas has always been much anticipated and highly celebrated in the Mason family. Starting with Christmas Eve. When we were kids we'd stay up late and sing Christmas carols. Everyone got to open one gift on Christmas Eve. My sister Cathleen was so clever at picking out that one gift. I always went for the gift from the relative I didn't know. Big mistake.

After eggnog and our one gift, we'd attend midnight mass at St. Paul's church in Cambridge. It's a beautiful old church in the heart of Harvard Square famous for its boys choir. I loved singing along to the Christmas carols. And despite the late hour, the almost certain temperature drop and the hassle of getting in and out through the crowds (we had to get there at least an hour early to find seats), Christmas just wasn't the same without St Paul's.

On Christmas morning we'd wake up early, line up at the top of the stairs and wait for my parents to give us the go ahead to ascend into Christmas. My dad would take forever in the bathroom. I think he did it on purpose just to tease us. He was a bit of a Christmas Grinch.

When we got the green light, we rushed down the stairs to a room full of presents and half eaten cookies and milk that'd I had left out for Santa. My mother laid the overstuffed stockings out on the living room couch and there were usually one or two "big" gifts unopened on the floor. Mine was something like a giant Snoopy or a Barbie camper. My brother's was hockey equipment or one year a foosball table.

We were only allowed to open our stockings before breakfast. I hated this rule. But somehow I've adopted it in my own household. Breakfast at Chez Mason on Christmas morn was eggs and bacon and usually some yummy coffee cake my mother had gotten from the local bakery. We sat around our butcher block kitchen table which attached to a large picture window that peered out over the backyard.

On our back porch we had several bird feeders. We loved to watch the Cardinals and Blue Jays gather for the feast. If it was a white Christmas the view was particularly marvelous. Of course, I remember those visions now, at the time all I could think about was the Barbie camper waiting to be opened!

After breakfast dragged out, (it seemed like hours), we finally got to go into the TV room to open the rest of our gifts. My brother Paul had this habit of opening everything really slowly. I, on the other hand, attacked presents and tore through them like a wild beast. Subsequently, Paul always appeared to have more presents than I did because he was still opening gifts long after I finished. It use to drive me crazy! He loved it.

After the packages were opened and the wrapping swept up, my sister Cathleen and I would try on all our new clothes and/or play with our new toys. I always got new pajamas so I would put them on immediately and wear them until my mother convinced me to change into my Christmas outfit.

Dinner was served around three. There was generally a group of about seven to ten of us made up of my immediate family and several of my mother's Jewish friends who we adopted every year on Christmas. We had a great spread and lots of stimulating conversations which I've grown to appreciate more with age.

As I got older, things inevitably changed. My parents divorced, my brother and sister married and moved away. I eventually moved to California. Still many of the same people came to celebrate Christmas and we started a new tradition, my mother and I, of hosting a party on Christmas night. That tradition held fast even after I moved to Los Angeles. It came to end only a few years ago when I stopped going home for Christmas.

I was very fond of the tradition of Christmas at Mary Mason's house. My mother and I still talk about it sentimentally. I think we share the same fancy for entertaining and bringing good friends together. It was the once a year moment I had to visit with all these wonderful, colorful folks who I grew up amidst. I think that party is the tradition I miss the most.

But you do get older, things change, you adjust. You don't think you will. Heck I never thought I'd see the day that I would spend Christmas by the beach. But it's my third year celebrating in Los Angeles and it doesn't seem as strange anymore. Of course, I have tested my ability to adjust to new traditions. Some I've tried to hold on to, (I still like to open one gift on Christmas Eve), some I've reluctantly let go and some inadvertently (I rarely make it to Midnight mass). The biggest adjustment has been not spending Christmas with my mother and sister. That's been the hardest.

This year will be harder.

My boyfriend Adam is an EMT/paramedic which frequently and unfortunately requires him to work the holidays. This year he is scheduled to work a 24 hour shift on Christmas Day. I was devastated when I found out about this. Christmas means so much to me and although I may have adjusted to the comfort of not traveling at this time of year, I desperately miss my family. So to find out I won't be spending Christmas with my LA family either was pretty traumatic. Most of my friends are going out of town so there's really no one for me to spend it with except my kitty Tallulah.

Adam's family tradition is to celebrate on Christmas Eve and luckily he's not working on that day so we will spend it with his family and probably have our own celebration together since we won't have Christmas Day.

I've spent all my energy grieving over this loss that I haven't had a chance to intellectualize the situation. What is it that really bothers me? We'll have a big celebration. It just won't be on the actual day of Christmas. Am I that much of a traditionalist?

Let me think about that. Damn I think I am! Holidays have always meant something special to me because my mother made them so special. When you come from a broken family it's little things like traditions that keep you together. I don't think I've fully realized how much Christmas traditions have meant to me until being faced with having no Christmas.

If there's one thing I've gained from living in California its perspective. The truth is, I'm still having a Christmas. I have a beautiful Christmas tree. I hosted a great tree trimming party the other night with all my friends. I'm going to have a lovely Christmas dinner at my pseudo in-laws. I can go to Christmas mass at my church which is something I missed out on the last two years. And I can spend some quality time with my adorable kitty who is the ultimate light in my life.

See it's all in the perspective.

There's always a reason for everything. I do believe that cliché.   For some reason I'm supposed to spend Christmas alone this year.   Every year at least one, (and usually more), of my friends are hanging out in town with nothing to do. But this year every single one of them is going away or has plans. And the fact that Adam was scheduled on Christmas. Someone wants me to spend this holiday alone! So I've decided to embrace that and to try to listen, and see Christmas in a new light.

I'll always have my traditions and memories of the wonderful Christmas's I had as a child. This year I'm beginning a new Christmas tradition, discovery.

Happy Holidays to you and yours, whatever your tradition(s) may be!

index

November 30, 2004

Letting it Go
by Sarah Mason

Thanksgiving is an intense time for me, scratch that, the holidays are an intense time for everyone. Especially those of us with eating disorders. Bulimia itself is constantly battling a state of push-me-pull-me with over-indulgence as it is. So, you can see the dilemma.

This was the first year in probably about seven years that I did not host Thanksgiving dinner at my apartment. At first I was concerned because I've gotten so comfortable in my role as hostess and caretaker, like many good bulimics. But once I made the decision, it was liberating.

My boyfriend, Adam, and I drove out to Palm Springs to visit his mother and step-father at their new winter house on Trilogy Golf Course. The PGA Skins Game was being held there and we were lucky enough to see Tiger Woods and other celebrities play 18 holes. Of course the highlight for me was getting Roger Clemens to autograph my "Hey New York, Who's Your Daddy Now" Red Sox Championship T-Shirt.

We had a lovely turkey dinner with all the fixins and loads and loads of pie. It was perfect. Perfect because I let go. I let go of my need to feed others and fed myself instead. And I made it through Thanksgiving without even considering throwing up.

I don't know why this year is any different in terms of helping support my recovery. In fact, it's been probably one of the worst years of my life. Yet, I've arrived at some kind of peace amidst all the mayhem.   I've been trying to figure out how I got here and I realized that circumstances have little to do with finding balance. It's all about letting go.

Letting go, I've concluded, is the key to everything. When you think about it, what really makes up stress? In most cases for me it's my own fear and self-doubt. Of course circumstances play a role but how we deal with what life throws at us is entirely up to us.

For example, Adam and I have been having problems. It's been pretty stressful for a multitude of reasons. The bottom line is, he's depressed and not able to help himself out of it which in turn affects me. However, it has affected me to the point of paralysis. Which of course is one of my patterns--handicapping myself.

No matter how much his crap may seem to be causing all my stress, the truth is, it's me, not him, that's stressing me out. I'm not happy with my own life and I'm not pursuing my own dreams. So naturally, a mirror image of myself pushes all my buttons.

So I thought about all this and I decided to let it go. Instead of fueling all my energy into being angry at him for being unhappy, I decided to refocus on finding my own inner peace. Yes, it's easier said then done but once you allow yourself to realize letting go is the key, you're able to let go. Follow me?

It's simplistic. I know. But sometimes the most obvious things are the ones that work. It's the old riddle, "What can you sit on, brush your teeth with and brush your hair with?" answer, "A chair, a toothbrush and a brush."

Hey doctors always tell you water is the best cure for everything! Can it really be that simple?

The problem is our lives have become so complex. We're encouraged to take on stress, in every way. We don't savor life, particularly food. Look at the commercials, everything is geared toward a fast paced lifestyle.

I was watching TV the other day and caught this commercial for Campbell's Soup to Go, which is essentially soup in drink form so you can avoid utensils and simply drink it in the car on your way to the ten million tasks you have to accomplish before your day can end.

What's up with that?

Maybe Europeans aren't as productive as Americans (although that's arguable), but they sure do live better. They enjoy life. They stop to taste the wine and smell the damn roses. They approach a meal like we approach a board meeting. Hey, I'm guilty of it myself. I live a frantic, fast paced life. I eat on the go, I don't take time to enjoy life because I'm frantically trying to stay ten steps ahead of where I'm at so that I can have a great life in the future.

Truth is, as simple as it sounds, the future is now.

I've lost several dear friends unexpectedly and thinking about them and how their lives were cut short makes me want to take that statement seriously.

So I'm gonna try. I'm going to take it a step it a time. My first one, let it go.

November 3, 2004

The Divided States of America
by Sarah Mason

My intension was to write about my beloved Boston Red Sox who, after 86 years, broke the famous Curse of the Bambino by winning the World Series for baseball. But I woke up this morning with such a sick feeling in my gut, no, not that ulcer that's been threatening to reappear. This headline;

GEORGE W. BUSH WINS RE-ELECTION. 4 MORE YEARS.

Living on either coast, in a way, isolates you. I've spent my life surrounded by democrats. So naturally I would find it hard to believe that Bush won the popular vote because heck, everyone I know voted for Kerry!

But that's just it. Everyone I know, everyone Bush supporters know...none of us really know each other at all. There are two Americas and neither side concedes.

Look at the election results, 51% is hardly a mandate in my opinion. Bush lost and won all the same states he did in the 2000 election--with one exception, New Hampshire. Mr. Bush lost that state this time.

So how is it that there was such a significant increase in his popular vote? Voter turnout. The democrats made the mistake of thinking that the turnout was for them. It wasn't. It was Bush's loyal friends, the religious right who rallied to his aid, in record numbers.

I remember my brother reading a statistic to me once after the 2000 election, 40% of the country is Republican, 60% is made up mostly of Democrats and unaffiliated, independent, etc. However, a much larger percentage of the 40% shows up on election day. And that's exactly what happened.

Nonetheless, larger popular vote or not, 50% of Americans, excuse me, 49% of Americans feel disenfranchised. Yes W. you're right, America has spoken but I think you're not hearing the answer. The country's is the throws of a bitter divorce and only one side wants custody of you!

The number one issue concerning Americas (according to the exist polls) is morality. A ban on gay marriages passed in 11 sates. Maybe we should have two separate Americas, the blue and the red. Gay marriages will be legal in the blue and the first amendment will be unconstitutional in the red. Revolt! Tomorrow, we attack, Ohio!

The sad irony is, John Kerry doesn't support gay marriage!

I just don't get it. How on earth does the sexual practices of our neighbors affect our personal lot in life? Am I not going to get good health care as a result? Will I be turned down for a promotion? Will my boyfriend leave me? Will my credit be ruined? What??? What is it??? Do people truly believe we will all just burn in hell if gay couples get married? I think we have a better chance of burning in hell for all the atrocities we're committing in Iraq.

Despite all the facts, including admissions by Rumsfeld and Bush, that there was no connection between Iraq and September 11th, people still believe Iraq's responsible. They also believe, despite all the evidence, Iraq is harboring, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION.

I guess it's like the old cliché, people need someone to blame. Saudi, Iraqi, what's the difference? There all out to get us! This entire election was won by fear and fear alone. Whether it be gay marriage or Arab terrorists. We're paralyzed by ignorant assumptions. How can we be so blind?

When I woke up, the day after the declared winner was announced, I felt much the same way I did the day after O.J. was acquitted--first, disbelief, then bewilderment. There was such tension in the air, especially in Los Angeles, immediately following the verdict. The country was divided, black/white. Walking around the city, you could feel the discord. Black Americans all looking at white Americans thinking, "I know you think he did it." White Americans staring back at black Americans thinking, "How could you think he's innocent?"

There's a similar tension in the air today. But this time it's not as visible as color. But it's there. People sizing each other up wondering, "Are they one of us?"

When did this country become so divided?

This dramatic difference in ideology is perplexing. There is a deep schism in the heart of America much like our forefathers whose profound disparity in belief lead them to Civil War. Will we able to put those differences aside and come together as a country? I'm not so sure. Not if we continue to cling to fear.

Fear and ignorance have tainted our views from the beginning of our existence; from the first settlers who feared the natives and their strange ways to the dark man who would steal our children and rape our women. Now it's the gay man who would infect our children and destroy the moral fiber of our society and the Arab man (all Arab men) who will terrorize us in order to inflict his ungodly ways on the world.

Fear is fully integrated into our culture. Everything is is designed to make us afraid. In fact, consumerism depends on fear. Buy my anti-wrinkle cream, or you'll look old! Buy my pills, or you won't be able to get a 4 hour erection, and then you're wife will leave you! Buy my low-carb drink or you'll get fat! It's endless.

So we started with fear and then we packaged it and made it part of our economy. Which leads me to believe that America has become nothing more than a corporation. Materialism is how we measure our success. This election suggests that we don't really have a social consciousness. We care about our own little piece of the pie and we hold on to the hope that someday we will have more of it.

I know this is cynical. But it's hard to ignore. America was an experiment after all. I'm not saying it failed but when you think about it, what do we really have to offer the world besides consumerism? America has literally become an island of corporate greed.

I wish I could see it differently, or understand it differently. Help me! Someone explain this to me because I just don't get it.

I'm not suggesting John Kerry was our savior. Or that in fact he would have changed any of this. But I am puzzled by what drove people in this election. There are so many problems we face, problems that affect every one of us yet the single most important issue for the majority of Americans was based on fear.

If we are to live up to our name, United States, we are going to have to learn to consume ourselves with something much more positive than fear--compassion. Let that overwhelm us and then we will truly be free.

Since I have no formal military training, I've decided to call off my attack on Ohio. For now, all we can do is choose hope.

It's the top of the11th inning at Fenway Park, game 4 of the American League Championship between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees. I'm hiding upstairs in my room, occasionally running down to check the score. I can't take it anymore. The Red Sox are the heartbreak team of all time, next to only the Chicago Cubs.

Every year we go through this. And always seems to come down to that bitter rivalry between us, and them. Them being the dreaded Yankees, or as some Bostonians call them, the Bankees, the Spankmes, the Yankmes.

Yesterday they slaughtered us 18-8 in what was supposed to be our must win game to get back into the series. Well, it's all coming down to one pitch and one hit in the 11th inning. The Red Sox did what they do best, let us down then renewed our hope tying the game up in the 9th inning. So why aren't I watching??? The laws of probability. We've been here so many times before with the Sox and every time its the same. We Believe! This could be the one! Reverse the curse! Make history! I can't watch. Probably because in truth, I still do believe.

Why would a baseball team have such a profound affect on ones emotional well being? If you are asking that question, you're obviously not from Boston.

I'm going home to Boston in a week. It's the perfect time. The foliage happened to come late this year so I should just catch it while it's still spectacular. There's so much to love about Boston. There's nothing ordinary about this city. It grabs you from the moment you set foot on the cobblestone streets and takes you on a long journey through winding roads and rocky beaches.

Boston is advanced residency. You've got to really want it. Because it will fight you, in every sense. It's not enough to be born a Bostonian. You've got to be committed to the city. That could mean a variety of things. Being a sox fan is one of them--the truest test of loyalty.

Being a Bostonian means heartache. Because you're born a Red Sox fan whether you like it or not. Secretly, I think we're all masochists. We love the angst and the torture. It bonds us together in the stormy dark days. Being a Bostonian makes you feel like you've earned the right to good fortune, whenever it may knock. Because it doesn't knock that frequently. You've got to, if not have your own hard luck story, sympathize with one. You've got to be willing to take the really good with the really bad.

The weather is the perfect metaphor. It's never bland, or even tempered. It's full of drama. You want beautiful colored leaves, sunny skies and a crisp breeze? Okay, here's that and twelve feet of snow and slush back at ya.

You want the best blueberry pie, lobster roll and apple cider you'll ever have in your life? You want the greatest intellects, most knowledgeable sports fanatics, conscientious political activists and observers and really great pizza? Okay, have all that and I'll raise ya a Bill O'Reilly and a Dunkin Donuts.

Boston makes you cynical and hopeful at the same time. It's a scary mix because the two are like ying and yang endlessly struggling. Maybe it's the plight of being a Red Sox fan--a lifetime of getting just excited enough to be truly heartbroken when they fall. Even moving to California hasn't released me from this burden. I can still watch the games on TV.

But I think I did move to California partially because I wanted less of a daily struggle. Life is easier in sunny LA. Although, no where near as colorful. That's what I miss most of all about home, the color, the character, the soul.

Boston has more soul than any other city in the world--a tortured one, maybe. But an old one at that. The people are rich with character and distinction. They're never dull, they never relent and they're always fans.

The people of Boston need this win. No, the whole country needs this win. If the Red Sox can win this series, just this series, it would not only lift the famous Curse of the Bambino, but lift the dark cloud that's befallen on us since 9/11.

There's something symbolic about the idea of the Red Sox finally lifting this curse. The last three years the world has been in some kind of strange twisted cosmic spin. Personally, I've had the worst luck of my life. And I'm so tired of this slump. We're all tired. We're tired of losing. We're tired of war and lies. We're tired of economic hardships and insufficient health care. We're tired of being hit with endless natural disasters. We're tired of being humiliated and beaten down by the big bad greedy corporate monster represented so fittingly by the Yankees. No offense New York. We still love you a nd, we've always got your back. But it's the underdog's turn now.

It may sound silly to hang your hopes on the result of a baseball game. If you were from Boston, you'd understand.

Well, top of the 12th, still tied. Can I bare to watch this? Maybe I'll just take a peak, and hope for the best.

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The Red Sox did win the game and went on to win the American League Championship series becoming the first major league ball team in history to come back from a3 game loss to win the series. The Red Sox then went on to beat the St. Louis Cardinals, (the team with the best record in baseball), in a 4 game sweep to win the World Series for the first time in 86 years.

I woke up early the other morning, grabbed my cup of coffee and went to sit of the back porch. I was stunned at the briskness in the air and that distinct smell of Fall. Where did Summer go? "I'm not ready for Fall!" I thought. I felt the longing for warm nights and the smell of suntan lotion. Then I realized...How quick I am to resist change, to want to hold on to what was. I think most of us live this way, wanting to hold on to the past, somehow stop time from its inevitable marching forward. Mother Nature can be a great teacher, though. As I sat on my back porch, I tried to change the sadness I felt for the loss of summer with the excitement that fall would bring. There can be beauty in change and Fall is a perfect example. As the leaves change from green to colors of red, orange, yellow, and burgundy and the air goes from hazy to cool and crisp, the change from summer to fall wakes us up and puts life into vibrant color. My emotions began to change as I thought of the feeling of new beginnings that Fall brings. I can still be sad and grieve over the end of summer, but that does not mean I can't embrace the changes that Fall brings.

This concept goes beyond the weather and season, as all of life is about endings and beginnings, deaths and rebirths, letting go and receiving. Mother Nature shows us with such beauty and consistency the cycle of change. She lets us know that there is nothing to be afraid of and its okay, and in fact, necessary to let go of the past and face the future. We can't stop the seasons, just as we can't stop the changes in our own lives. Especially in recovery, as one lets go of old destructive habits and thought patterns to begin the healing process. What lies beyond these habits and behaviors that have been a part of our lives for so long? That's a scary thought, at times. As you let go, its okay to grieve, to feel the sadness of what was. Let Fall and the image that Mother Nature has given us, help to ease the transition. Change, though difficult, can hold within it such beauty. Let this Fall be an opportunity to embrace the new, letting yourself move forward in life with vibrant color!

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Jennifer Campbell is the Director of the Mind & Body Healing Program on Payson Road. We invite you to revisit the Mind & Body and explore our many progressive and alternative healing and recovery programs.

Sensationalism vs. Recovery

We've all seen the articles and the television spots on Pro-eating disorder websites. This specific topic has received much buzz in the media for awhile now. Those of us in the business of eating disorder activism--recovery, prevention and awareness, find these media blitzes most troubling. Yes, we're all outraged by the Pro-ed sites. But with all good, comes bad, ying-yang folks. The problem is the media is not really interested in helping to shed light on the subject of eating disorders. They've simply latched on to a sensational topic that delivers rating and readership. Sound cynical? Don't kid yourself. There is no mention of all the positive websites, and organization that work tirelessly, like Payson Road, to promote awareness and provide resources to people desperately struggling with these diseases.

Millie Plotkin of Voices Not Bodies recently wrote a letter to the Editor of the Washington Post in response to a Pro-ED article they recently published. The Post article, like others, contained contact info. and site addresses for some of the worst Pro-Ed sites.

Millie's response letter was published by the Post (yeah Millie!). In July 2001 Jennifer Campbell, Payson Road's Mind&Body program director, wrote a letter to the editor of Self Magazine after they published a similar article about Pro-Ed sites.

Both letters raise very crucial points. And I have to ask myself, is ANYONE LISTENING TO US????

Here now are Millie and Jenn's letters on this very important subject. I hope that more publications will take notice and stop sensationalist journalism and start promoting the organizations and websites that are aiding recovery not preventing it.

You can do your part by writing a letter to the editor every time you see one of these Pro-ED articles or watch a television segment on Pro-ED sites.

Oh, and please note the reference to Payson Road in Millie's article. Thank you Millie!

Disorderly Conduct
from the Washington Post
September 20, 2004

I am very disappointed in the irresponsibility of "No, That's Sick" [Sept. 14], your article on pro-eating-disorder Web sites. Perhaps it was meant as a warning to parents or doctors about the existence of these sites. Instead, you advertised specific sites, with names, screen shots and quotes. I can guarantee that every Web site mentioned in the article is enjoying a surge in membership today.

Why not balance things out by mentioned recovery-oriented Web sites that include online support? The National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders (ANAD) site has bulletin boards as well as weekly support groups nationwide. They can be contacted at www.anad.org or 847-831-3438. (ANAD also happens to be the organization that persuaded America Online to stop hosting pro-eating-disorder Web sites.)

Other online support groups include www.paysonroad.org and www.something-fishy.org. Something Fishy has members all over the world and very strict guidelines that prevent anyone from posting tips and weight-loss goals.

I was appalled and angered at what I read in your August issue. I was informed of one of the articles by a friend struggling with Anorexia. The article I am referring to is "Anorexia Outrage." I was deeply disturbed by the article mainly for the fact the you included the names of all of the pro-eating disorder websites!

As a recovering Anorexic and Bulimic, I can say that your magazine has made good strides in trying to promote health, however it is still read by many body-obsessed and eating disordered women (I was one of them for many years.) That article is NOT helpful but truly harmful to those struggling with an eating disorder.

To quote that article ..."But women with eating disorders are so vulnerable that exposure to these sites is extremely dangerous." You are, in fact, promoting these websites by including their names and are as dangerous to those who suffer as the sites themselves.

I am deeply saddened and disappointed in Self. This recent article is yet another example of how little the media and magazines actually understand the world of eating disorders. As such a popular magazine, you are in a place to be able to offer positive images and articles to so many women and young girls.

I ask you on behalf of all the men and women who are battling these difficult disorders and in tremendous pain, to please be aware of the influence that YOU as a magazine have.

I carry guilt around with me like my son carries his security blanket. Guilt is my “woobie.” Guilt is usually my first emotional reaction to anything. Why, you ask, would I be comfortable with the constant self-deprecating and self-diminishing feeling? You get used to it, after a while. It’s horrible. I hold my breath while I think of something I feel guilty about. I catch myself holding my breath a lot.

The other day I got my hair cut after work and I was a half hour late getting home. I started telling the hairdresser how I needed to get home, and I told her this long story about how tired my husband was and could she hurry it up a little. In hindsight, it was the first time in a very long time I had done anything for myself (outside of the home). But I didn’t think of that at the moment, I only thought of the guilt I had for being late, and for inconveniencing my husband.

Last night my husband and I went out on a date. We were having a great time and my husband suggested I call in sick so we could spend the day together, take turns taking naps, go to the park with our son, etc etc. I said I can’t, it’s the end of the month at work, blah blah blah. And I went into work this morning. Because last night I felt guilty calling in and then this morning I felt guilty for not calling in so I could be with my family.

Oh my gosh, right?! This guilt has got to stop! How have I let guilt travel with me for so long? What is it about guilt that makes it easier to deal with than happiness? I frequently hold myself responsible to all the wrong people. And I’m starting to get really mad at myself for doing that.

Aye, there’s the rub. I am so unforgiving of myself, even before I allow myself to feel a certain way, or make a decision. And I know many other women out there that do the same thing, including my sister, my mother, my best friends… So I did some reading about guilt and the consequences of guilt, and I discovered there are two irrational beliefs that I hold onto that make me feel guilty all the time:

1) “People are constantly judging me, and their judgment is important to me.”
2) “It is wrong to accept the negative aspects of my life without believing that I am responsible for them myself.”

Wow. Now what do I do with that information? I’ve been holding on to those beliefs for so long, how can I possibly move on and leave that behind? My husband thinks it’s simple: just say, who gives a rat’s ass! And simply put, he’s right. For the first belief, I really shouldn’t rely on what I believe are other people’s perceptions of me. And for the second belief, I have to understand that it is OK to assume other people might be responsible for negative things that have happened to me over the years. Again with the notion: let it go!

In my research, I was told to ask myself, If I felt no more guilt, what would my problem be like then? The answer? I wouldn’t have much of a problem! It was then suggested to say the following:

· You deserve to be good to yourself
· You deserve to have others be good to you, too!

I feel inspired. And to be inspired, I just couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to share with all of you, assuming perhaps you’ve felt guilty along the way at times yourself too. The best resource along my path to discovery has been forgiveness.

I turned 18 in a non-presidential election year, and was not able to vote until the '96 election. I remember a conversation with my mom about how excited I was to vote. I told her I wasn't sure whom I should vote for and she said that of course I would vote Republican because our family is Republican. Needless to say, I voted for Clinton and considered myself a Democrat for many years. It wasn't until I got a little older that I realized many of my beliefs lean much more to the Republican side of things. However this article isn't about my beliefs, so much as it is about representing both sides of a story. I understand that the point of a documentary is to defend your POV, however I think when that is done to the point of leaving out anything that doesn’t agree with your POV, it is not keeping true to your audience. This is just what happened in Michael Moore's, FAHRENHEIT 9/11. I had heard quite a bit about it (like everyone), and decided that before I formed my opinion, I should at least take time to check it out. I walked into the theatre, and could barely find a seat. This ought to be interesting. It wasn't, at least in this writer's opinion, because I felt it was filled with deceptive half truths, and carefully phrased insinuations that Moore does not adequately back up. It's not my intention to sway anyone's belief, but I felt compelled to at least point out some of these half-truths and insinuations, to anyone who might care. Lets start with the 2000 Florida recount. Reviewing the 2000 election during the opening of the film, Moore uses a quote from CNN legal commentator Jeffrey Toobin to make a deeply misleading suggestion about the results of the media recounts conducted in Florida:

Moore: And even if numerous independent investigations prove that Gore got the most votes --

Toobin: If there was a statewide recount, under every scenario, Gore won the election.

Moore: -- it won't matter just as long as all your daddy's friends on the Supreme Court vote the right way.

But the recount conducted by a group of media organizations found something quite different, as Newsday recently pointed out. If the statewide recount ordered by the Florida Supreme Court had gone ahead, the group found that Bush would have won the election under two different scenarios: counting only "under votes," or taking into account the reported intentions of some county electoral officials to include "over votes" as well. Moore shows Bush sitting in a Florida elementary school classroom for seven minutes after his aide Andrew Card told him a second plane had hit the World Trade Center. "Mr. Bush just sat there and continued to read 'My Pet Goat' to the children," Moore says in a voice-over, "nobody doing anything."

As a recent commission report noted, federal aviation and military authorities were overwhelmed during this time, unable to coordinate a response that might have stopped a plane from hitting the Pentagon.

When Bush left the classroom, "the focus was on the president's statement to the nation," the commission said. "No decisions were made."

Moore also uses the power of insinuation to play on the relationship between the Bush family and the Bin Ladens. The facts are slim, but that doesn't stop him from making ominous suggestions about the connections between the two. After discussing the September 11 attacks, Moore presents clips from an interview between Saudi Arabia's Prince Bandar and CNN's Larry King in which Bandar describes Osama Bin Laden as a "simple and very quiet guy." Moore then says, "a simple and quiet guy whose family just happened to have a business relationship with Bush's family?” What does Moore mean? He doesn't say precisely, of course, but he draws a series of weak and often circumstantial links between Bin Laden family investments and Bush's actions as President.

For instance, Moore shows that the White House blacked out the name of another Texas Air National Guard pilot who was suspended along with Bush - James R. Bath - in service records released earlier this year. He suggests that the White House was not concerned about privacy and instead wanted to hide Bath's links to Bush.

Moore says that Bath was retained by a member of the Bin Laden family, and describes Bush's founding of the Arbusto oil company. Michael Moore then heaps on the innuendo in his narration:So where did George W. Bush get his money? One person who did invest in him was James R. Bath. Bush's good friend James Bath was hired by the Bin Laden family to manage its money in Texas and invest in businesses. And James Bath himself in turn invested in George W. Bush.

This phrasing suggests that Bath invested Bin Laden family money in Arbusto. Bath has stated this investment was his money, not the Bin Ladens'.

In another scene, Moore suggests that members of Osama Bin Laden's family and other Saudis were able to fly out of the country while air traffic was grounded after September 11. Given that Moore states, "In the days following September 11, all commercial and private airline traffic was grounded," how are viewers to know that this description did not include the Saudi flights out of the country? The "after September 13th" clause may show that Moore's claim was technically accurate, but it leaves viewers with the distinct impression that the Bin Ladens left the country before others were allowed to.

The film also notes investments in United Defense, a military contractor, by the Carlyle Group, a firm that Bush and his father have been involved with which counts members of the Bin Laden family among its investors. He says that September 11 guaranteed that United Defense was going to have a very good year. He said that they made a $237 million profit in one day after going public, but the Bin Laden's had to back out because the heat was on (or something to that effect). Moore's phrasing suggests that the Bin Ladens profited from the post-Sept. 11 buildup with the United Defense IPO but were forced to withdraw after the stock sale. However, the Bin Ladens withdrew before the initial filing, not afterward, missing the big payday Moore insinuates that they received. Moore also offers a number of suggestions that the Bush administration's military actions abroad and efforts to increase homeland security were motivated by nefarious hidden agendas.

For instance, here is his description of the US campaign against the Taliban government of Afghanistan: The United States began bombing Afghanistan just four weeks after 9/11. Mr. Bush said he was doing so because the Taliban government of Afghanistan had been harboring Bin Laden. For all his tough talk, Bush really didn't do much.

Moore then shows former counter terrorism advisor Richard Clarke criticizing the war, saying it took two months for US Special Forces to be deployed in the area of Afghanistan where Bin Laden was hiding. This fact is portrayed as an indication of a hidden motive.

Moore proceeds with the contrived narrative, suggesting he is unraveling the alleged hidden story of the US war in Afghanistan through a series of loose juxtapositions. He tried to implicate that because Bush was the governor of Texas, when Taliban leaders flew to Houston to meet with Unocal executives to discuss building a pipeline through Afghanistan bringing natural gas from the Caspian Sea and that because Haliburton got a contract for the drilling that it was the reason for this war. Contrary's to Moore's implication, the fact that Bush was governor of Texas at the time of the Taliban/Unocal meeting does nothing to prove that he was somehow involved in the meeting. Governors are obviously not responsible for every business dealing that takes place in their state. Nonetheless, Moore slips his name in to link him to the deal. By the way, Unocal dropped support for the pipeline in 1998 (the company has issued a press release making this point). In 2002, Afghanistan did sign the agreement Moore described, but Unocal is not involved in the project, which is still in its planning stages and may never come to fruition.

Later, Moore presents a series of sketchy examples of what he sees as misguided efforts to improve homeland security: FBI questioning of a man who made derogatory statements about President Bush at a gym, infiltration of a peace group in Fresno by a sheriff's detective on an anti-terrorism task force, a mother who was forced to drink her breast milk during an airport security screening to prove that it was not a toxic substance, and the decision to allow airline passengers to carry lighters and matches onto planes while banning other items. Again, based on this flimsy collection of evidence, Moore suggests a hidden motive. He then shows a series of clips arguing that Oregon state troopers are under funded and have little manpower. Without making any argument about how this relates to the rest of the country or the federal government's actions, Moore jumps right into more implications of conspiracy and immoral dealings.

Regardless of any previous plans to invade Iraq, the argument makes no sense. The breast milk example, for instance, indicates an overzealous devotion to homeland security, not indifference to it. And Oregon's state budgetary woes are hardly proof that the federal government's homeland security effort was insincere.

On a more serious note, after suggesting that Ashcroft was unconcerned about terrorism before September 11, Moore uses phrasing that exaggerates how widespread knowledge of the Al Qaeda plot was before the attacks inside the FBI and Justice Department. He implies far more prior knowledge about he flight school activity than actually existed. As the 9/11 Commission found that the "Phoenix memo" was not widely circulated within the FBI and did not reach Ashcroft's desk. His memo was forwarded to one field office. Managers of the Osama Bin Laden unit and the Radical Fundamentalist unit at FBI headquarters were addressees, but did not even see the memo until after September 11. No managers at headquarters saw the memo before September 11. Again, saying the FBI "knew" of a plot to send agents to flight schools is overstated. It is not my intention to say that Bush is not without his faults, nor do I disagree with everything Moore says and depicts in this film. I simply felt as though in his film, he went beyond simply defending his point of view, and left out information that would have completed the story, yet not have supported his story. It is certainly his right to state how he feels, that’s the beauty of America. I encourage you all to form your own opinions, and of course, see the film if you are so inclined. Just remember, things aren’t always as they seem.

It's summer once again. I can hardly believe it. Last night I had a dream that my Christmas tree was still sitting in my living room, decorations et al. This summer has a dark cloud looming over it for me. I'm having shoulder surgery, again. This time on my right shoulder. Last January I had my left shoulder repaired. It was a nightmare. But it was January. The only thing spoiled was my birthday, and after 35, does it really matter?

No, this time it's smack in the middle of the summer--July 9th to be precise. Which means I'll have the sling on my arm long enough to ring in Labor Day. I don't want to do this. But it's inevitable. There was no great dramatic incident that tore my rotator cuff. Just a long standing appointment with destiny.

I have to admit that part of me suspects my Bulimia had something to do with loosening up my joints. When you think about what a violent act it is, and how long a period of time I did it, it's not unbelievable. But I'll let my doctor live with his explanation of dancers in their 30s.

So now, I'm payin the piper. I'll spend the majority of the summer in a Velcro prison. Not only that, it's SO painful. The first day is hideous, the second atrocious, the third horrible. There's lots of drugs and crackers. Oh God I don't want to do this! WHY WHY WHY!

Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself...dammit! I'm sitting here on my couch thinking about all the things I'll miss out on doing this summer. It's the combination of these feelings and my dream about Christmas the previous night that must have prompted another dream.....

Suddenly I hear this voice in my head. As incredulous as it is, it sounds like my friend Jay who passed away a year and a half ago. Jay was not one to feel sorry for himself and when that attitude presented itself, he was the first to say, SNAP OUT OF IT!

God dammit girl snap out of it! You think this is a big deal? This is nothing. One summer out of your life and you're sitting around like a little girl, boohoo, whoa is me. You know how many summers you've had. You know how many summers you will have? I'd give anything for a summer in a sling if it meant I could walk this world again and feel that warm summer breeze across my face. News flash, you can still do that with a sling on your arm!

Now I'm hallucinating!

He walks around my living room examining pictures I have up that he took. He notices a framed picture of himself.

JAY

Ah, Sarah May. This is sweet.

Sarah May, life is too short for you to be moping around worrying about details. Stupid details at that!

See here, it's like this. You've got so many things that are so great right in front of you. Like burritos. And you're sitting on your ass staring out the window at the beautiful sunshine. Get up! Enjoy it!

SARAH

I don't know whether to hug you or hit you. I guess some things really don't change.

JAY

See, there's my girl.

Finishing off the burrito.

Umm umm mmm. Walk with me.

SARAH

Whaddya mean?

Before I know it I'm no longer inside my living room. I'm on the boardwalk down by the Santa Monica Pier. Jay's throwing his arms up smiling that big grin of his, soaking up everyone one and everything with overwhelming joy.

JAY

I love this!

He runs toward the ocean and beckons me over.

SARAH

Jay, I'm overjoyed to see you again but it's a little strange. I don't know if it's real or if I'm having a dream or what.

JAY

Oh it's real darlin. Put your nose down there.

He motions toward the water.

JAY

You can smell it.

SARAH

What am I doing here Jay Jay?

JAY

Redemption.

SARAH

Redemption?

JAY

Yeah you know that Bob Marley song?

He sings.

Redemption song, whoa, redemption song.

SARAH

I'm serious.

JAY

So am I. It's time for you to start seeing life through different colored contacts.

SARAH

You're losing me.

JAY

You take everything that comes at you as an attack. Can't do that darlin. Life is definitely too short. Trust me on that.

SARAH

So, you've come back to earth to tell me to stop being upset about the crappy things thrown at me?

JAY

No, ehhh, listen to yourself. No, get you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and see things in a new light. Why does everything have to be crappy? Once this surgery is over, you're arm will be better than ever and you'll be ready to swing tennis balls through decades of more summers to come. Now why is that crappy?

So what! I wish I could go through surgery to get the chance to be swinging anything again.

SARAH

Yeah but...

JAY

No, no, yeah but nothin. Just, just, be quiet and listen. At the stroke of midnight you will be visited by the first of three ghosts.

Well, it's not Christmas is it?

SARAH

Okay, so then another one at 1am, then 2am.

JAY

No actually I think they're union. They need a break in between visits and they've each got a heavy load that night.

JAY

No worries, it's all good. I'm gonna leave it at that.

SARAH

What?

He disappears but I hear his voice once again.

Wait! You're just gonna leave me hear.

JAY

You live 7 blocks away!

SARAH

Yeah, but I'm in my sweats!

He smirks and shakes his head at me. With that, he disappears as mysteriously as he appeared.

Well, naturally, I rush home to call my shrink. But decide not to leave a message. Part of me is a little curious to see who this first ghost will be. So I decide to wait it out. I stay up watching re-runs of reality TV shows. I fall asleep halfway through Trista & Ryan's Wedding. When I'm suddenly awoken by the sound of a hair brush.

I wake up to find my hair being frantically and hostilely brushed. It snarls and I hear a voice that sounds familiar say,

Oh my God! It is you? What are you doing here?

NANA

I'm your first appointment dear.

SARAH

Your the ghost of Summer's past?

NANA

Yes dear. And we're late.

Confused and sleepy I sit up and rub my eyes. My grandmother is sitting suspended in the air next to me holding the largest hair brush I have ever seen in my life. She mounts it like a witch on a broomstick and reaches out for my hand. I give her my hand and we are whisked into the night sky.

SARAH

Where are we going?

NANA

To my house of course dear.

Puzzled. I roll with it.

I can't see anything in front of me. The sky is too dark. Suddenly we land and I look up to see that I'm lying on the couch in Nana's house in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. The room looks exactly as it did when I was a little girl. The room smells like fresh lilacs and blueberry muffins baking.

SARAH

Ummm, did you make blueberry muffins?

NANA

Of course dear. But it's a bit late in the evening for that and you should really be watching your weight.

Even in death...

I get off the couch and walk into the next room where my aunt and uncle and mother and father are sitting by the fire sipping hot toddies. They all look so young.  It's strange to see my father there because he so rarely came with us to Maine.

Nana, younger Nana, walks in and immediately starts straightening things up. She picks up everyone's glass and wipes off the ring of liquid off the coasters. Not wasting any time she keeps moving about the room rearranging and cleaning everything in her path.

Dad and Uncle Hugh are arguing about politics. The scene makes me smile. But I'm quickly distracted by noises coming from the front porch.

The screen door to the front of the house is open and I can hear voices yelling playfully on the lawn.

As I get closer to the door I hear a voice that sounds just like my cousin Gordie.

When I walk onto the porch, I see that it is Gordie. He's leaning over one of the porch pillars counting backward from 100. There's a little blond girl in pigtails giggling and running around at his feet. She throws out numbers to confuse him. He's not upset by what she does.

I hear the voices from the lawn. People are scattering around. Gordie steps off the porch and peers into the dark. Then yells out,

GORDIE

Cocky ollie Susie!

GIRL'S VOICE

No!

LITTLE GIRL

No, she was going to rescue me!

GORDIE

That's the way the ball bounces kiddo.

A teenage girl approaches the porch. As she gets closer I realize it's my cousin Susie. She's been " caught" in a game of cocky ollie. We used to play that game for hours in my grandmother's yard. The porch was jail. Whoever was " it" would search for the people hiding and when they saw someone they'd call out, Cocky Ollie Whoever. Then the person called out had to go to jail until one of the free players came and rescued them. Susie was valiantly coming to rescue me when she was caught.

SUSIE

Gord! How could you see me out there. It's too dark.

GORDIE

Not for these eagle eyes.

As I watched them interact, I gasped. The little girl in pigtails was me.

I stood on the steps of Nana's porch for what appeared to be h ours watching as my cousins were brought to jail one by one. As usual, my brother and my cousin Teddy remained at large. This I remember very clearly.

Oh how I wished I could join the game. We used to have so much fun. We played for hours until Aunt Jane eventually came to the screen door to summon us inside. Then we'd sit around the fire toasting marshmallows and drinking hot chocolate that my grandmother had made with Hershey's cocoa. That smell of blueberry muffins was always in the air.  I used to think all she did was make blueberry muffins.

I never wanted to those summers to end.

Nana apparently read my thoughts.

NANA

None of us did dear. But you'll always have them.  And, I did much more than just make muffins. Look how spotless this house is!

I chuckled.

She was right. I will always have those memories. They bring me back to a place and a time when I felt loved and truly free.

As quickly as I'd arrived on Nana's porch, I was gone. Back in my living room. Alone. Now I really felt sorry for myself! Jay! What are you doing to me???

This ain't no Dickens! So I won't recreate all the details of the two remaining ghosts. I'll just sum up.

I travel to Afghanistan with the ghost of Summer's present, (a 30-year-old Afghan poet and activist who was killed by the Taliban), to see how much of a spoiled brat I really am. I think it's safe to say my summer will be better than, well, EVERYBODY's in Afghanistan.

The third ghost definitely is the scariest, my 7th grade math teacher, Miss Shagrue. She hated me! We used to call her Shagrue the Shrew. She was mean. She flies me away on her metric ruler to witness summer's yet to come. That is, yet to come if I don't clean up my act. I'll be sitting on my living room couch watching reality TV bitching and moaning about how miserable I am.

Well, Jay's right, I've got to snap out of it. This surgery thing, eh, it's nothing! So, I won't be sailing and horseback riding. I live in LA. I can do those things all year round!

For me this is a metaphor for a much larger issue. It's about me facing my fear and realizing that fear is something I create. It's not real.

So I learned my lesson! I'm going to fix my shoulder and be in better shape then ever before. I've got a great surgeon, an incredible support network of friends in LA who WILL help me. It's all good. It really is how you spin it. You can choose to see a situation, or your life, as tragic or unfulfilled or you can choose to see the beauty in it.

Jay doesn't have another summer. But I do. I've had so many wonderful summers in my life. I've got to make the most of every Summer, Spring, Fall and Winter that I have. Life is too short.

Thus ends my Summer's Carol. As Tiny Tim proudly exclaimed, God Bless us...every one!

Have a very merry summer.

My heart goes out to Nancy Reagan, a woman who watched the man she loved lose all memory of who he was and who they were together. My mother accompanied my father on a similar journey. The pain they share as loving wives is almost unbearable. Yet at times like this I wish I could share Alzheimer’s oblivion so that I could avoid another kind of pain and join the multitudes of fellow Americans praising this past president. The innocence and enthusiasm of their tributes to him take my breath away but unfortunately only enhance my memory. Their praise reminds me why it is so difficult for Americans to understand Iraq and Abu Ghraib.

My parents taught me to be proud of America’s democracy. I took their words to heart, defending our country’s values fiercely as I moved into work in international human rights. But beyond our borders I encountered another vision of our democracy that challenged all that made me proud. Probably the most difficult challenges came when I was working in Nicaragua first, during Nixon’s presidency, with a church clinic program and a local Harvard-sponsored graduate school and, later with Unicef during the Reagan administration.

In the 1970s the challenges came from church colleagues as they watched the army of the Somoza dictatorship arrest and kill peasant leaders and democratic opponents. ‘Why does your government supply Somoza with arms and money,’ they asked. Under Reagan, following the overthrow of the dictator by a revolutionary group known as the Sandinistas, the questions took a different twist. ‘Why is your president organizing Somoza’s former army to attack our new government? Why does America supply money and arms to them? Why does it pay for killing innocent civilians, people who are helping us to improve our lives – teachers, doctors, nurses, literacy volunteers?’

To me it was clear. The targets were the foundation of the Sandinista government’s development programs considered communist by Reagan so they were fair game to the ‘contra’ army. Such people needed to be ‘neutralized’ as US documents later revealed. Since I was writing about the country’s literacy program at that time, I saw the aftermath of attacks on dedicated teachers and student volunteers first hand. The pain and loss were immeasurable. I continue to mourn their deaths today.

When a CIA manual written for the ‘contras’ was uncovered in the early 1980s, people’s questions intensified. The manual spelled out details of how to blow up clinics, sabotage water supplies, and ‘eliminate’ and torture opponents. ‘Isn’t this terrorism,’ friends asked. ‘Why does your president hate us so much,’ peasants repeatedly asked me as they grieved for their loved ones killed by the ‘contras.’

I had no answers to console them. What democratic principles supported killing innocent citizens of another nation? How could communism ever justify murdering these people?

As millions of Americans mourn the death of President Reagan, many citizens of Latin America remember him as a man responsible for the deaths of countless thousands of innocent people in Central America. They remember the terror of the CIA manual, the ‘contras,’ and the US-backed armies of Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. They see his policies as opening the way to torture at Abu Ghraib and wonder how Americans can be so ignorant of their own history and its consequences. And they worry about how this ignorance will affect life everywhere now and in years to come.

This week our country mourns a president while many around the world mourn the violation of democratic principles and rule of law he leaves as part of his legacy. We mourn together but for different reasons. Will we be any wiser for it? As a stubborn believer in the best of our nation and our people, I believe we must.

Dr. Valerie Miller: Just Associates, former director of policy at Oxfam America and human rights at the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, author of Between Struggle and Hope, The Nicaraguan Literacy Crusade.

I was looking back over old Corner articles of mine trying to see if I'd ever told the story of how I realized I was a writer. I don't think I have, which surprises me because of its significance.

When I was fourteen, a film crew came to my hometown of Belmont, Massachusetts. They were filming a movie called, The Great American Fourth of July and Other Disasters and thought Belmont was a shoe-in for 1950s Indiana. Many New England towns still have that old town America feel. The strip malls are heavily regulated and kept out of sight of suburbia. The brick design of all the buildings are preserved. All new businesses, even Starbucks have to fit within certain design guidelines. So it's not hard to create a sense of yesteryear in these towns.

The movie itself was secondary to my primary interest. The star of the film was the reigning teen heartthrob (circa early 80s) Matt Dillon. I was desperate to meet him. I dragged my friend Jenny Howick with me and we rushed down the street to Cushing Sq. where the filming was progressing. When we arrived, the square was mobbed. It really did look like a scene from a 50s movie. Everyone was dressed in 50s outfits. A high school band, not ours for some strange reason, was marching down Trapelo Road through the center of Cushing Square. Jenny and I squeezed our way through the crowd to try to catch a glimpse of Matt. He was supposedly marching with the band.

We got as far as we could get without wearing a poodle skirt and a sweater set. We peaked over heads and slithered in and out of bodies trying to spot Matt Dillon. I kept getting pushed aside by some smelly fat guy in a leisure suit. Don't know how they let him stay in the shot. Poor Jenny was being tossed around forced to follow me on my foolish quest. She kept politely suggesting that we abandon the mission but I was determined. I'm not leaving til I meet Matt Dillon - God dammit! It was the God dammit that caught people's attention - Outta the mouthes of babes. Several mother's glared at me. Belmont's a pretty conservative town, much more so in 1981. It didn't sit well.

Suddenly this man appeared out of nowhere. I guess he'd been observing us for awhile but I was too focused on my mission. "So, you like Matt do ya? " He said with gusto. The sound of his voice seemed to calm the prudish soccer moms cause they forgot all about me and went about their business trying to pass judgment on something else. He was a middle-aged man, perhaps in his 50s. He had an appealing grin that put me instantly at ease and sparked my curiosity. Normally, being the good teenager that I was, nothing or no one could distract me whilst in pursuit of a hot teen idol. But there was something so engaging about this man--in a non-predatory way of course. I smiled and told him of my quest. I noticed a name imprinted on his shirt pocket, Shep. I wondered about it. I'd only seen embroidered name tags on delivery men's uniforms. This was peculiar but intriguing even for a 14 year old--I fancied myself a bit of a Nancy Drew.

Honestly, I don't remember the details of our conversation, just bits and pieces. But I do remember feeling as though I'd been transported to a far away land of mischief and adventure. He had this amazing way with words, and that voice! He serenaded me with dialogue. What I do remember vividly are his observations of me and Jenny. He referred to the film, The World of Henry Orient, starring Peter Sellars as a famous pianist who was stalked by a couple of young teenage girls. He laughed out loud as he recounted scenes and drew parallels. I didn't know anything about the film at the time, but you better believe I found out.

Sooner or later I got around to wondering who he was. So I asked. He told me he was, Shep, simply Shep. And that he was the writer of the film. This fascinated me, and not for the reason I would have thought (a potential chance to meet Matt Dillon). I was mesmerized. The more he spoke, the more I wanted to listen and read, everything he'd ever written! Shep was the master at totally absorbing you with a story, any story. The simplest explanations were painted so vibrantly. The smile never left my face.

We talked all about characters and great old movies. Then it hit me like a lightening bolt. I want to be a writer! All the silly professions I'd envisioned myself in were forgotten. I began speaking passionately of my own writing (as if I'd had the life experience to feel passionate about anything). In truth, I started writing early myself. At seven, I wrote my first story and I've kept a journal since I was six. But in adolescence, my attentions started spanning toward other art forms, specifically dance. This chance meeting with Shep was the beginning of my long journey back to an early love, that would ultimately be my savior.

As the day went on, I'd forgotten all about the parade and Matt Dillon. The crowd had disappeared. It was getting dark and I realized Jenny had left. Did I say goodbye to her? I couldn't recall. I didn't want to miss a single word out of Shep's mouth. He offered several times to walk me over to Matt's trailer. I said, really? Then forgot about it. Finally another man approached, it was the Director of the film. Shep introduced me as if I were someone of long and fond acquaintance. I don't know how it happened exactly but we somehow wandered over to Dillon's trailer which was parked in the empty lot at Winter's Hardware Store. Shep was speaking to the Director. I took a seat on the steps of the trailer and observed as the two men went over the shooting schedule. The Director's assistant offered me a soda. I think I asked for a Tab. She disappeared inside the trailer. Then moments later a scruffy teenager appeared holding a beer and a cigarette in one hand and a soda in the other.

"Got no Tab. But here's a Coke." He said with a slightly slurred Brooklyn accent. It was Matt Dillon. I squinted my eyes several times trying to clarify his identity. How could this be Matt Dillon? He looked like he had crawled out from under that trailer. He was wearing a wife beater tank and the smell of cigarettes was overwhelming. This could not be my Matt Dillon!

I thanked him for the soda. He said something incomprehensible and slithered away. Shep kept an eye on me throughout this whole transaction. He must have seen the disappointment on my face for he came to my rescue immediately and transformed the awkward tension into fodder for his witty storytelling.

The sun went down without my knowledge. Shep ultimately pointed it out and offered to give me a ride home. I declined, explaining I lived just a few blocks away. He smiled that enormous Santa smile of his and shook my hands with both of his. I thanked him for the day and told him I'd never forget him. He chuckled as he recalled his initial affiliation of me as one of Henry Orient's groupies and urged me to see the film. Then he gave me a card with his name and address, Jean Sheperd, New York, New York. I promised to keep in touch. Then he said something to me that I'll never forget. He said, "Send me your story". "What story? " I asked. "All writers have a story. Send it to me when you get it down on paper. "

The walk home was way too short to process all that I'd gained. I remember stopping short in the middle of Cushing Ave. and saying to myself, "I'm a writer." It was probably one of the most defining moments of my life. One I'll never forget or recreate. The years, of course, went by. There was no internet back then and I couldn't Google Shep. But I did research him. I found that he was not only a writer, but a great radio personality and satirist. He was most famous for a little story about Christmas he wrote and narrated called, A Christmas Story which has become an icon for the Christmas season. His narration style became a classic and the model for several other films and television shows including the Wonder Years. Shep was a famous prankster. In 1956, a group of his fans from his radio show went into bookstores all over New York City asking for his book, "Night People" which had yet to be published. The stunt got him a publishing deal with Ballantine books and a spot on the New York Times best sellers list. In addition to his many books, he wrote columns for magazines such as the Village Voice, National Lampoon and TV Guide (to name a few). He recorded 6 LPs and over 5000 hours of radio.

I never sent him my story. I did try to look him up once or twice when I moved to New York after high school. But the address was no longer valid. I wanted to send him a letter telling him how much of an inspiration he had been to me and how much that day meant. I wrote that letter at least a dozen times. I even carried it around in my book bag swearing I'd find him and mail it to him one of these days! I didn't look very hard. Truth was, I felt unworthy. I wanted to be able to write him and tell him that I was a success. I completely missed the point.

Years later, I got a package in the mail from my local NPR affiliate, KCRW. I had become a member and as a gift they sent me a CD with Jean Sheperd's early radio shows. I was so excited! It was a sign. I had to take this bull by the horns. I pulled out the letter, re-wrote it (not bothering to listen to the CD or read the letter accompanying it). Maybe I could send the letter to the station and they would forward it on to Shep. Or maybe I should just google him and try to call him.

In the midst of all these questions of how to proceed, I remembered the CD. Harry Shearer was narrating the piece which they titled a tribute to Jean Sheperd. Hmmm, I wondered, that's an odd choice of words, tribute. It's usually associated with people who have passed away. I was so excited to hear Gene's voice again that I didn't pay a lot of attention to Shearer's. But I did catch this one phrase, "Gene Shepard died...." What did Harry Shearer just say? I started the CD over and listened to it again. Then again just to make sure. It took a minute to sink in then I burst into tears. I hadn't cried like that since I was a little girl.

Jean Sheperd died. I'm starting to cry right now just typing the words. He died. And I never thanked him. I never sent that letter. I never told him how he changed my life. He took me from hopelessly ambiguous to defined and driven in a single moment. And I never got to tell him. I let that moment slip by.

For the week following my sad discovery, I retreated into a dark place. Blaming myself and hating myself for my shortcomings and inability to seize the moment. Eventually, I shook it off and decided that I would still like to send that letter, somewhere. Even if it was to Harry Shearer. I wanted someone to read it and know that Shep was my inspiration, my mentor, my guiding light into a craft that has literally saved me throughout years of self-abuse.

Writing has been the one constant safety blanket in my life. It's something I can do anywhere, anytime, with no preparation, people, no geographical constraints. It's with me all the time. It's truly my most cherished gift. Jean Sheperd helped me shine the light on that gift.

The moral of the story? Don't miss the point because of ego or insecurity. Shep wouldn't have cared if I was a successful writer. What would have lit him up would be the fact that our encounter motivated me. In fact, I think Shep would have immediately remembered his reference to The World of Henry Orient and would have manifested another witty story reference. I think he would have been happy just to hear from me.

As a child I spent the majority of my summer vacations at my grandmother's house in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. The fondest memories of my life are from those days. I still think about those summers curled up in front of Nanas fireplace on a chilly night roasting marshmallows and sipping hot cocoa. If I close my eyes, I can smell the fresh pine scent in the air. It's intoxicating. Maine that is.

There's something about Maine. It's almost impossible to put into words. Maine stays with you for life. You can never shake the desire to go back. It tugs at you, and woes you like a siren singing pretty lullabies.

For me, my grandmother was the siren. The matron of the family--she kept us all coming back. My mother, her two sisters and all of their children, summer after summer. We all squeezed into Nana house together. I loved it. Yet being the youngest of her ten grandchildren wasn't always easy. I was left out of a lot of fun adventures. Nana was the youngest in her family as well and she and I shared a special bond because of this. She always made sure I was noticed and acknowledged. She treated me with a respect only a fellow youngest child could bestow. I loved her for that. Sometimes she drove me a bit crazy. She had this obsession with my hair. She was constantly running around after me with a brush trying to comb it. When I was a child my hair was wild and all over the place. Still kind of is actually.

My unkempt hair made Nana, who was all about being tidy and reserved, very uncomfortable. Well, I'm definitely not reserved but I am very tidy. In fact as I've gotten older I've become more and more of a obsessive compulsive neat freak. Nana would never recognize me from my early years as a dishwashing dodger.

My grandmother was truly, the definition of a domestic goddess. The ultimate granddame of Martha Stewarts. She was always buzzing around cleaning, whipping up blueberry muffins off the cuff, throwing glamorous parties--dressed to kill always. At the time I didn't appreciate these skills. But I was aware of them.

The other day my sister and I were talking about the domestic prowess of the women in our family, especially Nana and our mother. Both my mother and grandmother were/are wonderful hostesses. Nana loved all things domestic, even cleaning. She took so much pride in the appearance and organization of her home.. It was her calling card. She didn't have a career, per say. She was a homemaker. But she made homemaking not only a career but a profession. And she made her house, feel like a home to everyone who walked in it.

As we we reminisced about our grandmother, I realized how much of her I have in me. Which shocks me a bit because I never would have made the connect as an adolescent. I hated domestic things bitterly when I was a teenager. I did everything to avoid domestic activities and everything to disassociate myself with the image of a homemaker. I didn't cook, in fact, I insisted I couldn't cook. My room was a complete mess-- clothes strewn across every inch of the floor. For some reason, I didn't want to identify myself with the image of the "housewife". I don't know why. I think I feared being good at these things met I would not have a career. Which is ridiculous. My mother was the ultimate role model for both a career women, and a domestic diva.

Who knows. Regardless, I woke up one day, a few years ago, and discovered I too am a domestic goddess! And I like that about myself. I love all things domestic. I love cooking, and I'm a good cook I love cleaning my house! I love making my house a home and taking pride in its appearance.

I remember years ago a therapist telling me that I like to clean and take care of my home because I'm avoiding my life. I'm definitely guilty of avoiding my life, but not in that way. Why should there be an explanation? Can't it be that I simply like taking care of my home?

When I was a teenager there was such a stigma on women who stayed home because it was an era where women were starting to gain more power in the workplace. I think this is where I got my extreme ideas of what it would mean for me to embrace the domestic world. I was afraid I would be labeled. But it's so unfair because we shouldn't have to define ourselves as one of only two choices. We all have so much more to offer.

My grandmother passed away in the summer of 1996. She was 97. I miss her dearly. Maine just isn't the same without her. Because I am so much younger than all my cousins, I really didn't get to bond with Nana the way they did, as adults. She didn't get to see me get married. She won't get to meet my children. She missed out on my whole adult life essentially. All I have with her is my childhood. So what I cherish so dearly today is the deep connection I feel to her. She didn't get to participate in my adult life in person, but she's still participating in spirit. There's a huge part of me that's all about her.

Every morning when I make my bed and arrange my little throw pillows, I feel the spirit of my grandmother. She makes me smile. Sometimes it takes years to discover who you are, and even more to realize that in fact, you are like your mother, and her mother before her. And you know what, that works for me.

With the start of Spring comes the opening day of Major League Baseball, another season all to itself. Today is that special day, folks, and if you are not a huge baseball fan, now is the best time to start, to follow the season through to the World Series, to learn how baseball has become one of America’s staples in history.

"It's such a wonderful sport," George W. Bush said before his Opening Day assignment -- the first ceremonial toss by the executive right-hander since Game 3 of the 2001 World Series at Yankee Stadium. "There aren't any time limits, which means you can go and enjoy yourself. It's a great place to go and relax. It's a wonderful place to visit with somebody you love. It's an important part of our history." (ref.)

That says it. Baseball is an important part of American history. Legends have been formed through the sport. One single hit from one game became folklore that people still discuss at the local pub each year. And have you ever been to a baseball game? The smell of the stands, of the fresh-cut grass, of the peanuts and hot dogs and nachos and beer… The shine of the stadium lights, the roar of the crowd, the swell of the wave… Just going to a Major League Baseball game can make anyone feel like they’re a part of something special.

So to commemorate Opening Day, and to commemorate that which is one of America’s favorite pastimes, here is important information and key facts about baseball throughout our history: