Cupid’s careening arrows: Hallmark or Halloween horror?

 

By Mary Kay Roth

One evening a few months ago, reading a good book, content and warm beneath my down comforter, I started receiving strange phone texts from my daughter, Anna.  

Photos of various guys.  One after another.  After another.  “Do you like this guy?”  “What about this one?”  “He’s kinda cute.”

A phone call later, lo and behold, Anna had created an online dating profile for her mom. Then, believe it or not, she had actually “liked” a few guys and was sending them messages (supposedly from me).

Good grief, confession time, this was likely my own fault.  Despite my long and faithful reputation as a happily, carefree introvert, the combination of retirement and pandemic had left me – ever so often – a little lonely. And in a weak moment I had confided that sometimes – now and then – once in a blue moon – I actually considered the unthinkable … Going on a date.

My daughter decided she was just the person to remedy the situation.  Enter Cupid’s arrow aimed directly at my soul.  And suddenly I had visions of potential storylines that ranged from Hallmark movie to Halloween horror flick. I had been unwittingly tossed into the online dating world of “OKCupid.” 

Of course, my first reaction was no.  Absolutely not.  Never, ever. This would likely not end well.

Fast forward, what the heck, I went on a date.

Granted, I was so nervous enroute to the rendezvous I screamed vintage Springsteen songs inside my car (my meditative stress relief).  And of course, upon arrival, I felt the need to explain my daughter’s role in this madcap escapade and that I was a novice at dating apps.  In response, my companion was quite understanding and even offered tips for successful online dating, including the sincere recommendation that I should add at least one profile photo of me straddling a motorcycle.

Driving home that evening, it occurred to me that I had always sucked at dating. What was I thinking? I was ready to throw in the towel.

However, a couple weeks later (admittedly a couple drinks into the evening), Anna and I were at a restaurant and decided it would be fun to scroll through the dating site.  Laughing uproariously over glaring differences in our taste in men – Anna’s favorite pick was a guy I nicknamed, “mafia man” – the waitress eventually became curious.  So, when Anna explained she was trying to find a man for her mom, the waitress sat down at our table and started scrolling through guys with Anna. (Heck, it was a slow night.) 

And despite my vehement protestations, the waitress ultimately agreed with Anna: “Yeah, I really like mafia man.” After which two voices behind us immediately chimed in: “Yeah, we like that one, too.” We turned around – and two young men seated at the table beside us had decided our menu of men was much more interesting than the menu of entrées. 

Majority rules, Anna proclaimed. Hence my second date.  

This time around, nervous yet again, I got lost in Omaha while searching for the restaurant and ended up parking almost a mile away.  Thus, the flip side, after dinner I couldn’t find my car.  

My very nice date offered to drive around in search of my sky-blue Honda, but as we were cruising concrete I suddenly remembered the sage advice my brother had offered: “Seriously, most guys are just looking for a nice woman to talk with, but also someone who isn’t crazy.  So perhaps you should leave your bumper-sticker car at home – at least for your first date.”

Holy moly, too late. As we pulled up to my vehicle there was a strange silence inside the guy’s car.  “THIS is yours?” he asked.  “Yeah, you probably should have listened to your brother.” 

Sigh.  This time around, driving home, I considered a few random numbers:  One-half of American adults are currently single – one-third of all Baby Boomers. And in 2020, more than 44 million people had used online dating services. 

I was now a single digit in all three of those tallies.

“But why?” my confused son, Josh, had asked – thinking his sister and mother had gone completely and totally mad.

“Mom, you’re one of the happiest people I know. You’re incredibly content and independent.  Why on earth would you do online dating?”

Then he asked what every mother dreams her child will ask her someday: “Mom, is it about sex?”

Silence.

Me: “Joshua Douglas, I cannot believe you would ask your mother that.” 

Josh: “You didn’t really answer ...”

Me: “Let’s return to that first question, now that’s a fair question: Why online dating?”

Indeed, I have a great life. Mostly I savor solo. But frankly there are times when the line between alone and lonely gets fuzzy, moments when it might feel good to hold someone’s hand or go to a movie together. Friday evenings when you want to get takeout – Sunday afternoons when you want to go for a drive – the world often seems as coupled up as critters marching onto Noah’s Ark.

I can assure you of this truth. When you mention the crazy notion of dating:  Your friends with spouses/significant others inevitably will respond something like, “If I were ever single again, I would never do that”  – while your friends who are single, incandescently happy or not, will have some measure of understanding in their eyes.

So, where does a person go from here?  

A good friend suggested I create an interactive Google survey:  What should Mary do next?  

• Immediately add a motorcycle picture to her online photo gallery.
• Count her blissful independent blessings and close down the profile.
• Add a new bumper sticker: “I’m in my 60’s but not dead. I date.” 
• Clobber the next person who says, “You just need to get out there.” 
• Consider that perhaps it is about the sex – and join Tinder.
• Move to a remote region of Nepal.
• Don’t worry, be happy.
• Other  _________

Bottom line, I can always hold my grandchild’s hand.  I can take a brisk Sunday hike with my beloved pup, Zuzu.  I can play a little Ben Webster on the saxophone any given Friday night, and Netflix will serve up any movie I desire. And, yes, I am pretty darned content, reading a good book.

Anna: “What do you want to do, Mom?  Should we close down your dating profile?”

Me: “Maybe …”

Silence.

*************************************

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Of this I have clarity...

 by Mary Reiman 

The phrase “looking for clarity” jumped out at me when reading the book The Last Thing He Told Me yesterday.  

 Clarity: the quality of being coherent and intelligible.

 Another word I do not use very often perhaps because there are many, many things in the world I’m not clear about. No clarity regarding most topics I tend to write about or think about or even read about. But there is one topic of which I am very, very clear. The Right to Read.

 One of the favorite components of my days as a school librarian were book talks. I had the opportunity to share just enough about each book to entice my students to want to check it out. Always included were the conversations that no one was requiring them to finish the book if they did not like it. I always suggested reading at least 50 pages. If it hasn’t grabbed their interest by that point, return it and find me for another suggestion. 

Sometimes the topic was so intriguing that several wanted to read the same book at the same time. Alas there was only one copy. What a heart soaring problem for a school librarian to have!

 I loved to see students find that spark. Finding just the right book at just the right time. Sometimes the topics were difficult, sometimes soul searching. And that’s what they wanted. To learn, to grow, to expand their horizons and to have choices. They had a great sense of social justice and, yes, they were appalled to think that anyone would tell them they didn’t have the right to read whatever they wanted to read. Or that anyone would suggest one they loved should be removed because it might offend someone. 

 Thinking of this reinforces the concept of windows and mirrors which was first introduced to me by Emily Style and Peggy McIntosh in the early 90s. The idea that reading the thoughts of others gives us a window into a world we have not seen before, as well as sometimes giving us a mirror to reflect on how closely our lives look and feel even though we may seem so different. Isn’t that what we want and need? To learn from others’ experiences, to learn from the past, to realize the mistakes and atrocities, the happiness and the sorrow. Because how can we be better if we never talk about sexual assault or domestic violence or hate or racism. How can we be better? How can we be better advocates for the injustices that surround us?

 These were the headlines yesterday in a post from NBC News. “Southlake school leader tells teacher to balance Holocaust books with ‘opposing’ views.” The leader making the statement was the school district’s executive director of curriculum and instruction. The superintendent later apologized, stating, "The comments made were in no way to convey that the Holocaust was anything less than a terrible event in history…Additionally, we recognize there are not two sides of the Holocaust." Really?  REALLY? 

 For me, this is an obvious sign that we need to read. Read, reflect and read more.

 We must defend the importance of reading, the right to read...of this I have clarity.  

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In praise of a city bobbing on a prairie sea

By JoAnne Young

Lincoln has been in my life, off and on, from my teenage years. 

 

At 18, it was the city down a bumpy roadway with odd high schools, one that had no windows and another where cheerleaders wore funny plaid tams. 

 

At 20, it was city campus where I learned that many of my previous ideas about the world didn’t fit anymore. That I could agree to disagree with opinions I had been raised on, from a more informed position. 

 

At 22, it was a city I had to leave to find out if it made sense to ever come back.

 

At 31, I did come back with a husband and three kids in tow. Family life and work ensued and Lincoln blurred. It became a collection of objects and buildings and pavement and landmarks that rushed by as I drove to schools and work and appointments and grocery stores. 

 

In midlife, I sat for days and days in an office on P Street and then at the state Capitol, occasionally looking up through a high window at the big sky, daydreaming for a minute about what the city would hold in a deeper look, through my eyes, not those of politicians and newsmakers and employers. 

 

Now I’ve left the office and the Capitol and the tasks that kept the city at arm’s length. And I am starting to drift out of that hazy mechanical routine to notions of how to get from one phase of being to the next. 

 

And things are clearing up. 

Credit a camera lens that can bring into focus the details of what surrounds us: those things you barely notice in cityscapes and landscapes, details that get lost in the emotions, thoughts and images that obscure them.

So this is Lincoln, from Chief Standing Bear on Centennial Mall, to the early morning mist on Holmes Lake, the picturesque staircases in downtown’s historic buildings, and the iconic quotes on the arena pedestrian bridge. 

 

It grounds us with the familiar, but then we look up and there is something we’ve never seen: an exotic wall mural on a University Place building, a red glow from a city campus cupola, intricate scaffolding surrounding the Capitol sower, a tabby cat gazing sleepily from a bookstore window. 

 

It offers us a quality of life and cares about us, every one. A diverse governing body with a woman at the helm warrants a “Thank you, Lincoln voters.” No mountains or oceans, but distinctive seasonal changes and color splashed skies that ward off boredom. It isn’t without its flaws. But those imperfections are up to us to fix. Together.

 

Lincoln is the prairie fringed orchid in this expanse of grassland, the purple stitch across the divisive politics of our state. 

 

It’s those details, always evolving, that make it so. 

The Purple Berries Are Back

by Marilyn Moore

When I retired the second time, in 2016, I wondered what the rhythm of my days would be like.  For more than 40 years, I had lived by a calendar and a schedule that was mostly, well, hectic…some days bordering on frantic.  There was always the next meeting, the next phone call, the next project, the next crisis.  And I loved it all, well, almost all.  I was busy, engaged, and energized, and most of the time I felt productive, glad to work with the people who were my colleagues, and rewarded with the satisfaction of bringing collective efforts together to make a difference in the lives of students and their learning.  What would happen to the days, I wondered, when that calendar and that schedule were just cleared?

For most of those forty plus years, I started every Monday morning with a leadership meeting of some kind.  I would leave the house in time to get to the office, gather materials, make a cup of tea, and head off for the morning meeting.  In retirement, I vowed I would start Monday differently.  Instead of leaving home, I would savor time to read the paper, have a second cup of tea, and most importantly, look for beauty right where I live…our own yard.  Without fail, I have done that every week for more than five years.  (And yes, it’s much easier in summer than in February.)  If I happen to be out of town on a Monday morning, I still look for that spot of beauty, wherever happens to be “home” at the time.

It’s been a wonderful practice, and one of the things I learned quickly was that I really had no idea what was growing in our yard.  I know, we approved the landscaping plan, I looked at the name of every plant, I chose and planted the annuals each year, but I still really didn’t know what was growing, and I certainly had not looked at them carefully, over the span of a year.  I have been surprised every season of every year at a bud, a leaf, a flower, a seed, a pattern in the bark, that I don’t recall seeing before.  A friend commented that I finally had time to look at my own back yard, and that’s really true.  Embarrassing, but true….

One of the early surprises was the appearance of the purple berries on a shrub that during the summer is mostly green leaves with little tiny pink flowers.  I remember the first time I saw them, in the fall of 2016, about five years ago.  There they were, having appeared sometime in the week between Monday morning careful looks…. gorgeous purple berries.  They are beautiful, and they are sturdy.  They hang on until late winter, changing color from purple to deep red wine to brown, shrinking and shriveling and wrinkling, but hanging on.  They are stunning when they are coated with the first ice or snow of the season.  And then, in the late winter or early spring, they let go.  That’s the time to cut back the shrub, and it begins all over again.  

I’ve witnessed this now for five years, and I’m still as in awe as I was the first time.  Sometime, in the past week, the berries have begun to change from little green buds to full grown and brilliant purple berries.  And I practically cheer…well, I do cheer.  We all need something to cheer about, and for me, these berries are it.

My most recent blog was about the mayhem in which we are living our lives.  The delta variant, tenuous international relationships, persistent racial inequities, disputes over almost everything, from new legislative boundaries to the debt ceiling to vaccine mandates to immigration, shortage of workers almost everywhere and the resulting pressure to be more “productive,” whatever that might mean, and a level of anger and edginess that seems to be rising daily. All of those aspects of mayhem are still there…there’s been no noticeable lessening in the time since I wrote five weeks ago.  Each could be its own blog topic, and perhaps will be…. but not right now.  

For right now, I’m rejoicing in the purple berries, which once again remind me of the constancy of the seasons.  In the midst of much uncertainty, and what at times feels like what Madeleine L’Engle called a swiftly tilting planet, the purple berries are back, and they soothe my soul.