Just Call Me Kip

Sometimes I hear people of my generation express their concern that technology is contributing to the demise of relationships by removing face-to-face contact. I disagree. In some ways technology has enhanced my relationships. I have no desire to return to the 'good old days' before the advent of cell phones and the Internet. In fact, I'm sort of the opposite.

I love technology.

(Source: Google Images)

 

Just call me Kip*.

 

This is not to suggest that I'm particularly savvy about the tech world. I'm not. But technology does afford me the opportunity to have a very short commute across the hall to my home office where I teach and connect with students almost entirely online. And through the magic of Facebook and Twitter I'm able to keep up with people I might otherwise lose contact with. Not to mention those people who just make me laugh on a regular basis. Some days Skype lets me see my sweet girl's face even though she's 400 miles away.

 

But what I love the most is the way silly group text messages keep my little family connected.

 

We've always been a pretty close family.When the kids were growing up we spent a lot of time together. And now some of our most favorite occasions are those when we are all together having deep conversation or laughing until our stomachs hurt. Sometimes both at the same time. Until recently, everyone lived at home, but lately they all decided to grow up and leave. This makes regular interaction a lot more challenging.

 

Our children are, of course, the generation who grew up with technology. They are able to keep up with rapid advances just fine. Steve and I grew up in a time when people thought the move from rotary dial phones to push buttons was a pretty big deal. We're a little slower to catch on. But we manage to hang in there.

 

After her recent fall break Anna and a friend drove back to college. By sending a group text to the rest of the family she was able to keep the other four of us informed on her whereabouts and the number of cows she could see. I'm not sure how, exactly, but somehow those updates sparked a lighthearted texting competition about who was 'Mom's favorite.' Criteria included who could make me laugh the most and who could make me cry the most.

 

For the record, there was no clear winner.

 

And another day Anna sent us a photo of some food from the college dining hall with a 'guess what this is,' prompt. Nobody got the right answer but the conversation that resulted from the question was pretty funny. Steve can be counted on to spell things incorrectly, insert non sequiturs, and throw in an obscene comment or two so the conversation never gets boring. We couldn't figure out what the food was. 

 

The guesses included broccoli and apple pie but it turns out the photo was of refried beans.

 

One of the more entertaining conversations came from a photo Parker sent of a sign that said, "Life is about using the whole box of crayons." At an earlier point when we had all actually, physically, been in the same place, Steve shared this quote with the family. He was being all deep and meaningful but Parker misunderstood and thought he said, "Life is about using the whole box of condoms." That alone was pretty funny. But then Parker saw the sign with the quote one day and sent a photo of it to the rest of the family and somehow things shifted to a revised version of the quote saying, "Life is about using the whole box of colored condoms." This created an immediate flurry of text messages to one another offering very colorful names for colored condoms.

 

Nothing like naming a condom 'Orgasmic Orange,' to keep a family connected.

 

Laughter is good for the soul.  And when our family connects, there is always a lot of laughter. Our children are, in the words of Kip, "like a flock of doves," scattering away from home a bit. But I feel blessed to live in a time when we can stay connected despite distance.

 

Charles turns 25 on Sunday. We can't all be in the same room to sing our traditional off-key "Happy Birthday" song. But, through the magic of cell phones we will still all be together.

 

I love technology.

 

Always and forever.

 

*In case you need a refresher on Kip's Wedding song:

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERCzN91JicA





Git Along Lil Kitties

I've always thought the term 'herding cats' was funny.

(Source: Google Images)

 

I think I find it amusing because as person who has had a lot of cats over the years I know how silly that idea is. I love this commercial for that reason.

Someone should tell our dog, Sadie, she'll never be successful at herding cats.

As part Australian Cattle Dog, Sadie's instincts are to herd just about everything. She's giving it a real effort with the cats but I'm afraid it isn't working. Sadly, it's a little like watching our country's leadership (a term I am using very loosely!) at the moment.

Actually, that isn't true. My animals are doing a better job of negotiating than our elected officials.

Although none of the cats seem to appreciate Sadie's attempts to herd them in a certain direction, most are willing to find a way to coexist peacefully, if not in full agreement. The only one not on board is elderly, grey, grumpy, and largely impotent. Which makes him sound a lot like a Republican Senator, come to think of it.

Regardless, the negotiations are ongoing. Every day brings a new opportunity to figure out how to give and take a little bit. Sadie doesn't really want the cats to eat from her food dish. But, she's willing to share some with them if it makes things better overall. And the cats don't absolutely love it when she tries to sniff their backsides, but if she goes about it calmly they seem to understand it as a gesture of diplomatic understanding.

So far nobody has gotten mean or aggressive or ugly. Nobody has put a stop to our household in demand of their own way. In all, I've watched my pets behave in a civil and respectful way. Which is more than I can say for our federal government.

Granted, out national issues are more significant than species cohabitation. But really now. You'd think if a houseful of animals can do it, our elected officials could too.

Remembering My Father

This week marked the 40th anniversary of my father's death. Forty years. That's such a long time.

The anniversary of his death doesn't hold any real sadness for me anymore. His death story is just another part of my life story. He's been gone for much more than half my life now. Still, I choose to remember and mark the day he died. For many years I did feel sad. And angry. And abandoned. But time has passed and I've come to terms with his decision to end his own life.

For so many years it seemed that my father's suicide was the only thing any of us really remembered about him. But with time and healing I've realized that his death didn't define him. Nor did his addictions. At his core, he was a good person. He suffered from mental illness and addiction at a time when our culture knew even less about how to deal with those issues than we do now.

I don't claim to understand what he did. I only know I've come to terms with it. He missed so much by opting out early. Most of my significant life events have occurred without him. My husband and children never got to know him. He wasn't present for any of my graduation ceremonies. He never got to see the woman I've become. I like to think he'd be proud.

These days memories of my father come in snippets. Moments in time sparked by one thing or another. The man I see in photographs reminds me of the man he was, although my own memory banks are fairly sparse. Because of the circumstances of his death, for many years I looked for him in a crowd. Although I knew he was dead, my soul longed to see him one more time; to say goodbye. It was unfair of him to say goodbye to me without giving me the chance to do the same. But then there are a lot of things about suicide that are unfair.

The day my father died, he dropped me off at school and before I got out of the car he said he loved me. He didn't say that often so I thought it was odd, but in retrospect I realize he was saying goodbye. He had carefully planned what he was going to do once he got home. I've grown to appreciate his last words to me. And I've grown to believe them. I didn't always.

A few years ago I was given a precious gift in saying goodbye to a friend's father the day before he died. Although he was drifting in and out of lucidity, at the moment of our goodbye he held my hand strongly, spoke clearly, and was immensely present. His words were soothing. He wasn't my father but he allowed me to exchange the words my father and I might have said had things been different. My soul calmed after that experience. I never looked for my father in a crowd again. I'd said goodbye.

Forgiveness came in stages. Through reoccurring dreams, my own maturity, and greater understanding of my father's addled mental state, I've come to forgive his actions. I wish he'd gotten help. I wish he'd made different choices. But I forgive the pain he caused. I don't believe he meant to hurt us.

My father is so much more than his death, though. I look at photographs of him as a baby, a teenager, and a young man and realize that he had a full and happy life before the agony of mental illness and addiction overtook him. He was a talented musician. He loved to celebrate everything. He was charming and engaging and in early photos there is a sparkle of joy. I see glimpses of him in myself and my children, and in my siblings, niece and nephews. His DNA is a part of us. Who he was before his tragic demise influences each of us in some small way.

Jimmy Charles Martin

Something went wrong in my father's life. When and how, I don't know. But something took his life long before he did.

I wish things had been different for him. I wish he'd been able to get help. I wish he'd known that his life was worth living. I wish he had lived a long, full life. I wish he'd known that he mattered.

Because, in this world, everyone matters.