Happiness is a Retired Statesman

At a recent banking industry convention I attended, the keynote speaker was former US President George W. Bush. During the question and answer period that followed his prepared remarks, someone asked him about his retirement. I was interested to learn that without any artistic training of any kind, “W” has taken up oil painting.  He admitted that he has been as surprised as anyone that this activity has become such a passion.  Painting changed his life

President Bush explained that he was inspired to paint after reading a little book – an essay, really – called Painting as a Pastime, written by Winston Churchill in 1932.  In that book Sir Churchill describes his own passion for painting, discovered at the “advanced age of forty”.  I decided to read the book myself, not to see if I would be inspired to paint, but to understand how it so profoundly changed another’s life. 

I enjoyed the description of Sir Churchill’s introduction to painting and the joy he found with that pastime, but the book isn't really about painting.  It’s a book about happiness.

We humans are obsessed with happiness.  We talk about it constantly. We want it.  We seek it. We will do anything to get it.   And when we don’t have it we look for the reasons why it eludes us and we attempt to rid ourselves of the people or things that we believe stand in the way.  Even the Declaration of Independence guarantees our right to pursue happiness.  Happiness is a big deal!

I am amazed at how many people believe that others can cause their happiness or unhappiness.  That is such an absurd belief, when you think about it.  No other human can make you happy or unhappy.  If you doubt what I am saying, think about it this way:  Imagine a man is holding a gun to your head and will shoot you if you don’t do what he says.  If he says “jump”, I am sure that you will jump.   But if that same man says “be happy”, you will certainly act as happy as you possibly can, but his command will not necessarily make you feel happy.  Even if death is the only alternative, no one can make us happy.

Others can present us with their joys, their fears, their accomplishments, and their failures but then it’s up to us whether to absorb those offerings and allow our feelings to change in response.  We are 100% responsible for our own emotional state, including our own happiness.

 My wise husband has never had any patience with anyone who declares “I’m bored!” because he knows those who are bored expect others to be responsible for their entertainment.  In a world crammed full of opportunities, anyone who is bored has chosen to be bored.  It is the same with happiness.    Happiness is a choice.

That’s the real message in Painting as a Pastime.  If you constantly chase things or people in a quest for happiness, you will never find it.  But if you pursue work, activities and hobbies for your own satisfaction, happiness is inevitable.  Now isn't that a happy thought!

Marital Negotiations

I left my first marriage without much in the way of cash resources so it took a few years in a rental condo before I had saved enough to buy a home.  I will never forget the day I first saw the house that was soon going to be mine.  A friend who was also recently divorced called to tell me about a house he had seen.  It wasn't for him but he thought I might like it.  He was right.

I was home with an awful flu but I dragged myself out of bed for an hour to tour the house.  I instantly fell in love.  A few weeks later the place was mine.

The house was a Craftsman style bungalow,  in a great family neighborhood.  The kitchen was recently remodeled and was bright and sunny.  The hardwood floors gleamed!  It had built in bookcases, a fireplace and (best of all) a great front porch.  Did I mention that I fell in love with the place?

I cannot adequately describe the emotions I felt about that house.  Just buying new towels for the bathroom was like bringing home a gift for a lover.  Writing about that house still makes my heart race.

When I got married, I moved into my husband's house.  His was the grander of our homes, so it made sense.  Giving up my bungalow was incredibly difficult, but I was able to sell it to a nice young couple, which helped soothe me.  But I never, ever stopped loving my bungalow.

Fast forward seven years.  My husband Joe is retired and I plan to retire soon.  We don't need a huge home with four bedrooms, 15 acres, and a pond.  The term "downsize" appears often in our conversations.

I recently learned that my bungalow is back on the market.  It is the perfect place to downsize.  At first Joe agreed, but lately he has had a change of heart.  He is just as emotionally attached to his home as I am to mine.  Tonight I agreed to walk away from my bungalow.  But I am really having a hard time with that decision.

 Joe's house is just that - Joe's house.  My house is just that - my house.  Joe's house feels like a responsibility.  My house feels like a gift.

Now what do I do?

Cranky is the New Black

Here is the absolute truth.....I am 61 years old.  Here is another absolute, 100%  truth.....I don't want to be 61 years old. I may have reached my golden years, but I arrived here kicking and screaming.

 I do everything possible to pretend that I am still in my 40's.  I exercise like mad, eat well, dress fashionably, and embrace activities that prove I am still young.  I wear hip hugger jeans, stiletto heels, pencil skirts and keep my weight under 120.  It costs lots of time and money to maintain my perfect ash blonde streaks.  I think I look pretty damn hot, if I do say so myself.

I'm in denial.  I admit it.  The truth is..... I'm getting old, whether I like it or not.

I'm doing my best to embrace this phase of my life.  I love the wisdom I have and the financial stability I have achieved.  I have 15 of the most wonderful grandchildren. (They all call me "Becky".  No "grandma" for me - that sounded too damn old!) No matter what anyone says about the golden years, there is lots about aging that just plain awful!

I knew about wrinkles and grey hair but there are many other signs of aging that I never expected. Did your mother tell you that your nose hair would undertake a growth spurt around the time you turned 60?  I think not!  My mom also failed to mention that my knees were going to get all wrinkly.  How about moisture?  One day you are as juicy as can be and the next day you are as dry as an autumn leaf.

I am not prepared for this!  It's enough to make a woman cranky!

A Newtown Story

Many years ago, when my dear friend Regina was 19, she and her two older sisters decided to go home to Detroit for Thanksgiving.  At the time, none of the sisters had a husband, but they did have four children, two boyfriends, a rattle-trap of a van, and a dog among them.

On the day before Thanksgiving the women loaded the children, the dog and themselves into the van and set off to drive to Detroit.  For some reason that Regina is unable to explain now, they decided to go via the "New York route", so they began the journey by heading south on Interstate 91 from their starting point in Greenfield, Massachusetts. They got as far as Newtown when the van began to sputter.  They limped along to the parking lot of a discount department store when the van refused to move another inch.

In those days there were pay phones, not cell phones.  Even home answering machines were rare.  Regina's sister used a pay phone to call a Newtown mechanic who came and after an inspection declared the van to be terminally ill, with no hope of recovery.

After delivering this news, the mechanic left. The women attached themselves to the pay phone and began to make calls, hoping to find someone to come to their rescue.  They called their boy friends and then other friends, but didn't find a single person at home.  Considering that this was the the day before Thanksgiving, it wasn't surprising.  The women were discussing what to do about their predicament when the mechanic returned. The mechanic had told his wife about the women and she sent him back to rescue the stranded family.

The mechanic arrived at the parking lot to find the women huddled around the pay phone.  He extended the invitation and it was accepted.  Seven people and a dog piled into the mechanic's pick-up and headed back to his home.

The women gratefully enjoyed the lodging and Thanksgiving dinner.   Even now, Regina doesn't know how that family managed to expand a Thanksgiving dinner for a family of four to include seven visitors.  But somehow it all worked.

For many years Regina exchanged Christmas cards and holiday greetings with the mechanic's family.  Their act of profound kindness could not be forgotten.

The incident that put Newtown in the news this week is not a reflection of real life there. Regina experienced the real Newtown.  A place that has kindness, heart and fibre.  A place where we would like to live. A place to protect.

A place that is America.

How Soon They Forget, and Maybe That's the Way it Should Be.

This past weekend my husband Joe and I were invited to attend a surprise birthday party for the wife of one of Joe’s oldest friends. Also invited to attend was Joe’s ex-wife (“M”), who drove with her boyfriend all the way from Chicago to share the birthday celebration with her dear friend.

Joe and I have been married for five years and he and his ex-wife split up another ten years before that. Just a year or two after their breakup, M moved to the midwest and has only made a few short visits each year to our neck of the woods to visit her son and his children who still live near-by.

I have never felt threatened at all by M so I was surprised to dream about her the night before the birthday party. In my dream, Joe told me that our marriage was over because he and M had decided to reunite. In the dream I was amazingly calm and accepting of that news, even patiently and soothingly explaining the decision to a few infuriated friends and Joe’s distressed children.

Joe and I arrived at the party at the designated time and M arrived about an hour later. She hovered across the room and then disappeared into the kitchen before she and I even had a chance to greet each other. My husband went to the kitchen to get a drink and emerged a minute later.

Joe came right over to me with a funny smile on his face. “She called me Bill”, he said. Then under his breath he added, “Her first husband was named Bill and he’s been dead for over ten years!” I thought he was joking, of course, but a minute later M followed Joe from the kitchen and after greeting me she apologized to Joe for forgetting his name. Joe was gracious, of course, but I hardly knew how to react to the absurdity of it all.

How could a woman forget the name of a man she was married to for nearly twenty years? I suppose there are a number of explanations but none of them particularly matter to me. I’m just amazed that I wasted an entire dream on my apparent anxiety about M’s arrival. And I am very grateful to M for providing the material that has kept me amused for the last three days.

Joe....I love you and I promise I will never forget your name....even twenty years from now.....until we get to the assisted living facility. Then all bets are off.

What Kind of Love is This?

The recent capture of Whitey Bulger has captivated the nation, but even more so in Massachusetts where Bulger was born, raised and conducted his business. For years Whitey's family provided plenty of provocative material for the local media. The Bulger brothers seemingly occupied opposite ends of the social strata. Whitey was a career criminal who began his errant lifestyle as a young teen. His brother Billy took a different path out of the the Irish ghetto in South Boston, earning a first class education at Boston College and Boston Law. Their brother Jack cashed in on his brothers' influence over Southie politics and was rewarded with a series of patronage positions throughout his adulthood.

Billy and Whitey both prospered from careful devotion to connections and constituency. Billy's education and connections in Irish Catholic Boston led to a successful career in public service - first as the President of the Massachusetts Senate and later as the President of the University of Massachusetts. The public that Whitey served brought him a different kind of respect and notoriety.

Whitey was mean and ruthless. Anyone who disappointed him in either love or business was likely to meet an ignominious end. His charisma both attracted and repelled. Billy was equally hardboiled but in a politically astute way.

But enough about the Bulger brothers. Their stories are well known and widely understood.

A much more fascinating character is Catherine Greig, the woman who ran away with Whitey. His girlfriend and companion for the last 16 years, she was with him when he was caught and may even have been the bait that led the FBI to Whitey's lair.

By all accounts, Catherine was a beauty who attracted Whitey's attention while he was married to his common law wife, Theresa Stanley. Catherine must have been equally enthralled because for ten years she carried on with Whitey while he lived with Theresa and took care of business in Boston. At the time she began her affair with Whitey, he was widely believed to have been behind the murders of two previous girlfriends and Catherine's two former brothers in law. She was able to overlook these allegations and over the subsequent years she overlooked much more.

When Whitey was tipped off in early 1995 that his arrest was imminent, he fled with Theresa Stanley in tow. But Theresa quickly tired of the fugitive lifestyle so after a few weeks on the run Whitey traded her for the woman who had always been number two. Catherine's twin delivered her sister to Whitey at a clandestine pick up location in South Boston. The fugitives fled to parts unknown. Whitey and his replacement moll managed to avoid the law for the next sixteen years.

When Whitey and Catherine were discovered they had been living a life that was far from the romantic crime lord existence that their pursuers imagined. Instead of living in luxury, they had spent 16 years in California as Carol and Charles Gasko in a modest rent controlled apartment. Whitey was 81 years old and cranky. They had no friends and even slept in separate bedrooms. When the FBI searched the Santa Monica apartment they found an armory-load of weapons along with $800,000 in cash.

It's conceivable to understand Catherine's initial attraction to to life on the run with her criminal boyfriend. He certainly offered an excitement she never experienced in her South Boston neighborhood. There must have been a thrill to being pursued by the FBI and outwitting them month after month. But as the years went by, the excitement of fugitive living must have worn thin.

Catherine's neighbors in Santa Monica all reported that she was a sweet woman who allowed only superficial relationships and paid for everything in cash. Her "husband" didn't get such high marks. He was said to be irritable and possessive, yelling at Catherine whenever he thought she was talking too long with acquaintances. Their twenty year age difference became a problem too and Catherine confided in a neighbor that her husband was suffering from dementia.

So what was the glue that kept Catherine tied to such an evil, ruthless killer? If he loved her he didn't demonstrate it with respect. She walked away from her real life with only a handbag, leaving her friends, family and beloved dogs behind. Although Whitey enjoyed somewhat of a "Robin Hood" image among Boston's Irish population, Catherine had to have known that Whitey wasn't on the FBI's most wanted list because of his good deeds. And a man who has killed 19 others is unlikely to behave with tenderness and empathy, even toward his girlfriend.

Did Catherine really love Whitey with such conviction that she was willing to sacrifice everything to be at his side? Or did she stay with him out of fear that he would arrange for her death if she left him? Or was she simply trapped by the consequences of the impulsive choice she made sixteen years earlier?

Some have speculated that she was the one who tipped off the FBI. If that's true, it would add rich complexity to her biography. Some day I hope she tells her story. It has to be one hell of a tale.

The World is About to End So Why are Men Behaving Badly

May 17, 2011

I find it somewhat ironic that I am inspired to write a blog post after learning of yet another high profile male behaving badly toward his wife. What does it say about me that I find this behavior worthy of comment? I am not sure, but if I live long enough I plan to discuss it with my therapist.

For some reason I also seem to be inundated lately with messages about the end of the world which apparently is just around the corner. Initially these messages pointed exclusively to December 21, 2012, identified by the ancient Mayan calendar as the BIG DAY, but lately the day of reckoning has changed and may be as soon as May 21, 2011, which is just a few days away. If that new prophecy is true I barely have time to get my laundry done before I will be called to meet my maker.

Two days ago the world learned that Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger were calling it quits after 25 years of marriage. The announcement was put forth in the usual innocuous way by describing the separation in terms that made the decision appear to be without rancor and accepted kindly by all parties.

But those of us who have lived long enough to have achieved a certain amount of wisdom knew that the announcement neglected to explain the painful details behind the separation. We were not surprised when the real story was revealed to the world barely 24 hours later. Over night Arnold’s nickname changed from the Governator to the Sperminator. Need I say more?

Barely a day later the sexual weaknesses of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the head of the International Monetary Fund were splashed all over the media after he was accused of a horrifying rape and sexual assault of a maid at his $3000 per night New York hotel.

Arnold’s transgression with the object of his sexual affection did not occur in such a brutal manner, but the result of his actions were far more devastating to his wife and children. Amazingly, in this era of Facebook and no secrets, Arnold managed to hide the existence of an affair with a household employee and the child produced from that affair, from the media and his family for over a decade. Dominique was not nearly so fortunate. His brutal transgression became known within a few hours.

For some reason I also seem to be inundated lately with messages about the end of the world which apparently is just around the corner. Initially these messages pointed exclusively to December 21, 2012, identified by the Mayan calendar as the BIG DAY, but lately the day of reckoning has changed and may be as soon as May 21, 2011 which is just a few days away. If that prophecy is true I barely have time to get my laundry done before I will be called to meet my maker.

Perhaps Arnold and Dominique knew the end of the world was imminent. Why control your impulses when we are all about to meet our demise? The fate of the world will be known soon. But if we survive the predicted day of Rapture, we can brace ourselves for the next round of doomsday predictions. Arnold and Dominique probably experienced their own personal doomsdays after they had to explain their vulgar behaviors to their wives.

Maybe the creator of the Mayan calendar was just a guy who behaved badly who wanted to cover his misdeeds by implying that the world was about to end. If that’s the case, I wonder how he explained it when the sun came up on that morning.