Helen, I Am Ready

I’ve never been a very political person.  I read and listen to the news just enough to feel like I have a basic knowledge of what’s going on in the world.  I vote but I’ve never gotten involved in the political process other than the one time I put an Obama sign in our yard.  I’m not proud of it but I’ve just never been deeply knowledgeable about world and political affairs.  I stand back and assume everything will work out. 

And I’ve never been a brave person.  Not that I haven’t wished I was.  I’d like to think I could take a road trip by myself to go visit a friend.  Or drive up to the mountains to meet somebody for hiking or skiing.  Or drive myself to the Denver airport all by myself.  I tell myself I don’t do these things because I get lost so easily I'm surprised I even found my way out of my mother’s womb.  But the more likely reason is I’m just afraid to try.  I admire women who are not afraid to try new things; women who are brave.  I so wish I was more like them.  But I’m not. 

However, after I recovered from the despair and shock of Donald Trump’s election I decided I could no longer use fear as an excuse.  I have decided I can no longer stand back and assume everything will work out.  I accept the fact that he is now our President but I do not have to stand by and accept his lies.  I do not have to stand by and accept that what Donald Trump seems to care about most is Donald Trump.  I do not have to stand by and accept Donald Trump's misogynistic comments.  So when I heard there was going to be a Women’s March On Washington DC to stand up for women’s rights, I wanted to go.  Oh, I really wanted to go.  But I wasn’t brave enough to go by myself.  And I wasn’t brave enough to drive to the Women’s March On Denver by myself to take part in that one either. 

But because of Donald Trump's words and actions, Leslie also felt compelled to attend the Women's March.  And because Leslie is brave, she drove Emerson and Myra and I seven hours to Denver where we held hands and, together, we marched.  We didn't go to protest Trump's election.  We went to to stand up for women's rights and all human rights.  We went to show Emerson and Myra that they have a voice.  That they can stand up for what they believe.  That they can be part of the democratic process.  That they can make a difference.

We found our way to the starting point, Voorhies Memorial Pond in Civic Center Park, at about 8:30 a.m., an hour before the march was to begin. 

Riding the light rail to the march.

As we walked through the opening in the archway and saw there were already hundreds of people ahead of us my eyes welled with tears.  There were women of all ages, there were men, there were families, there were young girls, there were babies.  Some were carrying signs, some were wearing pink – hats, scarves, shoes, mittens – and everybody was upbeat and smiling and excited. 

Our starting point.  The center arch behind us was the beginning of the march.

We walked around a bit to keep our feet warm since it was only about 30 degrees but as more and more people arrived we finally had to find our place and wait for the march to begin.   The newspaper that morning had predicted 40,000 people would attend the Denver march.  We had no idea if we were anywhere close to that number because all we could see were the people around us.  So we hoisted Myra up on my shoulders and she took some photos of the marchers.  But still, we had no idea how to judge the numbers.

The time for the march to begin came and went.  15 minutes late.  Half an hour late.  We had no idea what the holdup was.  Had there been a delay in blocking off the streets?  Was the person who was supposed to lead the march late in arriving?  All we had to do was start walking, how hard could it be to give the signal to start?  Finally, about 10:15 a.m., 45 minutes after the march was scheduled to begin, we realized we were actually taking small steps forward and making progress. 

As we neared that central arch where the march began a volunteer yelled out that the march really HAD started on time.  It had taken nearly 45 minutes for us to even begin making forward progress because there over 100,000 people marching!  Almost three times more than the morning paper had predicted.  We walked through the opening of the arch and were met with a solid mass of people. 

Thousands and thousands of women, men and children chanting and waving signs.  They had completely filled the streets and sidewalks out front because there was no room for them where we had been waiting.  It was overwhelming.  The waves of emotion that I felt were indescribable and the tears that had only welled up in my eyes when we first arrived spilled out this time.  I could not believe my eyes.  I felt like I had found my tribe.  And it was liberating.  And I thank Donald Trump for giving me that most transforming experience. 

Photo from Denver Post on-line.

Yes, Donald Trump, I thank you.  I thank you even though I think you’re a buffoon who will make decisions based on advice from whoever who stroked your ego the most.  I thank you even though I think our country and the environment are going to suffer in innumerable ways from those decisions.  I thank you even though I cannot respect you, because you, Donald Trump, made me realize I can no longer stand back and do nothing.  You, Donald Trump, have forced me outside my comfort zone.  Yes, you, Donald Trump are making me brave. 

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Helen, I Am Ready

We Are Living The Cartoon

I’m not sure if toasting each other over a plate of weenies strictly counted as a celebration, but back in August Dean and I celebrated 40 years of marriage.  I started to type “40 years of marital bliss” but that would just be lying and I pride myself on always telling the truth not exaggerating much even if it reflects poorly on me Dean.  I’m not saying there weren’t stretches of marital bliss during the past 40 years, especially during the early years when we looked upon each other with starry-eyed adoration.  “We’re soul mates” we said to each other.  “You’re perfect” we each sighed.   Oh sure, there were moments, weeks, and sometimes even years of our marriage where it felt like we were barely holding on to a frayed string as we were thrown in and out of a tiny kayak which was riding up on a swelling wave only to drop into a chasm, in a hurricane, out in the middle of the ocean, without Dramamine, but that just made those blissful times that much sweeter.  

As the years passed our vision became less clouded by those stars and we each began to notice small flaws in each other.  You might think we managed to stay married to each other for 40 years because we ignored those slight imperfections and just learned to live with them – or – even learned to love them.  You would be wrong.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned over 40 years of marital-sometimes-bliss it’s that when something makes you feel like fingernails on a blackboard, it's imperative that you 1.   point out the offense, and 2.  see that it's taken care of.  So early on we learned it was important not to stew about the things that annoyed us but to deal with them, even if that meant not waiting longer than three days for Dean to read my mind.

Our marriage experience has served us well during our adjustment period with the home because our relationship with this Little Bit O’ Country has been very similar to our 40 years together.  During the honeymoon stage we, okay I, gazed on the home with stars in my eyes.  We weren’t blind to the flaws but they seemed small and insignificant.  However, as with any marriage, soon those small defects became more difficult to ignore.  As I mentioned in my last post, we became less enamored of the home.  We wondered if we’d made a mistake.  We regretted our hasty decision and wished for a way out.  We were exhausted from all the work we’d put into it and needed a trial separation.  We needed time to remember why we’d begun the relationship to begin with and we needed to decide if we wanted to continue.  I, for one, went through a period of mourning for the retirement future I thought we’d lost.

Finally after six weekends in a row of painting, carpet removing, foam scraping, wall washing, ceiling washing, leak fixing and wallpaper scraping, on the seventh weekend we stayed away and rested.  And last weekend when we went back, the painter had come and gone and what looked like this before 

now looked like this.

And this

 

now looks like this 

We are cautiously letting our hearts open up to the home again even though our anniversary dinner was mashed meat in a skin because we were so exhausted from working on it we could barely lift a fork let alone sit upright in a restaurant.   (Although a leaking kitchen sink – again! this weekend didn’t make it easy.)   I wish the list of things we need to do was completed but it isn’t.  Unfortunately, we’ve added to that list with even more things we want to do.  I've come to the conclusion there’s always going to be something we’ll need or want to fix, improve or change.  I’m just hopeful that the major issues have been dealt with, the exhausting part of this relationship is over, and once the wood floors are put in we’ll only be left with small things that annoy us ... kind of like our marriage. 

Oh, and in the interest of complete honesty … that whole part about telling each other we were soul mates, etc., … we didn’t need to say them … we just knew.  Deep sigh….  Kidding.  If Dean ever said that to me I’d snort whatever weenie-paired wine I was drinking at the time right out my nose.  Which is one of the perks of being married for 40 years.  You can do that without even being embarrassed.  Not that I have.  I’m just saying you could.

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We Are Living The Cartoon