No Gift Wrapping Needed

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

No Gift Wrapping Needed

            My mom’s parents lived in Omaha, and we only saw them a couple of times a year, so when Christmas came around they sent gifts that would survive mailing. I was their only grandchild, and Grandma loved making me doll clothes; the trouble was that I didn’t care much for dolls. Years later, when I tried making doll clothes for my daughter, I realized what a labor of love it was; luckily, dolls weren’t my daughter’s thing either.

 By the time I reached junior high, Grandma took to sending me a five dollar bill—big money in those days. She always apologized for not shopping instead, and I could never convince her that I absolutely loved, and looked forward to that money; just enough to buy something really special that my weekly cream check allowance wouldn’t cover. 

What goes around comes around, and now I’m in Grandma’s shoes. Well, not really, she wore a size 4 ½. The average shoe size has grown about as much as the amount needed to equal that old time five dollars, and I have many more young people to buy for than Grandma did. So I’ve gone the money route a lot too, even for my own kids. Who knows what anyone really needs these days? But I’m also starting to know how Grandma felt about taking that shortcut to shopping.

Last spring, a family member thanked me for the birthday money, saying she spent it on new boots for one of the kids. “Wait a minute,” I protested. “You were supposed to buy something nice for YOU!” She promised to get herself something later on, and in reality, I know that gifts shouldn’t be conditional.

It’s here again; my holiday shopping dilemma. But recently I read of a person whose monetary gifts are conditional—the recipient has 24 hours to give it away. My imagination went wild. What fun it would be to decide who should benefit! Even better if it could be passed along anonymously. Exciting to know how they used it; oh, but that’s none of my business.

Of course my conscience is still alive and well, and there’s just enough kid in me yet to think everyone should have a little something under the tree to unwrap. Then, a sign, in the form of an envelope containing payment for a long forgotten loan made by my first husband, some years before his death in 1990. It really isn’t my money, is it? So pass it along—some to buy little trinkets for Christmas gifts, and some to give away whole.

If you get cash from me this holiday season you have a week to give some of it away. Pay it forward at the coffee shop, drop some extra in the red kettle, make a payment on your friend’s loan, or simply leave a surprise on someone’s doorstep, ring the bell, and run away. I won’t know if you did; no strings, remember? This is just a challenge to experience an adventure, and share the real spirit of the season. Keep the chain of love going.

Have fun. I know I will.

Open Season

12/2/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Open Season

            The first shot echoed across the valley as I tended the trash fire in our incinerator, clear and unmistakable as death itself, shattering the frosty stillness of a perfect fall morning. It wasn’t unexpected, after all, this was opening day of deer season; just unsettling, given the events that had taken place in Paris less than twenty four hours earlier.

            It would have been friendly fire, if there is such, because the only people with permission to hunt on my spouse’s ranch are relatives; responsible folks who always ask first and let us know where they will be. The meat will be used in some appropriate manner, and they won’t abuse the land by making tracks in delicate areas that tend to become blowouts.

Still, the sound of gunfire hit my gut and ear hard; made me flinch and say a prayer for the hunted, of any species. I tried to pray for the hunters as well; the ones who do it for sport and for sustenance; even for those who are somehow convinced that killing in the name of ideology and religion is heroic. But sometimes my prayers are simply words, and I have to hope that a higher power can turn them into real intention for good. At such times, I say the words anyway, for whatever they are worth.

As the quiet, peaceful day wore on I hung out laundry in shirtsleeves, watched sun sparkle on the lake, and listened to geese gabble their way to winter quarters, while sitting on the porch swing with a purring pile of fur on my lap. I swept a collection of leaves off the patio and pondered the necessity for us to sweep thoughts of hatred and resentment out of our heads, so as not to become like those who live only to harm the innocent.

Also in shirtsleeves, Bruce worked at repairing a shed, but instead of accompanying him, our dog cowered indoors getting underfoot and displaying general uneasiness. Maggie hates guns, and although there were only a couple of shots near enough to be heard, instinct told her that it was time to take cover. Lately, it’s hard for us two-leggeds not to adopt the same attitude. We could let fear and uncertainty overshadow the joy of a season predicated on our belief in ultimate forgiveness and love, but if we do that, the terrorists win.

I’ve waited a while to write about this, knowing my tendency to react, rather than responding thoughtfully. Here’s what I do know. Maggie lost a lovely day, perhaps one of the last we will enjoy for a long time, because she was afraid of something she can’t understand, that occurred at a distance. The possibility of shots nearer the house certainly existed; our relatives sometimes get their deer in a tree strip just east of the barn, but on that day, it didn’t happen.

Life is risky. Live it anyway, with all the joy you can muster.

Gratitude Versus Grumpy

11/25/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Gratitude Versus Grumpy

            Abraham Lincoln is credited with saying that most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be. A friend of mine put it this way. “We all have a choice. Helpless and hopeless, or humble and helpful.” And every now and then, someone happily reminds us that wherever we go, there we are.

So what have you decided about today? You can bah-humbug all you want about the approaching season of marathon holidays, and I have certainly taken my turn in that barrel, but if I must take me wherever I go, I’d prefer better company than the Grinch.

            Are you an optimist or a pessimist? Author Terry Hershey writes that an optimist is merely someone who doesn’t have all the information. Pessimists, on the other hand, are realists who have forgotten to take their medication.

            Expectations have a lot to do with whether we are comfortable where we find ourselves. I recently complained to my cousin that retirement was supposed to be relaxing, but we seem to be constantly busy. Signed off with this: “That’s all the news from Lake Insanity.”

“We’re blessed to be able to help out our families and communities,” she replied. “The alternative to Lake Insanity is Lake Boredom, and the people I see there are paddling around in a boat called ‘Woe Is Me,’ and looking for a doctor to fix them.”

Nobody will co-sign your self-pity? Too bad. I’ve learned the quickest way to stop someone’s whining is to tell them to write a list of five things they are thankful for, and it can’t be anything they made happen. Those willing to do that end up smiling; the others go away and quit bothering me.

Some of us have a custom of asking Thanksgiving guests to say what they are grateful for. One family does this every night at supper, as part of grace. How would our lives improve if we did it every morning?

Hate your job? Say thanks to your boss for hiring you so you can put food on the table. And smile at a co-worker. Weather cold and gloomy? Be grateful for having a warm coat. And look for an extra one in your closet to donate to someone who doesn’t. Have to work on the holiday? Be glad you can do that so someone else can have the day with family, and plan a celebration when you have time off.

There are many versions of this story, but the one I heard first was told by a wise old Indian to one of his white friends. “There are two dogs inside us. One is black, and represents negative actions and thoughts. The white one represents happiness and kind deeds. They fight for control, but we get to choose the winner.” How do we affect the outcome? “It’s the one we feed the most.”

So, who is coming to eat at your Thanksgiving table?

Three Little Kittens Lost Their Mittens.

11/18/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Three Little Kittens Lost Their Mittens.

            There probably aren’t many readers under forty who ever heard of the three unlucky kittens, and if you mentioned catching flies with honey rather than vinegar they’d go, “HUH??”

Nobody ever warned them their faces might freeze that way, or cautioned them not to get the big head, but it’d have benefitted society if that had happened. Nobody ever said, “See you in the funny papers” to them either. Is there a text abbreviation for that? Probably not, the funny papers are about to become as extinct as these old sayings.

            Instead of handing pre-teens a cell phone, we need to remove our own phone from their sticky fingers and tell them not to monkey with that. When they skip out on chores they need to be told to quit monkeying around and get to work.

            Granny would have said it’s the cat’s pajamas how people dress these days, let alone the way men wear hats indoors. She’d have been right, of course, but I digress. However, that does bring us back to the kittens…

            Our five little kittens haven’t any mittens either. I doubt they have lost anything other than manners, but apparently they believe something is missing, and it’s hidden in the kitchen. 

            They were born under the grill cover and now are out exploring the world. That cute, playful stage is fun, although we know they’ll soon be cats. Still, we laugh while watching them romp and pretend to do battle on the patio. The problem is that every time the door opens they race to come in. And carrying a basket of laundry, or something to put in the shop, makes it hard to know they are between your feet. I accidentally shut the door on one that was halfway in the other morning, and the squall woke my sleeping spouse.

Mind you, these entertainers have not been fed indoors or encouraged to enter. Well, that’s mostly true. Last week, the mama carried one in when the door opened for the dog. Somehow, I don’t think that counts as permission.

My hopes were raised when one son called to inquire if we had extra cats. Turned out he wants grown ones that will fight off a dog. We might be able to fill the order, but those fitting that category can’t be caught, which is why we’ve played with the latest litter so much, in order to tame them for give-away.

Which brings me to Christmas—surely someone out there has a granddaughter who has been begging for a kitten, and one of these is black, so it wouldn’t even get smudged when Santa carries it down the chimney. You know, of course, why I appeal to grandparents; it’s against the rules for parents to make a kid give back a gift from Granny or Granddad.

This is the first time you’ve ever heard me encourage rushing the holiday season, but emergencies happen. So, shop early, shop often, and shop at home. The coyote that’s been sneaking around to eat what’s left in the garden may soon decrease the inventory.

Gotta run. Not to be rude, but I need to go put out a cat.

Not Forgotten

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Not Forgotten

A majority of the books I’ve read recently have been war stories; unusual for me. My reading buddy, retired from military service, is understandably drawn to those topics, but sometimes, unable to wade through a book she enjoyed and recommended, I decide that, “you had to have been there.” Most of us require an anchor of common experience to really understand something.

Tallgrass, by Sandra Dallas, is a novel about interaction between a rural community and residents of a Japanese internment camp during World War Two. Growing up, I knew such places existed, though it wasn’t happening next door. Still, my parents made sure we never bought anything labeled “made in Japan,” for years afterward. There was plenty of suspicion regarding people with a German surname too, although most families in my neighborhood, including my own, had some German ancestry. Many of those names had been Americanized to avoid censure. Somehow, we never commented on that.

A Star for Mrs. Blake, by April Smith, is historical fiction, set around a program our government implemented after World War One that sponsored overseas trips for Gold Star Mothers to visit the gravesites of sons who made the supreme sacrifice. Apparently, segregation and prejudice were alive and well in the official realm but commonality of grief among the mothers managed to circumvent it. Incidentally, the total mobilized forces of the U. S. during World War One came to 4,355,000. Multiply that by however many family members would have been affected, and you have the ultimate in common experience.

Even as we clamor for equality, humans are inclined to sort themselves into categories. We attach labels, affiliate with groups, dress in certain ways, and speak slang that is common to our chosen community, thus eliminating the need to examine our true beliefs. And it’s easier to justify questionable behavior if we surround ourselves with people who speak rudely, dress inappropriately, or promote violence.

The premise that all people of a certain race, creed, occupation, or geographical background are alike is akin to claiming that purple is purple, plain and simple. Actually, purple includes violet, lilac, magenta, mauve, and various other shades, each suggesting a particular message.     

History offers plenty of examples of attempts to control society by labeling. Hitler comes to mind, but religion, entertainment, news media, marketing, schoolyard bullying, and peer pressure use the same tactics. The other side of the coin is exceptionalism. Author and therapist Mary Pipher says that down deep, each of us believes we are the sanest member of our crazy family. But chances are great that each member of your crazy family holds similar views of themselves, so here you are again, grouped and labeled with all the rest.

Perhaps the most important quality we can instill in our young people is the ability to think independently. How many of us back up our opinions with research that includes more than one side of a question? What percentage of our belief system is based on someone else’s interpretation? Have we truly learned from the past? Countless lives have bought us the freedom to build a more perfect union. We need to take that challenge seriously.

The Bridge of Love

11/4/2015       

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

The Bridge of Love

            I heard the song again recently on an oldies station.

Love Can Build a Bridge.

Followed by a political attack ad.

So, what are we supposed to believe? I wondered. The wisdom that follows is not my own, heaven knows, if you didn’t. But it might help us discern what’s really going on, with the politicians, and with ourselves.

“Anyone’s actions or words are an expression of either love or fear—their love or fear—and not related to me or anyone else…Our job is not to judge others but to recognize the call for help inherent in their actions.” Karen Casey

This doesn’t mean we have to love the act, Casey continues, in fact we may need to remove ourselves from the situation. She believes these two emotions give birth to every opinion and response we make. It’s as if two voices exist in our minds. We’ll know which voice speaks by listening to our words and the words of others. Attacking someone verbally indicates that we are afraid another is smarter, better, or has more, and believe that tearing them down builds us up.

“Gossip barbed with our anger, a polite form of murder by character assassination, has its satisfactions for us too. Here we are not trying to help those we criticize; we are trying to proclaim our own righteousness.” Bill Wilson

“What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart.” St. Matthew

“Much of my fear is of looking ridiculous or finding out I’m not too bright, or that I’m narrow and small minded underneath my civilized veneer.” For Today

“Therefore, what else are we to do but bear with one another and treat each other as we would be treated in similar circumstances? That is what love really is.”Anonymous

“How shall we expect charity toward others when we are uncharitable to ourselves?” Sir Thomas Browne

“A moment to reflect on the emotional upheaval my words may cause, not only to someone else, but to myself.”Daily Reflections

            Do you wonder if any of the candidates, charities, or causes vying for our approval (read that: money) have a clue about the portrait they are drawing of themselves? If this is the best of America there are dark times ahead. 

            Queen Eleanor, a character in James Goldman’s playThe Lion in Winter, knew that mean-spirited comments and criticisms are weapons of choice, and she asks: “For the love of God, can’t we love one another just a little? We have so much to love each other for. We have such possibilities. We could change the world.”

            And we can. Not necessarily by running for office, but by running from gossip, fear, and negative comments, and putting some planks on the bridge of love. When someone criticizes your neighbor or co-worker, respond by saying that person has a nice smile, or is a good dad. Tell Granny how good her cookies were; thank the teacher that taught you to read, or your boss for giving you a job. Go whole hog and praise your mother in law! That’ll be a conversation stopper.