Lighten Up and Live Longer

There are people in discrete little corners of our country who feel disenfranchised from government and society as a whole. And yet, they have a drive to find meaning in their lives. One such person is Jim Bishop, resident of Rye, CO. A mason and ironworker by profession, he commutes 60 miles each way to his job in Pueblo, and in his spare time for the last 50 years of his life has been building a castle.

Singlehandedly, he has laid every stone, every piece of structural iron, and has created such a thing of beauty that people drive hours to marvel at it. And they do it for free, because Bishop will not contribute any more than he has to in support of a government he feels has made it their job to make his life miserable.

When you visit Bishop’s Castle (it has a sign off the road), you come on your own recognizance. OSHA does not live here. The last time we visited, we climbed up narrow stone stairs to platforms four stories up without any railings or protection. A sign Bishop has erected, says, in effect, “If you think you are going to hurt yourself and sue me, then don’t come in.” Donations are welcome, and a charming gift shop on the site generates additional income. Another source of funding for his project are stained glass memorial windows you can purchase that light up the great stone arches on the main floor. The windows honor everything from 50^th wedding anniversaries, to the newly married, to people lost, including some during 9/11. The setting is magical.

A fire-breathing dragon tops the main entrance to the castle, with scales made of hundreds of metal lunch trays. Turrets with onion-domed tops have sprung up since last we visited, and he is now working on a grand entrance to the property with a moat and drawbridge, and a wall that marks the property line, complete with turrets at the corners and dungeons below. At 62, Bishop is showing the wear and tear. The project will never be finished, but as it grows, so does the wonder of visitors. Jim Bishop is a testimony to the ability of the human spirit to emerge from pain and frustration in rare and beautiful ways.

It sounded like a simple thing: one trip, multiple stops. We were getting ready to relocate for the summer to our other house and had lots of things to get done before we left. If I’m really organized, how hard can it be? I found out.

The Plan:  on foot, I will accomplish all the following:

1.      Get in a five-mile walk (check!)

2.      Return my library book

3.      Pick up greeting cards at the drug store

4.      Mail Mom’s birthday gift

5.      Donate platelets at Red Cross

6.      Get groceries

I can do it all and cross six things off my To-Do list!

First, I had to get the package ready to mail: my mom’s battery operated toenail sander. She has arthritis, bad eyes, and very, very thick toenails. Best solution: doggie toenail sander, guaranteed not to harm flesh (or get you nipped at).

So I pick up this “as seen on TV” miracle tool, batteries not included. That is unacceptable for a birthday gift, so I thoughtfully secure two C-batteries and install them, wrap package in pretty birthday paper, attach card, and wrap in brown paper, securely tape and address.

The next day:

1. Load backpack with package and library book to return, and set off.
2. Stop at library first. Reach into backpack for book. Package is vibrating. Somehow, the handy dandy doggie toenail sander has turned itself on. I’m pretty sure the post office will NOT accept a vibrating package.
3. Unwrap outer paper, coax package out and carefully unwrap birthday paper (small rip-it can be taped), wiggle box out, open and remove sander, take out batteries and throw back in box. Put package back together. Fine, I’ll just ask the post office for some more tape for the outer package.
4. Walk on to drug store for cards. Batteries are clunking around in the box. I’m pretty sure the post office will NOT accept a clunking box. Fine. I’ll just get some tape at the drug store to secure the batteries.
5. Stop at drug store for cards and package tape. I don’t use plastic bags so I gather up my purchases and throw them in the backpack. Walk the four long blocks on to the Red Cross. Luckily, I’m early for my platelet donation appointment, so I should have time to (again) unwrap the package, replace the batteries upside down so they can’t rattle or come on (Duh!), rewrap it, and take it to the post office.
6. Get to Red Cross, open backpack. No tape. Search thoroughly.
7. Walk four long blocks back to the drug store to find the tape lying on the floor where I loaded my backpack.
8. Walk the four long blocks back to the Red Cross, open outer wrapping, and pull out wrapped gift. Pull gift out of paper (more ripping, oops!).
9. Put batteries in upside down, replace handy dandy doggie toenail sander in molded tray and back into wrapping paper. Tape up the big rips and replace in outer paper, taping it securely.
10. See gift box sitting next to me. That explains why it went back into the paper so easily.
11. Unwrap outer wrapping, tear off gift paper, now unsalvageable. Put tray back in box. Affix card to box with note on envelope: “Dear Mom: Just wanted you to know this gift had really pretty wrapping paper, but after unwrapping it four times on the way to the post office, it couldn’t be saved. It’s a funny story; I’ll tell you when I see you.”
12. Put box and card back into outer paper and tape it all to hell.
13. Try to get blood pressure back down to normal and donate platelets.
14. Walk five more long blocks to the post office to mail the damn gift. “No! It’s not perishable or hazardous. Just take it!!!”
15. Pick up groceries and walk the 2.5 miles back home. Move on to next thing on my list.

At every musical event in Forest Park, she is there, an odd woman of 50+ outrageously attired in pink and white tutu, tights, and numerous changing accessories. We watch her perform her own routines, quite separate from the beat of the music itself, an inner conductor, apparently. When I speak to her about her enthusiasm, she hastily pulls out a flier and says: “I do parties.”

I am accustomed to seeing her at the free outdoor concerts in front of the History Museum, where people of all ages and abilities are encouraged to get up and express themselves to the music. Last week, we attended an esoteric concert in one of the galleries in the art museum, the Ensemble Lipzodes, music of Muslim and Jewish Spain, played on shawms, txicoten, vielle, rebab, harmonium, harp, and the like. An unlikely venue for a ballerina. But there she was seated front row center, in her tutu with beribboned armlets, dancing in her seat, her festooned wrists reflecting her joy at the music—any music.

Last night, at the outdoor concert, she danced relentlessly, stopping to form stork poses, or spin around like a dervish. No one approached her, but everyone watched. For certain numbers, a parasol would appear; for others, fans or feathers were required. The children seemed to accept her most readily. Their dancing was just as spontaneous and removed from the rhythm. Miz Susan Stone bills herself as the Dance of Life performer, and describes what she does as the “dance of life’ and urges all of us to really see and celebrate life in all its beauty and wonders by dancing.

She has a point. Rather than watch the news and worry about what might happen, isn’t it infinitely better to concentrate on the joys of simply breathing and experiencing being us? This slightly warped ray of sunshine who is Susan Stone just adds to the multifaceted fabric of my fascinating life in the city, and yes, it makes me want to dance.

Recently, we helped our son move his worldly possessions from Salt Lake City to Minneapolis-St. Paul, MN. Lest you think it was our college son and his worldly possessions would fit into a smallish trailer behind the family sedan, let me correct that misunderstanding. These are the worldly possessions of a family of four: husband, wife, two small children, and two large aging dogs. Times are tight, so moving by U-Haul seemed the best option, especially with muscle at both ends to load and unload. 

We were tapped as being the natural choice for this endeavor: my sweetie for his carpentry and technical expertise; me for my grandmotherly inclinations. After two last days of packing, Mom and the two little girls took off for Denver for her mother’s. I was assigned to take the dogs to the groomer for the day on Thursday, so the trucks could be packed without big barking bodies underfoot. After coming close to being drawn and quartered on the five-block walk to the groomers (big dog on leash pulling backwards, big dog on leash trying to run), we got to loading the truck.

In our best we-told-you-so faces (but not voices), we listened to the son declare that he needed a second truck. So the plan for my sweetie and me to drive Mom’s car with one dog in it, while son drove the 26-ft truck with the other dog, was out the window. My sweetie had acquired a 14-foot truck and I got the car (with the big dog).

Friday morning arrives. The plan: rise at 5 am, load the mattresses and the last of the food into the trucks, stow the dogs and their gear, and start off on the trek at 6 am. The reality: Up at 5:30 am, take mattresses out, sweetie falls down deck steps and cracks head on pavement. When the dizziness clears and the ice pack is firmly attached to the big goose egg on his skull, we start off, closer to 7 am. No cruise control on trucks, so I, dogging behind my sweetie keeping an eye peeled for erratic behavior that might indicate increased intracranial pressure, couldn’t use mine either. Did I mention the dog in the small car with me had gas that rivaled the sulfur pots at Yellowstone?

End of day came 16 hours later when we pulled into the hotel in Omaha, crammed the three of us and both dogs into a little room for five frantic hours of sleep before hitting the road for the last six hours to the new house in Minneapolis. In all, the dogs were troopers. Our muscle at the other end showed up to help unload, and the trucks were empty by nightfall. Bottle of wine and some mindless TV helped us off to bed. Easter Sunday was spent unpacking and trying to find a food store open. Did you know Walgreen’s has sandwiches? We do now.

By Tuesday when Mom and the girls flew in to their new home for the first look, the kitchen and the bedrooms were operational, as were the washer and dryer. More unpacking and lots of kid time to keep the little girls occupied so Mom could find somewhere to put her clothes and make decisions on things to go into storage. By Sunday, we were more than ready to come back to the tranquility of our city home and reflect on that momentous trip.

Would I ever want to do this again? Probably not. Am I glad I did it? Absolutely. This is the stuff memories are made of. We got to spend more time alone with our son than we have in the last five years. Our granddogs really appreciated the TLC. We could really help our daughter-in-law. Seeing all the changes in the little girls was fascinating. They change so fast, that living far away, they seem suddenly older, almost overnight.  

Life goes by so fast, and picks up speed as we age. We must cram as many memories and experiences in each day as we can. They are part and parcel of our lives; not what we have, but what we do and what we experience. Our children and grandchildren grow up and away. We have to create those lifelines to attach to them, like strings on kites, so we can reel them back in and marvel at their uniqueness—up close.

    Uncertainty weighs upon us. Something we want to happen—doesn’t. Something we dread—happens. And yet, each time and in both circumstances, it later turns out for the best. It still stops me in my tracks because the mind has such a short memory of such things. That ever-ready “Oh, No!” reaction comes out, and then later: “Ah! Just like last time. That needed to happen.” It always does. I forgot. Stress relieved.

      But even better not to have the stress of the alarm reaction in the first place. Why don’t I remember that things in my life have always turned out okay, even though the evidence was long in surfacing? If my reaction could incorporate that awareness the instant it occurred, it would be more positive, more useful.

      Short of hypnosis to change my cognition, I can take great comfort in that realization coming, however delayed. Each wish left unanswered has lessons from which I ultimately benefit. Or could it be that because I believe everything works out as it should that I look for lessons and joys I would otherwise miss? Does it matter? The end result is that my life has more confidence and worth. I find joy in looking forward, realizing that whatever the future holds, in some way, each event will be wrapped in blessings I can peel back and discover, like a gift I didn’t even know I needed.

Well, one did. During a recent visit from an out-of-town Catholic friend, we decided it might be a treat for her to attend mass at the Cathedral Basilica on Lindell. Now THIS is a church—of the most glorious kind. I believe it is possible to break one’s neck craning to see the magnificent ceilings with their mosaics, cut glass, and frescos. Even this Protestant was impressed.

And so it was that after walking through the Basilica on Saturday, we returned on Sunday for mass. The cantor was a young woman whose voice can only be described as angelic. Her pure tones filled every corner of the sanctuary, and gave a surreal quality to the service. The combination of her sweet tones and the setting almost made me want to convert. I can see why the faithful keep returning.

As we followed along with the service, my thoughts strayed, and I hope I am forgiven. I looked around at all the families gathered there and thought about what some factions in the world want to outlaw: this sharing of a faith with father, mother, and children united in worship and prayer. For many of the world’s people, we are heretics and deserve to be obliterated. Men and women should never worship together. I say it’s what strengthens marriages and families. Worshipping a loving and kind God cannot be wrong. Reaching out to help our fellow men, women, and children; sharing what we have with them, and trying to be good global citizens do not make us infidels. It makes us more in the image of our God, and it only takes an hour in this setting to reassure me of that truth.

Yesterday, we had the privilege of being part of a symbolic ceremony: the honorary renaming of our street, Delmar Blvd, as Barack Obama Boulevard. That honorary name encompasses the part of this lengthy road that runs through the city of St. Louis.

The renaming was not a commentary on how they think the new president will perform, but on the event of the election of the first African-American president to this country’s highest office. It was an auspicious gathering by city standards: We had the city controller, representatives of our Washington congressional representatives, the mayor’s right hand man, and all the African-American aldermen and women. In truth, my sweetie and I made up half the Caucasian faces present. Curiously absent were the Caucasian aldermen, and any Caucasian politicos. They sent African-American representatives in their stead.

After a snappy number of percussion pieces by the Roosevelt High School Band that was honored to have played at the Inauguration in Washington DC, we had the presenting of the color guard, and an extraordinary rendition of the Star Spangled Banner by an African American minister. Various dignitaries spoke about what this moment meant to them. Their pure joy that this day had ever come, let alone in their lifetime, was palpable. It made me realize that I could never know what their struggles have been like over the years, through slavery, emancipation, segregation, and innuendo. Now this tall young man who speaks so well, better than any Caucasian president in recent history, and who seems to embody a realistic view of a nation pulling together, sharing each others’ loads, and forging ahead, has demonstrated to our country and the world that his race is one with ours, and that the measure of a man (or woman) has nothing to do with the color of his skin. It has everything to do with understanding how things get done when you have been unable to use the routes available to a more privileged race and class.

Obama gets it: we each have a personal responsibility for our future. Nothing will be handed to us. We have to make our success and do our part to make it happen. That means taking care of our health by not taking drugs, smoking, and changing our lifestyle. It means taking care of our fiscal health by not borrowing beyond our means, avoiding risky investments and living only for today. The government can help, but it can only do so much. But even more important: he gets that we have to put aside special interests and entitlement at our top echelons, and start taking care of each other. That will be the hardest lesson to get across, especially to the privileged who don’t like to share.

Renaming a street is only symbolic, but I like the symbolism. We have come a long way. Now let’s buckle down and keep it going, one neighbor and one activist at a time.

You have to wonder about it when your pretty predictable sweetie gets you a gift for an occasion for which you don’t normally receive a gift. Valentine’s Day has been a card and romance day for most of our married life. This year, I got a gift. Not your traditional heartsy type of gift, more of a New Year’s resolution kind of gift. He got me an exercise kit.

Now, I am not in the least disputing the fact that I need one. Exercising without health club and other sweaty bodies depends hugely on willpower and self-discipline. I have a greatly underused yoga mat, tapes, weights, and even a big ball. Now I have a new exercise kit and DVD that will help me strengthen my core and become long and lean throughout the middle.

The other day, I noticed in the mirror that my butt and thighs look bigger. When I opened the kit, it hit me. Ohmygosh! He must have noticed it, too! And I thought I had been hiding it so cleverly. So I guess I’m going to start setting time aside to do more than take long walks through the neighborhood. I will be working on my tummy, my butt, and developing a long lean middle. I can’t let this practical and thoughtful gift go anywhere but to waist.

Recently, I answered a casting call for extras in a movie that will be shot in St. Louis in coming months. The director will have his pick. For approximately 1,200 extra roles, 24,000-plus people showed up. It was held at a sparsely populated shopping mall. After we got our group numbers, we were told to go shop, eat, whatever, and come back at 1:30 pm to get in line and be interviewed. I had brought a friend’s mother Jean with me, who is about my mother’s age. She had recently moved to St. Louis and was feeling a little lonely after leaving her friends behind in another state.

When the time approached, we found ourselves standing in a line the length of the mall, five across, waiting with applications and photos in hand for a one-minute interview and a promise that if they need us, they will definitely call.

Jean and I did it for the novelty and the people contact. Many thousands were there because they were out of work, and one day’s pay, even at $100, could help put food on the table. Others were there because the movie was looking for travel industry types and they worked at the airport.

For the second time in several months, I found the crowd dynamics fascinating. Back in October, I had attended an Obama campaign rally under the St. Louis Arch. Crowds were estimated at 100,000, the largest U.S. campaign rally ever. What struck me at that time was the diversity in the crowd: all ages, sex, racial diversity, and background. Interestingly, there were no protestors. Everyone in the crowd as hopeful, enthusiastic, and some of them looked a lot like Republicans who were hoping for a change from the status quo.

The same applied to the movie extra crowd. There were obviously wide disparities in economic status, age, and race. And they all seemed to enjoy that as much as I did. Although the movie staff were not interviewing children for these roles, many people brought their kids with them for the experience or because they had to. Small children can get very testy waiting. We were in line for a solid four hours, and didn’t hear a single baby crying. One four-year old seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. A seven-year-old was happy to have a crowd of strangers she could tell that she was nine years old, an apparently more desirable age. She had a digital camera and had fun snapping informal shots of the crowd, who aped it up for her benefit.

Whether or not I get chosen to be in the movie is immaterial. For me, it was all about the experience, having further reassurance that we are all basically the same and can co-exist peacefully, even joyously. Jean and I bonded, and I had more insight into the fears and concerns of my own mother. I left there feeling good about our country, our people, and our future.