My Christmas/holiday gift to myself and you

Last weekend I challenged my son to a discussion in my effort to anticipate what I will see in twenty years when I look back on this period of time. I proposed that we can predict where we are going by the strength of the opposition. I don’t think I made myself really clear. But Dan Brown did, on page 409 of “The Symbol.” So this quote is my Christmas/holiday present to myself, as well as to any of you who tend, like me, to focus on the dark side of today’s events.

“Solomon let it sit for a long moment, then quietly said, ‘In closing, I should warn you that unveiling the truth is never easy. Throughout history, every period of enlightenment has been accompanied by darkness pushing in opposition. Such are the laws of nature and balance And if we look at the darkness growing in the world today, we have to realize that this means there is equal light growing. We are on the verge of a truly great period of illumination, and all of us – all of you – are profoundly blessed to be living through this pivotal moment of history. Of all the people who have ever lived, in all the eras in history … we are in that narrow window of time during which we will bear witness to our ultimate renaissance. After millennia of darkness, we will see our sciences, our minds, and even our religions unveil the truth.'”

Brown, Dan. (2009). The Lost Symbol. New York: Doubleday

ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO

I realized recently that it was 100 years ago when my father, urged by his mother, came to the United States from Sweden at the age of 19. His mother never saw him again. My father-in-law was 19 when he came to the United States from Italy, pushed by his mother. His mother never saw him again. This was the country offering such opportunity that mothers were willing, even eager, to part with their sons.

My father, already speaking English with facility, came to Forestville, Connecticut, where there was an established Swedish community. His big brother had arrived before him and established a business. Dad rented a room at the home of August Anderson who had been instrumental in establishing the Lutheran Church in town. That’s where he met his future wife, my mother, Jennie Anderson. And it was in Forestville that they spent their lives.

My father-in-law moved to an established community of Italian immigrants, where he was introduced to his future wife, my mother-in-law, Antoinette Navarette. There was a ready market for his family trade, and he was working as a butcher almost as soon as he arrived.

Beyond this point my focus has to be on my father, because – probably for obvious reasons – I know more detail about his history in this country. But the similarity strikes me that communication and transportation were so limited early in the 20^th century that a move across the Atlantic was a very final split from home.

They were immigrants who did what immigrants do – join communities of people with similar background. In that sense, today’s newcomers experience similar situations. Do we tend to forget? My father-in-law learned to speak "American." It was essential for a businessman. My mother-in-law learned what English she needed to, but her life was oriented toward her siblings, all of whom spoke Italian, and toward her Roman Catholic Church which operated in Latin for most of her life. It made sense for her to retain Italian as her primary language. Do we forget those things when we criticize people today for not speaking unaccented American English? I am constantly impressed when I hear people from all parts of the world speaking perfect, often accented, English.

My father didn’t like being teased for his accent, so he took off for Upsala College in New Jersey (Lutheran, of course) for two years where he learned accounting and perfectly unaccented English. All that was left of his Swedish was a hint of lilt. One of his favorite language stories was of using the word “nuance,” evoking the comment from a U.S. native that he shouldn’t be using foreign words, whereupon he pulled out an English language dictionary to point out that “nuance” is a perfectly fine word.

What occupies my thoughts as I ruminate about this one hundred year anniversary is the changes that have occurred since Carl Gustafson arrived in Forestville. Two days ago, when we needed a flashlight, my companion pulled out her telephone and shone the light where needed. A week or so ago I asked my daughter what an “app” is. And I think I’m pretty much up on things with my Palm phone and complicated Word program! My Bluetooth has become a part of my left ear, and I have a total of four cordless phones in my home, all operating from one base. I’ll be setting up a small artificial Christmas tree with lights already embedded in it. I’ve done much of my Christmas shopping on line, which is where I check my accounts every day to keep track of bills automatically paid electronically.

Now for the contrast-in-brief. My parents dated in horse and buggy. For entertainment, they gathered around the piano with family and friends to sing hymns and enjoy homemade refreshments. (As a matter of fact, my best friend and I played that we had a radio where we could see a picture.) My Dad was enthusiastic when it was first possible to buy a shower mixer instead of two separate knobs to control hot and cold water. And when I first flew with my parents, we all dressed in our Sunday best. As Treasurer at the Bristol Brass Corporation, my Dad operated his adding machine by pulling a lever, and I don’t know that he ever drove with seat belts. He drove ten minutes to work at 8:00 a.m. every day from Monday to Friday, returning home at noon for a one-hour lunch break, and back to work from 1:00 to 5:00. Weekends belonged to home, family and church. OK, I hope you get the idea. (Oh, by the way, my father-in-law reminisced about the one-hour siesta at noon every work day in Italy.)

The other day a client was reporting to me about a job interview she’d been through. She was asked that standard question, “Where do you want to be in five years?” I always thought that was a stupid question, but today it seems downright idiotic. Who knows what the jobs will be in five years? How many apps will be added? What more will we be able to do without flying, or even driving, to the necessary conferences? Who knows how public transportation will have developed to increase access to work? Who knows?

And I guess that’s the theme we are learning to live with. “Who knows?”

That’s why I plan to hang around for another twenty years to get the clear view of looking back.

Gratitude

The day after Thanksgiving, and I’m wrapped up in thoughts of gratitude. Start with my hosts, Jim and Carol Kane, and their other guest, Carolyn Bevan – a great group to be with, and especially ‘cause we were all willing to talk about our gratitude. I learned so much, especially the effects of survival and loss in the Vietnam War.

Next come my gratitude for my father and mother, and for the fact that I came along last, after my brother, Harvey – eleven years older – and my sister Thelma – eight years older. I know my parents struggled with the depression, but by the time I was aware, things had stabilized and I was spared the worry. My father was fortunate never to lose his job, though, as I understand it, he was paid in scrip for a while. I actually have a piece of that scrip in my “family” file. My father was a generous man, never concerned with accumulating money, but with using it wisely with unadvertised gifts to relatives and friends in need, and contributions to his church and other charities.

As I understand it, he would never have advanced as far as he did at the Bristol Brass if it had depended on him to argue for advancement. It was friends who threatened his bosses that my father might leave if he wasn’t recognized. He was valuable, and they promoted him.

I was the beneficiary of my parents’ belief in education, and their early feminism, when they paid my college expenses and my early years in graduate school. I might not have finished my Ph.D. after I was married if they had not subsidized me then. My appreciation for that also contributes to my annoyance when people who have been similarly fortunate claim that they have pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps and accuse others of being “lazy.”

My appreciation has to extend to the fact that I began my teaching career at a time when Southern Connecticut State University was hiring and paying. (It was Southern Connecticut State College at the time.) I was fortunate that I was promoted to Full Professor just before the state ran out of money and for years we had no new hires and few promotions.

I’m grateful, too, that, when I began my private practice later in my career, managed care had not yet taken over. And now I appreciate my father’s attitude toward money, which I hope I’ve inherited as I adapt to my small, outside-managed-care practice in Minnesota.

My parents chose to live in the not-so-grand suburb of Forestville rather than on the Hill in Bristol with the other “successful” businessmen. I assume it’s because the Gustafson and the Anderson families and Bethesda Lutheran Church were in Forestville. I’m glad they made that choice. All I had to do was cross over into an adjoining back yard to play with my friend Hallie. (Some people suspect our friendship was a model for Dara and Adah’s in “Mrs. Job.”) I’m grateful for the years we stayed connected, though apart, and I’m grateful now for the memories, and the fact that my daughter and I were there several years ago to help witness her move into the next stage of life’s journey – a peaceful move, thanks to Hospice.

I’m happy also that my cousin Eunice was nearby. I remember our playing pick-up sticks, going to Hammonasset State Park with Aunt Gerda and Uncle Everett, climbing in and out the driver’s side window of my father’s car, and being dressed in African clothing when the missionary came to speak. I’m happy I got to see her again in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania a few years ago before she moved on last year.

I guess I’d better stop for now, because the list could go on and on. Someday I’ll delve into all my friendships and mentors after Forestville.

Finally, though, I want to say how grateful I am to the folks who have read and studied “Mrs. Job,” and written reviews on amazon.com.

"HEALTH CARE" INSURANCE EXPERIENCE

I just can’t help myself. I need to talk about my experience as a practicing psychologist dealing with insurance companies. I want to make it clear that this is just a report of my personal recollections of my experience as a provider.

Back in 1978 I completed all requirements to become a licensed psychologist in Connecticut. (Incidentally, In Connecticut, at least at that time, one could use the title “psychologist” only with a PhD or PsyD and the license to practice.) I began my private practice while still working at Southern Connecticut State University. I confess it was hectic. That’s when I learned a few lessons about controlling the schedule of my own life. But when I retired from SCSU in 1986, I was able to devote my time to my practice, and there were weeks when I saw as many as 30 people. I think I helped some of them.

I guess you might say those were my glory days. I set my own time, my own fee schedule, and kept my own records in keeping with the ethical standards as I understood them. Most of my clients were able to pay me full fee at the time of the session, and I provided them with a statement at the end of each month, which they could submit to their insurance company. So bookkeeping was quite easy. And it gave me leeway to see some folks at reduced rates as needed.

Then came managed care. I had to register as a provider with appropriate insurance companies. I abided by their rules, in most cases allowing me to see clients for six sessions without permission. I had to provide the appropriate paper work, accept co-pays, and wait for the balance of my payment. Needless to say, the billing process became much more complicated. I also became aware of what was going on in the offices of the doctors I visited for my own needs. They were hiring more and more people to handle the paper work.

What bothered me most, however, was the process my client and I had to go through to get permission to extend payment beyond the original six sessions. It was a balancing act, really, convincing the reviewers that we were making sufficient progress that it was worth the insurance reimbursement and that my client was still “sick” enough that it was worth continuing to pay. My personal ethics didn’t allow me to talk about my clients behind their backs, so we would spend a session figuring out the most honest presentation that would allow continuation of their coverage – basically losing a session when we might be working on their own growth. (By the way, I confess that in providing completed insurance forms under any circumstances I was buying – with a sense of moral conflict --into the whole “illness” model when I really felt that the folks who came to me were the healthiest who were willing to work at improving their own lives.) I was never happy with the loss of confidentiality.

I confess the people I interacted with at the insurance companies were very pleasant. I think they approved of the way I worked. I do not recall that any of my requests was turned down. I was also pretty sure that the people I dealt with were not licensed psychologists with training and experience similar to mine. It seemed, rather, that they were working with a list of acceptable responses. It was probably an advantage for the economy that their jobs were available, and I honestly respect them as people seriously and ethically doing their jobs.

When I was myself a client things were handled in the old fashioned, pre managed care way. I never felt that someone other than my therapist and I was in the room, looking over our shoulders. But when I applied for disability insurance from – believe it or not a Lutheran organization – they wanted to charge me extra because I had been in therapy. That in spite of the fact that I had never missed a day of work in my college career. (That’s another story, because the college president had made it clear he didn’t like hiring married women with children, so I had to “prove” myself by never getting sick. Even my children chose to save their sickness for school vacation.) Fortunately, I was able to get disability insurance through a company affiliated with my professional organization. (And none of my retirement money went to the care of that Lutheran organization – stubborn Swede, I guess.)

To summarize, in my experience, when insurance companies took over managing health care, there were losses to confidentiality, choice, efficacy, and efficiency.

Then I personally got old enough to be covered by Medicare. I have never had any problem choosing my own physician, though I fear the day may come when Medicare fees to providers fall so low that some health care providers will give up supplying care to Medicare patients. That’s a wrinkle in our system that can be cured.

When I moved to Minnesota, where I am also licensed to provide psychological services, I refused to have anything to do with managed care, which means that I now see only the bravest who realize that they are not really limited to the provider list supplied by their insurance company. For me, it means that my profession has changed – more emphasis on writing, though I do so enjoy working with the wonderful folks who give me the chance to work with them.

Why am I writing this today? Because I heard another speech yesterday claiming that a new health care system would deprive us of the “freedom of choice” that we have under our current system, not recognizing that we are currently expensively constrained not by government, but by a monolithic system that grew around us as we hardly noticed what was happening.

I want to repeat, I’m writing from my own experience. I am not a political scientist, or economist, or politician. I just want to share what I personally have seen.

Oh for the good old days of Dr. Frost. They will never return. But I do hope we will reach the point where our debate is honest and informed.

I found Reid’s, “The Healing of American” very helpful, on several issues, but apropos to the current topic, on the issue of choice in other countries with broader health care service than ours.

I hope the blog system will let this link go through, because you might be interested in seeing the reviews of his book.

http://www.amazon.com/review/R16SZ49JA9D9NM/ref=cm_cr_pr_viewpnt#R16SZ49JA9D9NM

I’d welcome comments on this blog.

TURNING BACK THE TIME? (AND BUY MY BOOKS.)

I just re-read my last blog entry – 28 days ago, and it looks like “time” is still uppermost in my thoughts. Today, though, it is a bit more tangible. As many of you know, I have a watch fetish. I love my collection of colors and styles – even a belt with four watches on it. Guess what I’ll be doing this evening? (In between trick-or-treaters.) I’ll bet I’ll forget some of them when I’m in my turning-back-an-hour frenzy. That’s OK until the day comes that I innocently choose to wear one that’s been overlooked and arrive late at my destination.

It’s not just time-pieces, though, that have my attention. It’s time itself. I had a birthday this week. As usual, I’ve displayed my cards on my mantel, but some of them are upside down. What an unbelievable number on the front of them! – a little upside-down, tangible denial, can’t be too bad a thing.

On October 9, I did get to my high school reunion in Bristol, Connecticut, with a dear friend I hadn’t seen since 1952 (or was it 1951?). At any rate, it was before he collected shrapnel, deafness in one ear, reaction to Agent Orange, and a host of other souvenirs of Korea and Vietnam, and other stops along the career path. Strange it is to converge at this point to share stories of individual careers and families, and to be back home in the Bristol area. (I even got a photo of my mother’s one-room schoolhouse in Southington – kept forgetting to do that while I was living in the area.)

There were 81 people in attendance, 61 one of whom were classmates out of a graduating class of 210. On each table there was a three-page list of those who had moved on to whatever is the next phase in the journey. The “survivors” were obviously a hardy lot –a good-looking bunch. Because they are all local, they see each other often, so recognition was easy. Not so for Martin and me. It was only after our names were identified after the meal that people knew who we were. That part was particular fun.

There’s more about this going back in time stuff. Gail Collins was interviewed recently on Minnesota Public Radio. The name of her book is “When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present.” I can hardly wait to read it, and to get to writing my own stories in “Riding in the Back Seat.” Remember when there were no women cops, or firefighters, or news anchors, or reporters? No? Just you wait for “Riding in the Back Seat,” or even to read Gail’s book.

It’s not going back that tends to keep me awake, though. It’s my fear that we won’t have health care for everyone this time around either. I’m enjoying T.R. Reid’s, “The Healing of America,” and wondering why we can’t just first accept the morality of health care for all, and then work out the methods by which we might reach the goal. I know. I’m an idealist. I guess if I haven’t lost it yet, I’ll probably keep that painful characteristic. But I wouldn’t part with it for anything.

Oh, one more point about this “time” thing. Recently I was asked to transmit some information via e-mail to surviving relatives on the Anderson (my mother’s) side and the Gustafson (my father’s side.) It went out to a total of seven addresses… a far cry from the big family Christmas parties. That’s what comes of being the youngest of the youngest, with cousins old enough to be my parents. Truly, I wouldn’t trade my spot with anyone, but maybe it will make for some fun reading when I get to my next project.

Finally, please remember that Mrs. Job and my forgiveness books are worth reading and selling. Try copying and pasting the following amazon.com link for the latest in my effort to get myself known “out there.”

http://www.amazon.com/Mona-Gustafson-Affinito/e/B002TXN8D2/ref=sr_tc_tag_2

TWENTY YEARS FROM NOW

Many recent and anticipated events have me rooting around in my own view of my past, and how I have shared it with others. Probably most outstanding is the sense of being on a long journey, which, incidentally, I expect to continue for at least another 20 years. I anticipate that I’ll understand at that point the real meaning of what’s going on in our world right now. On a very personal level, I find myself ruthlessly throwing things away, with the thought that I want to leave a clean job behind for my children who will be at least 20 years older than they are now when they have to face that sorting. I am eternally grateful to my parents for doing me that same favor. How easy it was when my mother died. All I had to do was sign papers at the lawyers, give some of mother’s clothes away, and take home a little leather change purse while my brother claimed a clock. Everything else had been distributed to the folks mother cared about.

While I’m on the topic of my parents, I have come to appreciate ever more deeply the gift they gave me of kind discipline (teaching), love, medical and dental care, education, and belief in my abilities. My gratitude is enhanced by the memory of the little one-room house in Sweden where my paternal grandmother raised seven children of her own and two “adopted.” My parents really did realize the American dream through hard work, devotion to church and country, and to family.

How will I understand in the future what’s going on now? I revert to what I tell my clients. As they change and become healthier, their families and friends will do their darnedest to get them back to where they were before. People don’t like to see the system change; resistance is deep; the pull to return to the status quo is not cruelty, but nature. The fact is, as my clients ultimately realize, the strength of the backwards pull is directly related to the power of the forward movement. Resistance is a measure of success.

So, what started me on all this? Well, in August I attended the funeral of my former husband. (Today is the anniversary of our wedding on a beautiful, warm, colorful autumn day in Winooski, Vermont.) He has not been my husband since 1976, a fact which in a strange way enhances the backward look as I study our wedding pictures … not with sadness, but with a strong sense of the passing of time.

Then in September, I spent time in Maine and Cape Cod with friends from my freshman year at Connecticut College [for Women] and surviving spouses and partners. What a friendship! - sustained every two years with heart warming reunions as we see ourselves always the same and always changing.

And this month I’m going to my High School reunion in Bristol, Connecticut. I think there were 210 people in our graduating class, and I understand there will be 76 people in attendance at the reunion. I assume that number includes spouses and partners, so I can’t really say that we’ve been a bunch that survived, but clearly some of us did.

And what we did survive! We were old enough to appreciate the approaching end of WWII, singing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” before the beginning of every movie at the Bristol Theater. And we cried with joy when my brother and brother-in-law, along with all the rest, came home after the war’s end. Actually, my big brother and sister thought I was lucky to be setting out in a world where there would be no more war. Our High School chorus sang “One world, built on a firm foundation; one world no longer cursed by war.” We rejoiced in the story of our planes flying home over the Netherlands, seeing tulips spelling out “Thanks, Yanks.”

We had all pitched in with patriotic fervor, crunching cans, saving ration stamps, buying War Bonds, planting victory gardens. (I even served as an airplane spotter – ridiculous, given my vision), pulling down our black shades at night. My best friend and her father took turns touring our part of the town to be sure no light was showing through to guide enemy aircraft. We had been saving not only ourselves, but also a world that had invited us in to help. We may talk today about realizing that our future is global, but then, we really knew it.

Maybe it was just me, but I thought patriotism meant pulling together for our country and our world. Frankly, I’m shocked at people whose main focus is avoiding taxes. Oh, I’m not stupid, I know there are economists who feel the best way to heal the economy is by reducing taxes. I’m referring to the people who call in to talk shows to say they’ve worked hard to make their money and they shouldn’t have to share it.

It wasn’t long, however, before we were at it again. One of my best friends was off in Korea, fighting a war that never officially got that label.

And there was still the patriotism. President Eisenhower recognized the importance of improving our infrastructure, apparently because he saw how limited our military movement would be in case of an attack, so we had the development of a massive and successful interstate highway system. Looking forward …

I remember Eisenhower’s warning as he left office to beware the military/industrial complex. I carry with me this quote from him: “Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.”

I remember as well the grammatical change to the pledge of allegiance during that time. I used to pledge allegiance to “one nation, indivisible” but then we were supposed to interrupt that dedication to indivisibility with the words “under God,” to set us apart from the avowed and enforced atheism of the Soviet Union. I didn’t know it would ultimately get redefined to mean that God favored our nation over all others …

Then the McCarthy era. I confess, I signed the loyalty oath in order to get my first job at Southern Connecticut Teacher’s College. (I advanced from a Teacher’s College to a State College to a State University without ever changing my job.)

Believe it or not, in the 60s Lou and I, when adding to our house, included a fall-out shelter in the basement. It turned out to be a great place for the neighborhood kids to play. During that time, I ceased to be “Dr. Affinito” to my students and became “Mona.” I didn’t resist the effort to remove elitism, but it did take me a while to recognize that I did know more about psychology than my students. That’s why I was there. And that’s why the semester with no grades was silly. And sad, too, was the elimination of the prom, ‘cause that was “elitist.” I do like it, though, that students today don’t need a “date” to attend and enjoy the prom.

More about the 60s, like the times I had to evacuate my office because of bomb threats, the grief of our own national guard killing students at Kent State University. And the pain of being in the apparent minority in opposing the Vietnam War.

OK. I’m focusing on the past. If any of this has relevance for today, I guess it will make sense when I do that anticipated looking back in twenty years.

Ecclesiastes, reading, demons, and ambiguity

Something strange has been happening to me lately. I’ve been reading, even as I neglect other “work” I “should” be doing. I started with a really short little book, (83 pages): In Celebration of Wisdom: Life and Meaning in Job, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes” (2009), edited by Steven Schweitzer. I guess I chose it because it seems work-related. (Think “Mrs. Job”). But something on p. 71, in reference to Ecclesiastes 7:1-18, had the effect of setting me free (at least temporarily):

“Humans are capable of some wisdom, but perfection is beyond their reach. ‘Do not be too righteous’: Qoheleth uses irony to state that excess—even in the area of wisdom—is not a good thing, because it could become an obsession. Given this state of things, the best people can do is to try to acquire the wisdom available and enjoy life while it lasts, especially ‘in the day of prosperity.’ Writing with a subtlety and nuance that encourages us to live our lives fully, facing both good and ill, Qoheleth helps us find a paradoxically off-balance balance in life.”

Maybe it keyed into thoughts around Lou’s recent death, the shortness of life’s journey, and the limitations on what we can do with it. Whatever the process, I found myself perfectly comfortable sitting in the sunshine on my deck reading: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford (Paperback - Oct 6, 2009). Fiction, its theme was based on the internment of Japanese citizens during WWII. I loved gobbling up the story, almost as I used to devour reading when I was a child. I also found my resident empathy creating pain over the violence done to these people, even as I admired their strength in maintaining their stalwart devotion to this country. I thought too of my frequent commentary these days that we won’t really understand what’s going on today until we look back in ten or twenty years. (And I do intend to be here to do just that.)

Then today I “yielded” again and finished reading General Tony Zinni and Tony Koltz, Leading the Charge: Leadership Lessons from the Battlefield to the Boardroom. I took away from that a lot of things, but in general the awareness that one cannot afford to be stuck in the ways of the past, or even the present, because the old rules don’t apply now, and most certainly won’t apply in the future. The best we can do (my words, not Zinni’s) is to tolerate the ambiguity and use it to feed our creativity-based activities.

There’s one last piece. The thoughts inspired by this morning’s sermon at Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church about the nature of our personal demons. I think I’ve identified a couple of mine. (1) allowing my empathy to become obsession; (2) that old “thing” that I can’t just sit and read until my “work” is done. And, of course, it is never done.

How should I title this blog? “True confessions?” Oh, but consider the ambiguity of the future. I might not agree with myself at all tomorrow.

Book Signing September 10, 2009

On the happy side, I'm looking forward to a fun night and book signing at Lillian's in Excelsior, Minnesota. I'd like to attach the neat poster they created, but I can't figure out how to do it. So, here's the verbal description.

The special night is September 10, 2009, from 6:00 – 8:00 p.m. My book-signing will focus on Mrs. Job, but I’ll have my forgiveness books there too.

If you haven’t been there, you’ll love the handbags, scarves, and accessories at fabulous prices. I think it’s all a great way to yield to that Fall desire for something new. (And a great way for me to make people aware of my books.)

The invitation asks for an RSVP by September 8. My guess is that it would be best to leave the message at Lillian’s number: 952-474-3191.

I’m excited about this. I hope you will be too.

p.s. Please note it's Lillian's of Excelsior.

Remembering Lou Affinito one final time

Lou Affinito died at 12:45 Sunday morning, August 23d, after a period of time at Connecticut Hospice. He ended his sojourn here on earth on the anniversary of his mother's death many years before. It was the end of a long battle that began around April 2008 when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. His wife, his children, and his family suffered with him through the long battle which was reportedly horrifyingly heart-rending toward the end. His wake was held in Hamden Connecticut on Monday the 24th, with hundreds of friends, families, fellow church members, and co-workers creating a constant four-hour stream of care and grief. His memorial Mass was celebrated at Ascension Church in Hamden on Tuesday, August 25th, with interment in West Haven in a mausoleum near his parents and his brother in law. Even his dear friend Frank Faggio rests there.

I knew then that Ted Kennedy would soon be following Lou in death. Kennedy had been diagnosed at about the same time as Lou with the same kind of tumor. And today I watched the Senator's funeral with rapt attention, feeling a strange kind of identification with those involved. One cannot help but notice that the tumor was no respecter of position. And I couldn't help but be aware that Mrs. Kennedy would confess, along with Lou's wife, that she is exhausted and bereft. The suffering has ended for Lou and for the Senator. The people left behind deserve and have my deepest sympathy.

Sabbath

I’ve had it with empathy, sympathy, productivity, checking e-mail, responding to appeals, mistakes made with loving intentions, supportive phone calls, concern for the nations’ healthcare. What I really wanted today was just to lie on my couch and stare into space. But I went one better. I lay on my couch and read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. What a smart thing to do! It goes to my daughter next if she hasn’t already read it. I guess that’s what old-fashioned Sabbaths were all about.

Well, I did keep a mammogram appointment, and maybe tomorrow I’ll feel like doing stuff again. And wouldn’t it be lovely if someone, somewhere, spent an afternoon on the couch reading Mrs. Job?

Recalling Lou Affinito

Up front I need to admit that I have not been Lou Affinito’s wife since 1976, and that I thoroughly like his current wife who had nothing to do with our splitting. But we had twenty years and two children together, and as Lou suffers his last days, the victim of an invasive brain tumor, I can’t help traveling back to our time together. Feeling the need to do something, I’m offering this tribute of sorts. I’ve carefully labeled it “Recalling Lou Affinito,” to make it clear that he is still fighting the battle of life.

It was 1953 at the University of Vermont. Genny, my colleague and apartment mate, and I had just attended a tea in honor of the artist daughter of the Psychology Department chair. At least, I think that’s what we had been doing. I am pretty sure I was wearing a black suit and a hat with a veil – and probably gloves. Genny introduced me to Lou who gave us a ride home from the grocery store. I was in Burlington, Vermont, but I knew at once that Lou was an “Italian” from New Haven – and I was a goner right from the beginning.

No, I’m not going to give the whole history – just some snippets. Like his 1949 Plymouth sedan. (OK, I may be wrong. Maybe it was a Dodge. Sadly I can’t verify it now with Lou.) But I do know it was black. Lou preferred black cars. And the heat in this one didn’t work, so, when we rode to and fro on school vacations from Burlington to Connecticut in the freezing cold, we’d open the windows wide and sing “In the Good Old Summertime.” That was the car that transported our several month’s supply of meat from his father’s store – and canned tomatoes, of course, and tomato paste and Ziti. I had never had so much fun with anyone as I did with Lou in our lighthearted dating days.

In 1955 my New Haven greenback shower paid the balance on our new 1955 Ford – actually blue with a white top, not black. One more point about cars. Lou had an ear and an eye for them. I’d drive in the driveway, go up the stairs to the kitchen, and find Lou waiting to tell me he could hear that we needed new shock absorbers. Or when he saw my new Chevy Monza, he knew immediately that it had the wrong left front tire – a fact denied by several “authorities” until I got to the owner of Partyka Chevrolet who immediately ordered that the “correct” tire be installed. OK, So much for cars.

More? There’s Lou, happy as a clam during the brief period when he enjoyed the freedom his pilot’s license gave him to fly a small plane. Lou coming home to play in the kiddie pool in the back yard with Doug and Lisa. Lou and our traditional visit to the drive-in movie on July 3d, complete with Dunkin’ Donuts. Lou basking in the family cookout in our back yard, complete with Bacci Ball for the men. (Losers couldn’t have a beer afterwards.) Lou thoroughly enjoying Frank Faggio’s Italian pastry at Lucibello’s. Lou’s devotion to his friends, and grief at their loss – Nicky Conte, Frank Faggio, cousin Al Altieri…

The nice thing about Word Documents is that I’ll be able to add more later, as it comes to me, but I can’t let this try go by without giving credit to his sayings;

• Never force anything mechanical (saved me lots of damage)
• The hard way is the easy way (comes to mind when I try to carry too many grocery bags at once.)
• Turn a defeat into a victory. (I’ve thought of using this as a book title.)

Thanks for letting me share these thoughts with you.

Remembering "Letters from Jenny."

Back in my early teaching days I came across a book called "Letters from Jenny." As I recall, it was a collection of letters written by an aging woman to her son's friend. What's that got to do with anything? Well, some time ago I started a document called, "Mona's aging diary." I thought it would be interesting for my survivors to observe the changes as they occur. Of course, I expected it to be boring, since I plan to hang around for another twenty-five years at least. (My children are kind enough not to reveal their horror when I say that.) And what does that have to do with this blog? Well, point number one, I realized I don't need that document, 'cause this blog serves the purpose I intended for my "aging diary."

And these days, I'm quite wrapped up in reviewing my life. So many things have provoked that. One is the fact that my former husband is suffering from a terminal brain tumor. I have no direct contact with him about that, which proves to be frustrating, but I do get the news from my son and daughter and friends in New Haven. Do I need to say more? The purpose of life is farther toward the forefront of my thoughts than usual. To summarize, it becomes even more real that our journey here is limited, as is the time for us to be making our [hopefully helpful] mark on the world. The funny thing is, given those thoughts, I find myself doing things like getting rid of unnecessary paper, and even books, in my study. It seems like I'm doing anything to avoid getting down to writing. I think maybe I'm in a waiting mode.

There's another reason I'm thinking these thoughts. Walter Cronkite. All the reviews of his life bring back memories of so many major events that have occurred during mine. I won't bore you with all the images and emotions that come to mind. Just this -- with every one of those crises I lost sleep over the direction we could or could not be taking as a nation and as a people, and guess what -- we (including me) are still here. So many of those things I've lived through make sense in the backwards view. Now I try to hang on to the patience to realize that wherever we're going (with my little bit of help, I hope) will make sense twenty years from now when I look back.

Those thoughts of patient confidence that there is a purpose evolving, along with acupuncture, keep me sleeping pretty soundly. And verging on getting back to writing "Riding in the Back Seat."

If only more people would discover Mrs. Job. Those who do read her, are almost lavish in their praise. (Try "Mrs. Job." You might like her.) There, I even got in my marketing licks.

What a wonderful cruise to the Baltics! I've been back since July 2, and it's taken me this long to get back in the groove. Oh, I've done what I really had to do, like reminding people of our up-coming JustFaith+ meeting at church on July 14, but for the rest, what I have really wanted to do was win the lottery so I could then just hang out and read. The lottery hasn't materialized, though, and I am beginning to feel the energy again. I have Dr. Dimitri Didaskalou to thank for that. He is the acupuncturist on the Eurodam (Holland America). I've been afraid to say it out loud, fearing some kind of jinxing phenomenon, but today I'm feeling confident enough to come out with it. Yes, on shipboard it cost top dollar, but I do believe my three acupuncture sessions have freed me of my insomnia. And if for some reason it doesn't hold, I am confident I can go to a local acupuncturist and get a booster pin.

I need energy, 'cause I've got to keep following up on the press releases about Mrs. Job. I really want people to know about her. I continue to get really nice compliments from people who have read her, and I know of book clubs and bible study groups who will be exploring her in the Fall. But nothing will happen if I don't get on the marketing stick.

I'm pleased to have had a couple of requests to do interviews on "When to Forgive." Of course I don't see clearly, but as far as I'm concerned, it is one of the best books on forgiveness, incorporating so much of what people have said and researched. I believe, also, that my book is the only one that has a chapter on "The Case Against Forgiving." I keep hoping...

As for the cruise. There are some highlights. First, I think I bored Doug to the point of exasperation in Copenhagen and Stockholm with "I have a picture of that." The fact is, much is still the same as it was in 1955 when I made the trip to Sweden and Denmark with my folks the summer before I got married. It's not really surprising that buildings survive, like the stock exchange in Copenhagen. What did surprise and please me was the fact that the Nordiska Companiet is still one of the largest (or the largest) department stores in Sweden. That's where I bought my stainless steel flatware in 1955. Unlike Dayton's in Minnesota, or G. Fox & Company in Hartford, Connecticut, that store has not disappeared into another name. It's hard to explain, but it gave me that accordion feeling -- so far away and yet so near.

We saw some stunning palaces. I was particularly interested in the enthusiasm with which the Russians showed off those remnants of the Czars. I also boringly repeated my travel theme -- "You've seen one palace; you've seen them all." It strikes me that, with all the beautiful things in the palaces, its occupants must not even have known what they really had. I can't imagine how, even if they spent a day going from room to room, they could finger or eye every one of the beautiful things on display. By contrast, I was warmed and thrilled by the visit to Sibelius's home in Finland. It was a very nice wood structure on a lovely lake. What I loved about it was that he and his wife lived there, raised a family, supported each other, even as he wrote his beautiful music. I don't know any other way to say it, except it felt so "real." I had the same feeling when we visited the home of the Finnish artist Hekka Halonen. (Wikipedia says his name is "Pekka.") I confess I had never heard of him, but again I had that feeling of real people expressing their talent in a beautiful lake atmosphere.

The visit to Estonia was one we had eagerly anticipated, having seen the DVD on the Estonian people's winning their freedom from the Soviets without violence, but through song. It was impossible not to be moved by the visit to the music shell where some 5000 people had dared defiantly to sing their national music at the once-every-five years festival.

Of course, the cruise in general was sheer luxury -- the kind of thing that makes me aware of how very fortunate I am, and how I wish life would improve for all the suffering people in the world. And I didn't even spend all of my $20 gambling money set aside for the cruise. With Doug teaching me how to play poker (on the machine), and the ups and downs of fortune, I had fun winning up to $13.50, ultimately losing it after several days of gambling fun, spending only $5.00 of the $20.00.

I want to do it again. Somehow I've got to see Italy. After all, the Italian heritage has enriched my own Swedish heritage, and made my children 50% Italian.

Thanks for listening/reading. I wish for all of us continued energy to do what we can to make the world a better place.

Oh, and I'd love to see some comments.

WHAT MRS. JOB LOVES TO SEE!

I'm including a couple of e-mails I received recently, just because I want to share my joy, and of course I'd like to hear more good stuff from some of you.

"I got Mrs. Job from Amazon and started reading it yesterday...and couldn't stop until I finished today. What a wonderful story! I wrote this review, which I just posted on both Amazon and Barnes and Noble. 'I enjoyed Mrs. Job on its own merits as fine historical fiction, but throughout my reading I was drawn by its wonderful potential as a companion work to the Book of Job. As a public high school English teacher who has taught the Bible as literature in Advanced Placement classes, having students read Dr. Affinito’s treatment of the life of Job’s wife before embarking on the Biblical work would serve to humanize and contextualize Job’s story, expanding it beyond what students sometimes narrowly perceive as a tale of unfathomable suffering. Through the author’s vivid prose, readers come to know Job the Edomite man, the loving husband and father, the “dissident,” through the eyes, and senses, of his wife who is, in every way, his life’s partner. In the tradition of the day, theirs is an arranged marriage, but one that grows into great love and mutual respect. No shrinking violet she, Dara questions what he does not, she rails against that which he accepts. The foundation of this interplay and conflict serves to more richly illustrate Job’s character (and faith) during his later trials. I parenthesize “faith” because, while the story’s characters are Biblical in origin, the story itself is timeless: Dara’s evolution as a person and the great joys and profound sorrows that punctuate her life resonate through the ages.'"

******************************************************

"I finally finished reading Mrs. Job last week and have been waiting for it all to settle in before writing you, somewhat like a taste of something you love and it takes time to savor. I had no idea you could write so beautifully! A few things I especially appreciated were: your description of feelings of a maturing young girl; the relationship of two very close friends who even though separated never lose their bond and the concept of hospitality among nomads which, it never occurred to me before, is necessary for their very survival. The characterization of both Job and Dara as really strong individuals really makes the whole story very uplifting, even with all the suffering."

Now for some blatant marketing: A signed copy of Mrs. Job can be ordered by way of my e-mail, for one. forgivenessoptions@earthlink.net

IT'S REALLY ALL ABOUT CONTROL

As far as I know, I'm the only one who has a chapter on the "Case Against Forgiveness" in my book (When to Forgive). One big piece of that is my objection to the shaming effect on the part of well-meaning people, religious and otherwise, who urge forgiveness on people who have experienced an offense. It's also based on the observation that there may be other routes to relief and health. That's why I resisted the publisher's efforts to title my book something like "The Miracle of Forgiveness," because I felt the most important factor was having a choice.

At a recent conference, I found some validation for my belief that forgiveness (deciding not to punish) is not necessarily the only road to wholeness. The presenter was talking about his work with brain-injured people. Toward the end, he provided evidence of two cases of productive psychological resolution even though the physical disability was permanent. I found myself automatically assuming that each of them had forgiven the attackers who caused their severe brain damage. But when I questioned the speaker after the presentation, he told me that neither one of them had given up on anger and seeking punishment for the perpetrators. I hesitate in saying this, because I know this is a complex issue that does require a whole chapter, but I do want to jump off from this with some of my thoughts about control.

I've come to believe that being in control of oneself is the bottom-line essential for all therapy or other routes to healthful resolution of hurt from any source. Life's attacks disorient and disorganize us so that, in a real sense, we are not all together. Putting it this way is not very professional. but I think the key is pulling it all back together under our own control. (Notice that what I'm saying has nothing to do with controlling others, except in the sense of taking back control from those who are hurting you.) Quite literally pulling oneself together provides the energy to be happy, even joyful, and productive.

That means accepting the twelve-step goal of distinguishing between that which we can control and that which we can't and taking appropriate action on that distinction. The gift that forgiveness gives us is point number one on the bookmark in the previous blog: "As long as you can't forgive them, they are in control of your life." But that "can't forgive them" piece is complex. I think what it refers to is obsession with the anger and sense of unfairness, along with an impotent desire to get back at the offender. It was possible for the two people referred to by the conference speaker to regain potency by placing the anger energy in a reasonable place, fighting for legal justice. Life regained its order. I think that's what wholeness is all about. Just for the fun of it, look back on the items in the previous blog and look for the element of self-control in each. I'd love to hear comments and responses on these roughly conveyed thoughts.

THE POWER OF A BOOKMARK

This really is a bookmark, but I had to cut it into two segments in order to upload it. And I did want you to see it, to go with the story I have to tell.

Recently a local business man called me into his office as I passed by to tell me the effect of the bookmark on his life. Flying from Minnesota to the east coast for his mother's funeral, he was troubled by the negativity of the emotions he harbored toward her. To distract himself he was trying to read a book (not one of mine), but what caught his eye was the bookmark I had given him. He wanted me to know that by the end of the flight, after contemplating its words, he was calm and comfortable about his mother. Forgiveness had happened.

UPDATE ON MRS. JOB

This is sort of an afterthought. I tried to attach it to the "Riding in the Back Seat" blog, but my skills are lacking, and this photo kept showing up where it shouldn't be in that blog.

Just for a quick catch-you-up. She's doing pretty well locally. I've been told of book groups that have chosen her, and Bible study groups that are going to study her. I certainly don't need to tell you how exciting that is for me.

I've also had word from folks around the country who are recommending her to friends. Now, that's really exciting!

What I don't know is how she's doing out there in cyberspace. I guess I have to wait another month to get that information.

And here's some neat stuff I've been sharing with people as I follow up on press releases iUniverse has sent out:

I've been receiving some very positive responses as, for example, this one from David Burrell, Professor of Ethics, Notre Dame University and Uganda Martyrs University: "A lovely book: and a brilliant ploy - to contrast her relation to her friends with that of Job with his! Says something, perhaps, about women friends, no? Not always, I realize, of course, but here it so deftly fleshes out the story. At the beginning, I was worried, for the initial pages seem 'over-written,' in the sense that 'adjectives piled up can weaken the noun.' But, when you hit your narrative stride, all that evaporated. Thank you for such a lovely rendition."

Or this, from Pastor Brenda Legred of Mount Calvary Lutheran Church in Excelsior, Minnesota: "I just finished Mrs. Job and loved it! The dialogue is so real and so beautiful. The depth of relationships is profound. Thank you for gifting this book to the world."

And Sandy Rothschiller's original response, shortened later to fit the blurb on the back cover. "I don't just like this book. I love it. I could hardly wait to get back to the beautifully drawn, timeless characters. Dora is my friend. I know her. I am her. Even as I felt Dara's struggles, her sadness, and her joy, I relived the color, feel, and smell of the desert as I experienced it when I lived there. The life of the Edomites, so well-researched, is impressive as is the Biblical insight, so much more accurate than many books of this genre and so informed by the author's deep spirituality. More than that, this is the gripping story of a woman's love for her husband as they share great blessings and terrible trials. Placed in ancient times, yet it is today's love story. Reverend Sandy Rothschiller, ELCA Pastor and theologian.

These reactions to Mrs. Job do, of course, delight me, and, to tell the truth, I'm happy to be consumed by "Mrs. Job" and "Riding in the Back Seat" because, if I didn't have my mind thus occupied, it would be too easy to get depressed about all the negative stuff that's going on in the world.

RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT

This is not the photo of a tragedy, but our Doug and Lisa in 1963, riding in the back seat of our '61 Chevy impala en route to our cabin in Vermont.

I couldn't decide which of my many projects to focus on here, so I chose the easy way -- just letting you in on what I'm working on. This photo is, in my imagination, the cover for "Riding in the Back Seat" which currently is just a thought on the tip of my brain and the edge of my typing fingers. Being very brave and lazy all at the same time, here it is. I'd much rather have the critiques at this point rather than later.

RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT

I’m riding in the back seat, but no one is driving the car. How is it there has been no fatal impact? Other vehicles scream by; fences bend as they barely avoid being hit; trees blow aside in panic; people fly about like cartoon characters. I’m glued to the right rear seat. No matter how hard I struggle I can’t make my arm reach far enough to push down on the brake in the front. In fact, I can’t move it at all. Nor can I move my body into the front seat to take over the steering wheel and apply the brake. I save myself by waking up.

As bad as it is losing control of the car, it’s even worse on other occasions when I see it from outside bursting into bright red flames. I save myself by waking up.

I did wake up. Those dreams are emotion-free memories now, as are those of octagonal rooms filled with ancient debris. Over time I cleaned them out and created a bright, white, sun-lit, fragrantly airy space for myself. Even the dreams of a royal octagonal table standing atop long legs under which is rushing a brown, fetid stream are gone. The water was purified. The dream was no longer needed.

Most of us, I believe, have ridden in the back seat of a driverless car, eventually recovering to take over the direction of our own lives. Some of us have endured the passionate, fiery explosion of the vehicle that carries us through life. Many of us, I think, have discovered the bright new parts of ourselves after cleaning out the old, untended debris in our hidden rooms, or removed the personal pollution that contaminates our life energy.

What I plan to say, however, is much less dreamlike. Besides being a psychologist who dreams, I am in many ways a walking history book. Some of you may find some glimmers of your own history in the stories I tell here. For now, let’s get back to riding in the back seat.

My first back-seat memory probably occurred when I was about 8 years old, or maybe I was 4. The fact is, memory is extremely fragile. Maybe it didn’t happen at all, and probably it didn’t happen the way I think. My father was, of course, driving, and we had been someplace fun. I assume there was an older sibling in the front passenger seat. In fact, both my big brother and my big sister might have been sitting in front, because there was room for three grown-ups in that seat before the drive shaft raised a bump in the middle.

I’m willing to bet that my friend Hallie was in the back with me, because most of the time fun things were shared with her. I was kneeling on the back seat, looking out the rear window when my father had to stop quickly and I was thrown back against the front seat. I knew my back was broken. Fortunately what we “know” is often wrong, as it was then. But I recall being very worried – I think we all were – about getting home and telling my mother what had happened.

Kneeling in the back seat? No seat belts? How could my father have allowed such careless behavior?! I was about four (or maybe eight) years old, remember? Some twenty-or-so years later, in 1956, I was involved as a Graduate Assistant in a weekend working retreat at Osgood Hill. At lunch at the retreat I sat next to a man who had done research on those relatively new car safety aids -- seat belts that fastened across the lap. He was convinced by the data that they saved lives. The general public was still pretty resistant. But he convinced me.

Still, in March, 1958, in a blizzard, as Lou drove me home from the hospital with our newborn Douglas wrapped up in my arms, there was no thought of a secure seat for him. I’m pretty sure no one yet had thoughts of marketing such a protective contraption for newborns. On later trips, though, we did enjoy the convenience of Doug’s car bed, which hung precariously behind us, slung over the front seat by a couple of hangers. (By the way, his crib at home wouldn’t meet today’s required narrow space between slats.) As Doug developed enough to sit up by himself, I remember driving with him sitting next to me in his car seat – just that, a little seat hanging by a couple of hooks over the back of the front seat. Some twenty-two months later, Lisa inherited those comforts.

Lisa remembers seeing, when she was older, seat belts hanging in our garage, to be installed if we chose to do it. Somehow, we did have seatbelts in our ’61 Chevy Impala. They can be seen in the cover photo of those two patient travelers putting up with the long trip to Vermont. They learned early on that the best way to put up with such tedium was to play for a while with the toys that were currently in favor, and then drop off to sleep.

It’s probably clear by now that riding in the car is my metaphor of choice for the joys, hazards, and responsibilities of varying degrees of control over our/my life’s direction. I hope you’ll experience little bolts of memory as you read my snippets. I’ve chosen to make them little fragments so you can pick and choose as you make your way through them. Besides, to be honest, that’s the way they come back to me in the middle of the night – or even while I’m driving/riding in the car.

Sympathy For Theater Folks

I always did sympathize with theater folks, but now I really empathize. Imagine spending months creating and rehearsing a show, with the nervous anticipation of opening night, only to have it panned and closed down in a couple of weeks. What solid personalities it must take to survive that attack on one's creativity and self-esteem. Oh sure, it's really bad for the pocketbook as well, but imagine the takedown as your own creative blood, sweat, tears, and anticipation are dumped (and dumped on).

I guess it takes the same kind of personal strength to be a successful politician. The public, like theater audiences, feel perfectly free to attack with destructive words. I really wonder, in a very personal sense, what it takes to keep on.

Or, on a more life-threatening level, what does it take to be Morris Deese of the Southern Poverty Law Center and have your life constantly threatened because of your dedicated fight against hate and the crimes that attach to it. In fact, I also admire the strength of the people who work to protect women's health at Planned Parenthood. And I know I haven't listed everyone, but I hope you get the idea.

So, why the empathy? Well, here's the story. Several people (I swear it's more than 7) have told me they ordered Mrs. Job on line. And when I follow the ranking for Mrs. Job at barnesandnoble.com, her numbers look a heck of a lot better than my forgiveness books, which pretty much hold up the bottom of the scale. But when I called iUniverse, I was told that a total of 7 books had been sold between amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and orders from bookstores. The downer didn't last too long, maybe because Mrs. Job isn't my whole life, but I did get cranky and depressed for a few days. Then I decided that maybe sales records get delayed. I still also keep checking amazon.com for reviews people have told me they would write. Oh, is that using hope as a cure?

Whatever, I have really come to appreciate people who live with this kind of exposure to negative responses to their work.

I guess my better mood now can also be attributed to the fact that I think I have pretty much mastered my new Palm/Verizon phone. Whew! And the emergencies that came up with my billing program, costing a couple of hours of telephone time, and other computer related problems, have been resolved -- at least for the moment.

So now I'm free to do other stuff, like write this blog, and follow up on the 186 press releases sent out by iUniverse re Mrs. Job. I also plan today to check on the possibility of getting a tote bag with a photo of Mrs. Job's cover on it. I've already updated my brochures. I read somewhere that a best-selling author, on being asked what it takes to be a best-selling author, responded, "You have to be the best seller."

Thanks for listening.

Author's postpartum depression?

I diagnosed it last Thursday when I returned from my early morning visit to Curves, ate breakfast, and went back to bed. Fortunately I remembered I had a client coming, so I was showered and dressed in time to see her. So, is there such a thing as author's postpartum depression?

I guess publishing a book, apparently especially a book of fiction, is like giving birth to a child. You just want everyone to tell you it's the most beautiful baby that was ever born -- well, at least among the most beautiful. And the truth is, she has received some really nice complements. Take what Pastor Brenda Legred had to say, for example. I quote, with her permission, "I just finished Mrs. Job and loved it! The dialogue is so real and so beautiful. The depth of relationships is profound. Thank you for gifting this book to the world!" And she didn't have to send me that e-mail. I have to admit, though, that she is herself a walking halo.

But then there's the woman who planned to refer to Mrs. Job, even read some parts from it, when she did devotions at a friend's shower. She actually requested some to take along to sell to others. Or there's the friend who bought five copies to give for gifts and took some along to sell. So, that's pretty good, right? And I had a really good time at a book sale as part of a program at Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church up the hill from me here in Chaska. And some books even sold. So, why am I so greedy?

People ask me how sales are going, and I have to answer that I don't know. Locally Mrs. Job is certainly not being rejected, and I guess I won't know about the rest of the world until I get a quarterly statement in April. And I hope people will catch on that Mrs. Job is a good read -- not a religious document. And I certainly won't sell a lot if I don't get on with the marketing. But I hope my royalty check is a little larger than the $1.69 I received recently for "Forgiving One Page at a Time."

Ah, marketing! iUniverse has sent out 186 press releases to media sources. Now I'm supposed to follow up with phone calls. Ooh! That does feel overwhelming. Not that I haven't done anything about it. The publishers of my forgiveness books have agreed that they will send copies to media sources if requested, so now it's my job to make sure I mention them as well as Mrs. Job when I make those calls.

How did I get here anyway? I'm a college professor, a therapist. How did I get into this author business? But that's what makes life so delightful, isn't it. We just don't know where our callings will lead us. And I am having fun.

But tomorrow I'm off to enjoy my son and my granddaughter, music of the Minnetonka Choral Society, dinner out, and a trip to St. Olaf to return KJ to school after her Spring break with her mom and dad.

Life is good. I have my work cut out for me. I doubt that I'll be heading for bed again during the day. But I will go for afternoon naps on my black leather couch.

Thanks for listening/reading... I'll keep you posted.

Mona

I'm really doubtful that what I say today will be interesting to most of you. Mostly it's about frustration with Facebook and trying very hard to market Mrs. Job, but there is also the hope for progress with the Chaska Restorative Practices Action Group.

What about facebook? Well, apparently in transferring from Tiger to Leopard on my Mac I've created a problem that the automated facebook creature out there simply can't deal with. When I try to log on, it tells me I've got the wrong password, so I click on "get a new password." Then it tells me my e-mail isn't registered, so I try to register it, and it tells me I can't do that because I'm already registered. With the help of my Mac guru, I've tried all kinds of things. If I want to keep my old computer around just for the sake of facebook, then I could get by. But for obvious reasons I don't want to do that.  I'm still hoping for a solution. I do not like to be trapped in a catch-22.

And about marketing Mrs. Job. I've done lots of things, but didn't get to others yet, like visiting the local bookstores to ask about book signings. 

Pastor Gordon Stewart of Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church up the hill from me here in Chaska has scheduled a book signing for March 20 for me, along with Dr. Jan Adams of Maria's Children International who will tell the story of the woman in Moscow whose curiosity about the children in Orphanage #113 led to the arts rehabilitation program for warehoused children left by the roadside as useless to society. The wonderful paintings of Maria's Children now line the walls of Shepherd of the Hill and will be there for viewing and for purchase. I think I'll be with inspiring company.

I've done some really bold things, like e-mailing Krista Tippett of MPR in the hope she might be interested in an interview, offering to do a book signing while on the Baltic cruise this summer with Holland America Line, sending a copy of Mrs. Job to a theologian who has written a book on why the Book of Job tells us nothing about the problem of suffering, and stuff like that.  Not surprisingly I've received no responses, but the worst that can happen is no response. I had intended to send a copy to Garrison Keillor, and I will in the future, but right now I don't want to intrude on his grief over the accidental death of his brother.

Just a few minutes ago I received the copy of the book I discovered on Amazon.com, "Meet Mrs. Job" by Carolyn L. Reynolds. I guess I'll have to forgive myself for not finding it earlier, since it was published in 2003. Glancing at it, I see she was on the same wavelength as I am. I'll write a review on Amazon.com. At least I can give it that appreciation.

As for the Chaska Restorative Practices Action Group, I feel like a very small part of a very ambitious project beginning in November with an all-day workshop. The ultimate goal is to bring restorative practices to our community. What a wonderful alternative to the expensive punitive procedures our society seems to be so enamored with now.

Finally, for any of you who get wrapped up in computer-related stuff, I hope you can sympathize with all it takes to bring my records into sync with the new formats required. The most fun, though, is my birthday present which I had requested last year from Doug and Lisa. It wasn't available for the Mac until recently, but now I have it. That's why I went from Tiger to Leopard, 'cause my new toy demands it. It's a Livescribe Pulse Pen -- really fun. As I take notes on the appropriate paper it also records the meeting. Then, when I go back to write the minutes. I can tap on particular words and it plays back to me what was said. I used it on Tuesday at our JustFaith+ meeting at Mount Calvary Lutheran Church. The minutes I managed to put together using it are probably the most complete I've yet come up with.

OK. At least I didn't neglect my blog today. 

Oh yes, I wish I knew who Mary is who has made such kind comments

Mrs. Job makes her debut

She's looking good -- in both hard cover and soft cover. She's now available on

http://www.amazon.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com

http://www.iUniverse.com

She should be coming up soon on Border's books.

or at your bookstore.

I like her a lot.  I hope you will too. If you do, it would be great if you would write a review on amazon.com, or one of the other sites.

My cousin Eunice died on January 31

Eunice died on January 31. 2009  in Bethlehem, PA. Her children notified me by e-mail. I had met one of her daughters, but her other children were known to my only by her reports. I last saw Eunice a few years ago when I attended a restorative practices weekend in Bethlehem. (For some stupid reason it took me a while to catch on to the reason why everyone called it the Christmas town.) She treated me like royalty, hiring someone to drive me into the city each day from her home. We had a great time together. Funny how little difference years make, and it had been years since we saw each other. 

Eunie was tethered to oxygen in her front hall, but it didn't slow her down much. She even had a tidy carrying case so she could take her oxygen with her when she went out. At bedtime she carried the "tether" up to her bedroom. Every morning she spent time on her stationary bike before heading downstairs. There she spent the day in a sunny bright room that had been added on to the original house. Her office/home base was a table provided with everything she needed to stay in communication with people and to do her work for her Lutheran church. She did have a helper who shopped, cleaned, and cooked for her. (At least, that's my understanding of how things were.)

Eunie's red hair and freckles never disappeared, advertising the Irish side of her heritage. To me, she was my younger cousin, but not by much. Back in Forestville we enjoyed a large Anderson family -- playing pick-up-sticks at Aunt Gerda and Uncle Everett's -- enjoying weekend camping with them at Hammonasett State Park (my spelling may be wrong) -- getting special treatment at church when missionaries came and dressed us up in native costume -- helping to fill the home of Grandma and Grandpa Anderson at Christmas time. Grandma knit each of her grandchildren a pair of mittens every year, and each of her children had a lovely quilt made by her own hands. We played with my neighbor and best friend Hallie who predeceased Eunice by several years. But Forestville sent its people out far and wide, so at one point there were twenty-five years between times that Eunie and I saw each other. I surprised my self with the burst of tears when I heard she had died.

There weren't many people for me to notify when I got the news: my sister Thelma, My cousin Joy, my niece Nancy, and Hallie's widower, Murph. And there is Eunie's big brother in Florida to whom I wrote a sympathy note. We/I used to be part of a big family. I tell people that, being the youngest of the youngest, most of my cousins were old enough to be my parents, and they are long gone.  Actually, I am the youngest of the youngest on the Gustafson side, but Eunie and her mother were the youngest on the Anderson side. This is not a sad story. I'm so happy to have been part of that bunch of Swedish Lutherans. Maybe there is other nourishment that's better, but the strength of a large caring group of relatives certainly ranks high.

Eunie did believe she would be joining her husband and all her family and friends. I hope she's having a wonderful reunion, free of the need for the oxygen tether.

How short is the time!

The long pause is only partly inertia.  I thought every day that I'd be announcing the debut of "Mrs. Job" but little glitches keep coming up -- some annoying, like the proof reader's efforts to get "Ph.D." changed to "PhD". Confusion has ensued on the covers (hard and soft). And I've [re]learned something about myself. I tried so hard to figure out what I should do about the cover errors until -- ah-ha -- I realized it wasn't in my court, but in theirs, because they hadn't applied the corrections I'd agreed to. So, here I am, waiting.

In the meantime, I realized the other night, as I watched the young lady directing the Orchestra of the Enlightenment, how really short are our productive years. Every once in a while I see a "Want Ad" for some form of psychological work or teaching and think, "Oh, I'd like to do that." And then I wake up to the facts. I don't even want full-time work any more. But it reminds me of my father during his last year in the nursing home, actually wasting away with cancer, suggesting to my mother that they should buy a little house for themselves, small enough so the care of the house wouldn't be too heavy. And that reminds me of my mother in the nursing home, looking at herself in the mirror and seeing the beautiful young blonde my father married. I like that thought.  I hope I keep seeing someone attractive in the mirror. I have changed my goal, though. Now I just want to look dignified and welcoming. What did I say about our productive years?

And let me add a bit about patience. Finally rejoicing in the new administration after weeks - months - of stress in the campaign, I realize how important it is to wait -- and work. Do you remember when we thought the atomic bomb would take us all out? Or the Korean war? Or the Cuban missile crisis? Or being kept out of our offices at school because of a bomb threat? Or the horror of brave people being killed marching for peace and justice? Or Vietnam? Or the sadness and anxiety over the invasion of Iraq? Or Darfur? Or -- ! If you remember those things, then you can add to the list. And we fortunate ones are still here. Amazing!

I'll be back soon, I hope, with a "Mrs. Job" announcement. In the meantime, those are my thoughts. Feel free to add them to my "Aging Diary." And please, feel free to comment.

No "Aging Diary"

Some time ago I started a document I called "Aging Diary" because I thought that after I die at the age of 104 it might be interesting for geriatric students to observe the process of cognitive/verbal change. The problem is that I never seem to find time to write in it. I'm too busy with working on all the issues I care about. I guess that means that this blog becomes the equivalent of my "aging diary." -- somewhat more public than I had planned, but...

Aside from the fact that "Mrs. Job" is uppermost in my mind, I find myself thinking about some colleagues from my years at Southern Connecticut State University who write me that they have decided to leave their social action projects to their children and just relax and enjoy retirement. In the same "bubble" I think about a colleague who has moved on from her life's journey, no longer here to stay in e-mail contact. Then there are those friends and colleagues from so many sources who strike me with awe in all that they do. Sometimes I think I want just to throw it all in, relax, read, and take it easy. Then I realize I really need to feel at the end of each day that I've really "done something." I suppose this is the problem of retirement. When do we do it? My hope is that I will know when the time has come, just as I knew when the time had come to give up teaching at the Adler Graduate School. 

I need to see clients. I need to advise on thesis projects. I need to work for restorative justice. I need to work on "Riding in the Back Seat," (my next writing project). I need to continue working with the wonderful folks at JustFaith+. I need to support (mostly financially) the causes of health and homes for all, end of war (dare I believe?), the termination of torture, the opportunity for everyone to live to their fullest (aha - now education comes up), equal rights, respect for all races, religions, and ethnic groups, family connections and strength, oh, and so much more. Thank goodness for the folks who need only my regular (and not very large) financial support. Because the fact is (note this in the aging diary) that I don't have the energy I once had. And I do look forward to letting my mind go numb at 9:00 Central Time with some CSI program or other, with it's fake blood and promise of a clear solution at the end.

My thoughts are a-buzz now with plans for marketing "Mrs. Job." But that's for tomorrow.

Mrs. Job's coming out appearance

Today I approved the cover for Mrs. Job. Finding no photo of a woman of her period who even began to convey her personality as I know it, we decided to go with an acacia tree. Elaine Ward of iUniverse did a fantastic job, patiently meeting the requests of my "good-artistically-eyed" daughter, Lisa. I tried to post a photo of it on Facebook, but I guess is must be in the wrong format. I'd have it on my web site, but that program doesn't like my Mac, so I have to wait for someone with a PC to help me get that accomplished. 

Anyway, she's ready. I hope she'll be really productive after her debut.

Travel Woes and Pleasures

I have taken it as a personal affront that Northwest merged with Delta. I think I can understand the need to charge for luggage, but the rest of it was not so great.  Back in the old days when I purchased a flight through Northwest all I had to do was click on the link they sent to my e-mail 24 hours before flight time and, with no problem, I could check my seat assignment and check in. Not so this December 16. It took me an hour finally to get the Delta confirmation number which was different from the one I'd received from Northwest. Part of the problem was that they insisted my first name is not "Mona." It turns out my first name was "Monagms." Now just try to pronounce that. The lovely man at the curbside check-in tried, with a smile. Of course, it was an amalgam of "Mona," plus the middle initial "G" plus my "title" - Ms. Sometimes when I'm required, against my will, to give a title, I'll use Dr., but I certainly don't want anyone in a medical emergency on the plane to think I can help. Maybe someone can explain to me why I can't just be Mona G. Affinito. Oh well.

I won't go into more detail -- boring. Suffice it to say that there was no "uniformed representative at the end of the jetway" as promised, and making connections was -- shall we say -- not terribly successful. Those reps I did find were hassled, overworked, and -- understandably -- cranky. Twice my luggage trailed me by a day, and once I stayed overnight in Atlanta at Days Inn. (Well, that was a computer problem at Atlanta airport.) But here's the good part: I met Ed (A real southern gentleman who hadn't lost his manners, though he had lost his accent) and Ankie, trying to get back home to Amsterdam. Days Inn provided their van to drive us to "Joe's" where we enjoyed a bottle of wine, purchased, chosen, and served by Ed, as well as a first course of Calamari. The burgers were dutch treat, and the company delightful. I didn't get more detailed information about Ed and Ankie, but I did give them my card, asking that they look for Mrs. Job. To Ed and Ankie, if you do happen to see this, please let me know. You were such a pleasure in an island of annoyance.

I want also to say that the passengers were, though tired and frustrated, a really patient lot. And my return trip from Portland, Maine to Minneapolis was a delight, thanks to the very pleasant Northwest agent who lengthened the time spent at the Detroit airport between legs of the flight. And I do love the tunnel there.

Oh, by the way. Delta still served peanuts and pretzels.

Williamsburg was a great Christmas experience with family, and Portland was a wonderful place to welcome in the New Year with friends from (gulp) as far back as 1947.

All in all, TGIJ. January and February, cold and snowy as they are, provide a great opportunity to settle in and catch up -- or even get projects going.