What I wish I’d been told at Graduation

As another school year comes to a close, my Facebook feed is filled with parents congratulating their children reaching the milestone of graduation. Today, children can graduate from kindergarten to seventh grade to whatever grade a school feels is a significant accomplishment. But high school graduation is the one that most people associate with the caps and gowns of graduation, and Wednesday night I attended the high school graduation of my first group of high school students.

Most graduation ceremonies are similar. Administrators and students deliver inspirational speeches about anything being possible and following your dreams. At the graduation I attended, the overwhelming message of the valedictorians was that anything was possible, the world was their oyster so to speak. And though our superintendent tried to temper the idealistic nature of the messages, ultimately graduation is about the promises of a great life.

It all sounds positive and optimistic, and hopefully many were inspired to do great things, but what happens when life begins to fall in on those dreams? Maybe if along with the inspirational speeches at my own graduation, I’d been cautioned on a few things, I would have headed into the real world with a different attitude.

What cautions should be given at such a momentous occasion though. I can think of a few I personally would have needed to hear. First, friendships require actual work when convenience disappears. Every day you’ve shared school experiences with your group of friends, but then that every day quality disappears. If you are lucky, you may prolong the growing apart by attending the same college, but eventually you will have a separate life, with different interests, and it will require effort to see your friends more than once a year, or worse at your high school reunion. Some of these friends will be worth the effort, but some will not. Do not let the ones who are worth it go. It is okay to let the ones who are not though; you will make other friends, who may not share your growing up experiences, but they will share your life experiences. Sometimes you will find friends in the unlikeliest places. You just need to be open to letting them in.

You will not want the same things ten years from graduation as you did that day you walked across the stage and believed you could do anything. Everything that you thought you wanted in your inexperience may not bring you happiness or you may figure out you don’t like those dreams at all when you achieve them. You will not disappoint your eighteen year old self by changing your mind. That self didn’t know any better. You do. Let it go.

Which brings me to, failure is a great teacher. Growing as a person doesn’t mean you succeed at everything you do. Learning who you are and how strong you really are only comes through dealing with the mistakes you make. Which means it is okay to fail. Don’t be afraid to admit you have failed and don’t hang on too long because you are afraid to admit you’ve failed. Life goes on and you can’t move on to something better until you’ve admitted you’ve failed.

Speaking of failures, people can change, but it doesn’t mean they will. More importantly, it isn’t your job to change anyone. You are only responsible to change yourself. People must want to change; you decide what you will tolerate and live with. If you can’t live with it, remember the above. Admit that you’ve failed in your experiment and move on because…

Time passes quickly. One moment you are eighteen with all possibilities open before you, the next you are 35 with responsibilities that hold you back. All those dreams you have will take a back seat if you get caught up with day to day life. If you really want to make them happen, you need to learn to pursue them relentlessly. Dreams don’t come true by sitting and waiting for opportunities to happen to you or for the people in your life to care about your dreams as much as you do and help make them happen. Ultimately, you are in control of what is done in the time you have.

Because when people say they wish they were back in high school, they don’t mean the heavy books, never ending homework, and social drama. They mean that feeling of unending possibilities. The feeling that anything could happen and everything is possible if you only go out and make it happen. It’s a longing for the time before responsibilities. It’s what every speech at graduation encourages, even though the speeches lack the cautions of how to avoid the pitfalls that most people fall into.

It’s probably just as well that graduation doesn’t go on and on with these precautions considering most eighteen year olds don’t listen to well-meaning advice anyway. But It’s nice to believe I would have listened to my own advice then. What do you wish you’d been told at graduation?

Beautiful Blogger Award

Thanks to my good friend Donna, http://mylife-in-stories.blogspot.com, my blog has been nominated for the “Beautiful Blogger” award. Her blog is homage to all things fitting a Southern Lady, and I’ve occasionally made an appearance within the stories. Being friends with a fellow writer is both thrilling and daunting. I always wait to see how our adventures will play out in her writing. Perspective is extremely important when reading about oneself.

The award includes the stipulation that I list five or so random things about me that you probably don’t know. (Of course this is difficult to come by if you read my blog. I do tend to say what’s on my mind regularly and expose all my flaws.) I’ll give it a try anyway.

1.       Patience is not one of my virtues. I do try (sometimes), but apparently it just isn’t in my genetic makeup. Everything needs to happen in my time and heaven help whoever slows the process down. I still attempt daily to have patience though.

2.       Messiness drives me crazy. I’m a fan of “everything in its place.” And everything has a place or I will find it one. Due to this one, I avoid my daughter’s room until just the thought of its messiness is too much, and then I spend the entire day trying to put everything back into its place (which contrary to what she believes, everything’s place is not the floor.)

3.       Music is my stress reliever. What can I say; with one and two, I need to have something to relieve the stress.

4.       I wear high heels every day which is what I’ve come to be known for, but most people don’t realize that I have just as many flip flops as heel (I’ll keep that exact number a secret.) I can either be found in one or the other, but never tennis shoes.

5.       I zone out…. Often. I maintain that my thoughts are ADD and focusing on one thing at a time is impossible for me. I have learned to drift in and out of a conversation and I have to assume I’ve picked up the right strain of the conversation when I return because chances are I will have just noticed your hair or shoes or some cool mannerism that I can add to a character in a later story.

But enough about me, I now have to bestow the award on a few other blogs.

http://www.blogher.com/frame.php?url=http://www.karilife.com

http://alicepyne.blogspot.com/

http://ididntchoosethis.blogspot.com/

http://tastefulsavorycreations.blogspot.com/2012/05/whats-for-breakfast-eggs.html

Home of the Dead

When sitting around a camp fire, one tends to associate ghost stories with the story of choice. There’s something about darkness, a dancing flame, and a good storyteller that is enthralling. One does not tend to associate history with these ghost stories, but many of them are filled with history. Not the history found in the textbooks in a history class, but the history of the people's culture. Though much of these stories are questionable in their elements of truth, much can be learned from these stories that are filled with drama, intrigue, and mystery. For this reason, I’ve always been fascinated with good ghost stories told by a well-practiced storyteller.

This fascination has led to the creation of my mystery series character Raleigh Cheramie who connects to the dead in the middle of dying. Listening to these ghost stories over the years has inspired me as I write about this fictional world of ghost connections. Writers often are told to write about what you know, and I've sought inspiration from all these tales.

I’ve found New Orleans to offer many opportunities to listen to good ghost storytellers. I’ve joined several tours with guides who’ve been inspired storytellers. This Saturday between rain storms, I finally did the cemetery tour and visit to local voodoo legend Marie Laveau’s tomb. This tour has been on my list of things to do for years, but it had never been moved to the top. As I’m working on the next Muddy series mystery though, ghosts are at the forefront of my mind. So in the spirit of not putting off what you can do today and all… the tour became the scheduled activity for the weekend.

St. Louis Cemetery Number 1 dates back to August 1789.

An Unmarked Tomb: The marking of three X's on Marie Laveau's tomb began with a tour guide as a tourist gimmick. Now, unmarked graves have been marked on in the attempts for visitors to have their wish come true.

This is the future resting place of actor Nichols Cage. He purchased two abandoned tombs and had this pyramid shaped tomb built.

This is the tomb of Homer Plessy, famous as the defendent in the Plessy v. Ferguson trial that began the "Separate but equal" law.

This is the famous Marie Laveau tomb. It is said that if you make three x's on the tomb, leave an offering, and turn around three times, your wish will come true. Writing on tombs is actually forbidden in the cemetery.

Up a Tree House Part II

In all the excitement of the tree house, I didn’t plan on one thing. The reaction. My son didn’t react as I expected to the tree house, and that initial reaction incited a reaction of my own that wasn’t pleasant.

His initial excitement of getting a tree house waned less than five minutes after seeing it. At minute six, he began to list all the things he found to be wrong with it. It was too small, it was too girly, it wasn’t what he wanted, etc.

I’ll admit that I lost it at his ungratefulness. Fine, I’d paint it pink and give it to his sister. This prompted him to tell his sister when we picked her up from school that she could have it.

Which, of course, cost him a lecture on how so many kids would be grateful to just have a tree house. I can’t be the only parent to ever use that argument, can I?

Fast forward twenty-four hours later to when he’s had time to think about it some more. I picked him up from school, and he tells me he’s changed his mind. He does want the tree house. I asked him what made him change his mind and his response was, “Because I probably won’t get another one.”

Probably? That would indicate there was a chance he’d get another one. There was no chance in hell that I was buying or putting together another tree house. Of course, the “good” mother part of me just nodded and said no, this would be the only tree house.

Then his grand plans for the tree house began. Now that he had accepted the tree house as is with all of its faults (I thought it was great myself), he had to plan out the details to make it completely his.

He made a shopping list.

You mean I’m not finished spending money on this thing? I now have to decorate the inside? Did I invest in a second house instead of a tree house in my backyard?

It may have been better when he didn’t like it.

Saturday I took him to the Dollar Store to check off the things on his shopping list. He bought rugs for the floor, a table for their things, a string of lights for the ceiling, small battery fans to ward off the heat, command strips to hang the lights, and let’s not forget the batteries. (We did and had to return for them.)

He hauled it all up the stairs (which on the first night he wouldn’t climb due to his fear of heights. He certainly got over that fear as now he is jumping off the top as I yell in protest.) The new decorations prompted an argument between brother and sister about how it was all for a boy and not a girl.

Go figure.

Up a Tree House

This Saturday I built a club house. Okay, so I didn’t build a clubhouse as much as I oversaw it being built by people much more qualified. I’m not going to claim carpentry skills, even though as a single homeowner I’ve picked up some pretty cool skills in the last year. Using a saw and a level aren’t among those skills.

My son wanted a club house though. His idea for his new clubhouse was for me to buy a bunch of wood and for him to build it. Umm, no. I could come up with so many reasons to not go that route. All of those reasons in some way or another involving my son attempting to operate tools and ending up with less appendages.

So I bought a clubhouse kit. Trouble with the kit was that Andrew wanted a proper tree house off the ground. (Did I mention I don’t actually have a tree for it to go in like a proper tree house?)  My mother, who was co-builder, talked me into going six feet off the ground because of my son being so tall. Six feet off the ground looks like a tall building now that I’m looking at it from the ground. I can vividly imagine my accident-prone daughter rolling off its front porch. Hopefully, that’s just my overactive imagination.

The clubhouse kit came with a pretty interesting set of directions. My mom and I took turns reading the directions out to the volunteer builders. The directions were sparse to say the least. Whoever wrote those directions needed help. Obviously, they have never built the tree house or they would be much more specific in the steps. There was a clear moment in the process where I experienced all the frustrations of not being listened to by the one that I was calling out directions for. There may have been a little bit of yelling involved. But maybe, I can claim to be a better listener after the process.

The real issue with the directions was that it said it would take about thirty minutes to build. Right. Maybe if we had a crew of professional carpenters and better directions. We started at ten in the morning and finished at 5:30 in the afternoon, not counting the work done on the platform several days before. I’d like to see anyone figure those directions out and build it in thirty minutes.

It is built though except for a method to reach the tree house among the clouds (Yes, that is an exaggeration, I suppose). My son wants a rope ladder. I can see kids tumbling out the front entry, grabbing at a rope ladder. My mom has this fanciful scheme for some grand staircase. I wanted a tree house in my back yard, not a second house. I have only a few days to figure out a solution though because the children return soon, and I can see Andrew figuring out his own way to raise himself into the tree house. I don’t see that going well.

French Quarter Festival

At any time of the year, New Orleans is filled with people making spectacles of themselves. But if you add in a festival weekend, the spectacle becomes something worth seeing.

This weekend I strolled the streets of the French Quarter, taking in the sights of the French Quarter Festival. I’ve never attended a festival in New Orleans before, so I had added it to my list of things worth doing this year. A list that I need to move a little further along on or December will come and I will be forced to do something on my list every day. But I digress. I actually ended up at this festival unintentionally after the item on my list that I had planned for the day didn’t go off as intended. When we ended up in the middle of the festival, we seized the opportunity.

The first thing I noticed was the parking situation. I go into the city frequently, and I usually can get a parking spot for a relatively cheap price. Apparently, festivals are the time for everyone to capitalize on the lack of parking in the city. Parking spots near Canal Street were going for $115 according to one shop owner. A couple in line in front of us complained about the $50 fee for their parking spot. As we were searching for a spot, I actually saw a guy changing the sign for his parking area from $20 to $25.We paid $25 for a grass covered empty lot that some land owner in a lawn chair was selling spaces for the weekend. (Not to mention we walked and walked and walked.)

The stages of the festival’s entertainment were spread throughout the quarters along the river, but the street entertainment was just as lively. On every street corner, musicians populated the area with cases and containers to collect their tips. Several times as I walked past children playing, I thought that some music school must have told its students to get experience playing for an audience. In addition to musicians, there were stilt walkers, bible preachers, and silver and gold statue men, plus many more. It was a busy day for entertainment in the Quarters.

But of course with all of those people gathered together, tempers sometimes flair as well as the entertainers. With cars and carriages attempting to pass down streets filled with people, near accidents are prone to happen. I watched people yell at cars, get out of cars to yell back, and yell their discontent at the people on the streets. The crowded streets became a place to observe human interaction, the good and the ugly.

It was definitely an interesting day in the Quarters, but I would still rather stroll the streets when there a few thousand less people and everything doesn’t cost at least twice as much as usual. Moving onto the next item on my list now.

Easter Suprise

As a young child, holiday traditions abounded in my family even if I wasn’t aware of them at the time. Every year at Easter we placed the same Easter baskets out lined with plastic, green imitation hay and waited for it to be filled with candy the next morning. My favorite candy besides the duck and rabbit sweet tarts was the pink and yellow marshmallow bunnies. They didn’t come in the multiple colors of today, and it didn’t really matter because I preferred pink (still do).

We would also dye Easter eggs in these old green coffee cups that my mother would pull out of the cabinet for the occasion. Nothing fancy, just large ceramic coffee mugs. We’d boil water and drop food coloring into the water and wait for the eggs to brighten into colorful creations.

I’ve continued these traditions with my children, except I have these egg dying cups we usually use because of the absence of coffee cups. I don’t drink coffee, so who needs coffee cups? Usually I buy some cheap decorating kit that comes with the dye as well as some of kind of decoration for the eggs. Colorful eggs are not enough for my children who want stickers and tattoos and anything else flashy that the store puts in a box for the occassion. This year the kit came with these plastic collapsible dye cups, and I figured what the heck. They looked pretty cool, and the children thought that since it came with the kit, we had to use them. More importantly, it would save time in digging out the cups from heaven knows where I’d stored them last year.

Big mistake. Huge mistake.

The cups were supposed to stand up with the water, dye, and eggs. And though I followed the instructions down to putting newspaper beneath the cups, the newspaper was no help as the cups collapsed, spilling their contents everywhere.

The tradition calls for colorful Easter eggs, not festive cabinets, floors, and counter tops.

I ditched the collapsible cups, pulled out the old plastic ones, and began ruining towels as I cleaned up the dye.

The children got their Easter eggs, and I now have cabinets that need to be repainted to cover their pastel hues. The children felt certain that they would never see dyed Easter eggs again as I mopped up pinks and oranges. Maybe my mother knew what she was doing. I’ll be looking for some coffee cups next year instead of whatever cool way of doing it comes packaged in a box.

An Announcement

As all good stories with my children seem to begin, we were in the car. Andrew and I were going pick his sister up at school when I noticed that he was dancing and singing along with the radio in the back seat.

Now for most kids, that wouldn’t be a big deal, but this is the same kid that covered my mouth when I would sing to him as a toddler, and today tells his sister that he’s going to vomit if she doesn’t stop singing or dancing.

I let him know I had seen him with a smile (aka huge, goofy grin), expecting him to stop as he’s always done in the past. Oddly, he asked me what bus he would have to ride when I changed his bus.

“No idea, Andrew,” I said still smiling, thinking he was trying to change the subject.

“I hope it’s bus 42. If it is, I’ll be in heaven.”

Heaven from riding the bus? Did he have fever? A head injury? First singing and dancing and then the bus? This was the kid that groaned every time I mentioned the words riding and bus in the same sentence. Something was certainly wrong.

“Why?” I asked, trying not to let him know that I thought he’d hit his head and was suffering from some sort of concussion.

“Because the girl I like rides that bus, and I’d get to ride the bus with her every day.”

Insert heart palpitations, then goofy laughter, then wild exclamations. “Really? You like a girl? A girl at school? What’s her name?”

“I’m not telling you, and you better not tell Cara.”

And so it begins. Where did my little boy go that said he never wanted a girlfriend and he was going to live with his mother forever? Will he really be ten years old in a few short months?

Eventually, I stopped the laughing and began interrogating my poor child about this unnamed girl. He then proceeded to tell me that this was why he hadn’t said anything. Well, then. How come I was supposed to answer all their questions when I was interrogated? I kept my questions to myself though, but not before asking if she liked him back. His response was how was he supposed to know. I didn’t say he could just ask. I don’t think he’s ready for that. At least I hope not anyway.

Then it dawned on me that some girl would probably break my son’s heart one day; some girl that wouldn’t love my son as much as I do. Oh, I’m so not ready for that.

My babies aren’t babies anymore. If I needed any more proof, my daughter brought two books tonight to read at bed time, but tonight she read them to me. When did that happen? I’ve read books to her since she was old enough to blink in response. I appreciate that she has become a fluent reader in first grade, but that was kind of my territory.

I appreciate their growing independence, but it’s bittersweet. Before I know it, they are going to be complaining that I share their stories with everyone, (Let’s keep the girl story to ourselves. I did promise not to tell anyone.) and who knows how many more of these silly stories they will provide for my (and your) entertainment. Guess that means I better enjoy telling them while they are still happening (especially before they realize that I share them with everyone).

My Answer is Procrastination

So how does a perfectionist deal with not enough hours in the day? Procrastination, of course.

Recently, I’ve found myself with a much longer to-do list than hours in the day. Ideally, I would be able to just add more hours to the day, but I’ve been told that’s not a realistic option. I tried cutting back on the wasted hours I spend sleeping, but crankiness is the side effect. I don’t even want to deal with my own self cranky very less inflict it on others.

I’ve read quite a bit about time management (as I was procrastinating, of course), but I’ve yet to find a solution to my problem. One of the number one words of advice given on the matter is to prioritize by making a list. I make lists daily. I have sticky notes with things to do stuck to my podium and my desk at work, lists on my refrigerator, lists on my island of the daily tasks, and lists on the calendar I keep in my purse. The problem is that when you combine all my lists, I’m right back to the initial problem of not having enough hours in the day.

Which leads to the second most given piece of advice and that is to learn to say no and to eliminate items from the to-do list. Hmm… who do I eliminate or tell no? My kids? My students? My friends? My online instructor who is expecting me to be working on my final exam at this moment?

Not likely. Everyone and everything in my life has a purpose right now, even if it feels like some days I will drown in the responsibility of it all. You know, on those days it feels as if I’ve failed at it all, and that I haven’t accomplished what I should have; I haven’t been there for every single person who’s needed me that day or remembered all the things that I’m expected to say to someone depending on me for advice or support. But at the end of the day, I have done what can be accomplished in one day by one person (I’ve been told superpowers are out of the question, too.).

Basically, I’ve learned to let it go. Perfectionism that is. Procrastination has become a workable strategy, not because I leave things to the last minute, but because there are so many tasks to complete that last minute is all I have left. Everything will work out at the end of the day, and if it doesn’t, there is always tomorrow. And sometimes, things don’t have to be perfect, they just have to be done.

Of course, that doesn’t work with my instructor who is waiting for my final. I probably need to get back to it and stop procrastinating. Probably too late for that.

With a Little Bit of Luck

Have you ever gone through a period of time where it felt as if your luck has run out? That’s where I’ve been recently. Not that I was winning the lottery before or winning anything really. But you can’t help but feel that you have a little luck until everything begins to go wrong. So on St. Patrick’s Day I decided to go find some luck. Not with the luck of the Irish however. I went in search of a JuJu doll instead.

This adventure comes with a bit of back story. In Vicksburg a few weeks ago a friend had purchased a JuJu doll in an art job. The doll is supposed to be the positive version of a Voodoo doll. It looked interesting, so it came home. Fast forward a month and I mention how I’m having a streak of bad luck. He responds by saying that he’s been having good luck and he must owe it to the JuJu doll.

Where can I get one of those now?

So my quest began to find my own JuJu doll without having to return to Vicksburg to claim a bit of good luck. What better place to find a good luck Voodoo doll than in New Orleans?

Apparently, Voodoo dolls have become a tourist commodity in New Orleans. Every gift shop appears to have a collection of dolls. These dolls apparently have the ability to bring success, attract a lover, and a whole host of things that would cause me to blush if I wrote them down. The lucky rabbit’s foot has nothing on these dolls.

JuJu, the good luck charm, must be popular for it was the most difficult to find (Of course it was. My luck hasn’t changed yet.) In the end, we found one at a New Orleans themed store in the Riverwalk. It is not as attractive as the one found in Vicksburg, but it is supposed to bring good luck.

I carried my own JuJu doll home and placed it in my room. I didn’t want to scare visitors away. And I’m not talking about having a Voodoo doll in my house either.  This doll will not be winning any beauty contests. It’s a good thing it’s supposed to be lucky.

It was an interesting adventure whether it changes my luck or not. I still lean in the direction that we make our own luck, but if the JuJu doll helps out, I won’t be complaining.