Paying it Forward

Recently, a young stranger stopped when he saw my daughter trying to un-wedge her car from a rock solid bank of ice and snow along the side of a road. She had landed there after hitting a patch of black ice and watching her life pass before her eyes as her car took her on a brief but terrifying wild teacup spin. (As I did more than thirty years ago, she learned about black ice by doing; as long as you live to tell the tale, it is those lessons that stay with you the longest.)

Naturally, when my phone rang at 9:30 at night and I knew she should be on her way home, I was overcome with a strange mix of relief and fear at the sound of her shaky voice. Something bad had happened, but she was alive. Three-sixties on a highway, no matter how sparse the traffic, are terrifying, and we would both have plenty of time later to get lost in our thoughts about what could have been but what, thankfully, was not. We focused our attention on how to get her and her car back home and make sure she did not get frostbite in the sub-zero temperatures. I threw pants on over my pajamas and rushed off to rescue her over ten miles away. I scanned my mind's Rolodex and called Walter, my car guy. He has always said we could call if we need anything, and this seemed to be as good a time as any to take him up on that offer. 

As I raced (to the extent the elements would permit) to get there from the East, and Walter revved up his big truck and tossed in some heavy chains, the young stranger happened upon the scene, and stopped to help. My daughter was on the phone with me, convincing me he was just that -- a kind stranger; not a rapist or a serial killer. He had insisted she sit in the driver's seat of his car (making it difficult for him to hop in and steal her away) to stay warm while he waited outside for me to show up. I took it on faith that her instincts were correct, and I resisted the temptation to speed up on the icy roads. When I finally arrived, the young man was indeed standing outside as my daughter enjoyed the warmth of his car. On first glance, he looked a bit like Grizzly Adams, but I immediately saw what she had perceived to be a kind and generous face beneath  the thick beard. 

He agreed to take off once I assured him help was on the way. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure out that this crazy middle aged woman with pajamas stuffed into her pants would be unable to get the car out of its icy nest; no matter how much furniture I had been able to move on my own, I was woefully unprepared for this one. I asked him if I could send him something, do something for him to thank him.  "Just pay it forward one day," he said. He even mentioned the possibility that someone might, one day, do the same for him. Walter showed up with his truck and his heavy chains. After a few tries he extracted the car from the ice, and stayed with us until he felt confident we could get the car home safely. Given half a chance, I would (I hope) go out of my way to help Walter and his family, pay forward the countless times he has been there for us. 

I met someone recently who is heading to Europe soon to see the Italian man who had, as a young farm boy during World War II, rescued this person's father and his copilot and brought them to his home after their plane had been shot down. He has always kept up communication with this heroic and kind hearted stranger, the boy who had risked everything to allow an enemy soldier to go back to his home and live a life. The young farm boy is elderly now, in failing health. Like many of that generation, he will not be around for long. But because of what he did more than seventy years ago, this person was given the opportunity to be born and live life. He wonders whether he could -- or would -- ever perform an act of heroism even close in magnitude to the deed of the young farm boy.  A deed of basic humanity that was punishable by death to the entire family. 

Most of us do not have enemy air men land in our backyard; nor do we find ourselves riding along a quiet road on an icy winter night only to find a stranded and terrified teenage girl. We like to hope that we will be that kid or that guy, the one who stops and risks anything -- be it frost bite or death -- to help somebody who is, to say the least, in a pickle. I have seen my daughter be that kid from time to time, going out of her way to get someone who needs a ride, helping someone who is struggling with writing, putting everything aside to listen to a friend who is having a bad day. I like to think that she will continue to do such things, and that if she is ever again in a jam a like minded person will happen by and help her out. 

We may never get the chance to pay it forward by saving a life, but we all have opportunities every day to help in some small way. It adds up. 

Sticky Mat Situations

As I busied myself unfurling yoga mats stiff from underuse, I stole glances at the teenagers scattered across the threadbare, mismatched couches. "Emotionally challenged" teenagers, to be precise, although to me the term seems redundant. Frankly, "emotionally challenged" anyone seems redundant.

The woman who hired me to teach after-school yoga to these kids had been careful to prepare me for the worst. They will resist you. They won't listen. Cherie (not her real name), the big African American girl, will find a thousand reasons not to participate. Even though they had invited me to take on this class, I had to fill out an employment application, promise to get fingerprinted for a background check, and somehow locate decades-old transcripts to prove that I had indeed attended college. I imagined stacks of dusty old boxes warehoused in a rat infested basement beneath some ivy-covered building. I asked if I could just take a picture of my diploma," although the odds of finding the dusty old box housing that are pretty slim as well. I was thinking Cherie and her fellow yoginis could not possibly be as challenging as the bureaucracy that is the State Board of Education. 

Cherie was easy to spot. She was not all that big, but she was the only African American girl in the room. While she chatted with her friends, she kept her gaze on me. Sizing me up, perhaps, figuring out how hard she'd have to push before I give up on her. Teaching a willing student is easy; teaching someone who would rather be at the dentist than in my class is a challenge. I love a challenge. I started to feel feisty.

"I like your shoes," she said as the group began to settle in. I was tempted to make excuses for my very un-yoga-like shoes -- I was going directly to dinner and a show, and I would have no time for a complete wardrobe change if I wanted to catch the train downtown -- but I decided to keep all that to myself. I thanked her, still feeling a bit self-conscious. "Yeah, I really like them." Hmm. Maybe she wasn't judging me; maybe she really just liked my shoes.

The excuses began in earnest the moment we started to stretch. One girl claimed to have her period. She suggested we just spend an hour and a half lying down in relaxation. Another was wearing jeans that would make yoga nearly impossible. Cherie simply announced she was really bad at yoga. The group was small, so I chatted them up. Some of the negativity began to evaporate; emotionally challenged or not, teen or adult, most folks appreciate it when somebody appears interested. I learned a little bit more about each of them, more than first impressions could have revealed. I shared some innocuous stories about myself. Some of them smiled. Cherie could not stop giggling.

Everybody made at least one trip to the bathroom during our session. Everybody, that is, except Cherie. Cherie, the one who would give me a run for my money, refuse to participate. Cherie, the one who announced how bad she was at yoga, was as graceful as a swan. She was surprisingly flexible and strong, and she had great balance. But what impressed me most about her was her effort. She kept trying, no matter how frustrating it was. If she couldn't quite get her body into the pose I was suggesting, she worked on another one. Occasionally, she (and several of the others) would share a story. I caught Cherie glaring at the girl next to her when she rolled her eyes.

When I told the girls to lie on their backs, the eye roller asked if she could lie on her stomach instead. I asked her if there was some medical or physiological reason she could not lie on her back. She seemed surprised that I had asked, and admitted there was no such reason. "Well, then, no," I responded. She looked annoyed, but she flipped over. Cherie laughed.

The State's mandatory employment application had inquired about my experience with "special needs" children. It wanted to know why I was qualified to work with them. I wasn't, at least not officially. This was all completely new. I thought saying I had taught first year law students for years might sound too glib. My own children have never been labeled as "special needs," have never had an IEP (Individualized Education Program). But I never thought for a moment that each one did not have his or her own special needs, could not benefit from some individualized parenting, or education for that matter. I left that answer blank, but, unqualified as I am, I felt confident I could at least figure out how to connect with them, maybe even make some sort of difference in their day.

The class went way more smoothly than I could have hoped. "I have issues," said Cherie at one point.

Don't we all, I thought. Don't we all. 

I'll Show You Mine if You Show Me Yours

Back in August, I conducted a little experiment in this space. Realizing I had become stuck in the early twenty-first century and was woefully unversed in the language of social media, I embarked on a somewhat unscientific analysis of the secrets to "search engine optimization," or, as they say in the biz, S.E.O.

Even though technology and social media have made it fairly easy for any average Judy to sit in her pj's and transmit her innermost irrelevant thoughts to the world at large, vigorous self promotion is still the name of the game if you have any hope of being successful -- and by successful I mean achieving fame and earning money. Since my very first foray into the blogosphere, I have been told time and again that you can't achieve fame or earn money from a blog unless your readership is well into the thousands, and the way to get your readership into the thousands is to sign on to other folks' blogs and offer up a bit of high praise and hope that they will return the favor. You don't have to actually read what they write, and you certainly don't expect them to do anything more than log on and possibly share your work with their fans. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. It's a concept that's been around since the beginning of time, self-promotion under the guise of mutual masturbation.

I have never been very good at self promotion of any kind, and, frankly, I am just plain lazy. So I have blogged away in relative obscurity, oblivious to the ramblings of others and somehow managing to attract a small and random band of loyal readers both at home and abroad. And I mean really small; my readership numbers rarely hit triple digits for any particular post. There must be an easier way to improve my own stats than helping to stroke someone else's ego, a shortcut to fame, fortune, and even an occasional "atta girl" from a hapless blog surfer who finds himself on my site. Which is why I embarked on my S.E.O. experiment back in August, composing a blog post peppered with varying degrees of, shall we say suggestive words and phrases. I hypothesized that my numbers would improve. I am happy to report the results are in, and I was right.

Every time I check my readership stats, that post -- SEO is Not an Airport in Southeast Asia (So What Else is New, Pussy Cat?) -- rises to the top of the list. The views for that post number in the thousands, way more than the views for an average entry. Whether it was because of the subliminal sexual reference in the title or some of the more blatant terms popping up in the body of the post -- I may have mentioned girl on girl sex for absolutely no reason at all -- the results, to me, seem astounding. As I see it, I have two choices. Play the traditional mutual ego stroking game, or get down and dirty (with very little effort) and titillate potential readers with thoughts of, well, a different kind of stroking. Neither option is pretty, but it's the price we pay for greatness. Or for the illusion of greatness, which is really what it's all about, isn't it?

Genitals. Boobs. Vagina. Dick. Beef jerky. An examination of my previous somewhat popular posts had turned up key words such as these. Not surprising; let's face it, it's a lot easier to toss in a few dirty words here and there than search for other like-minded blogs and feign interest. I will, on principle, try my best to keep it tasteful and subtle, but I can't make any promises. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar; sometimes it just isn't.

A #'s Game

I kept thinking it was a typo, the "#" that seemed to show up everywhere. At the same time, I was wondering why every television personality seemed to be developing the same verbal tic -- hashtag this, hashtag that -- hiccuping the strange word any time they were about to tell me where I could get more information on whatever they were talking about. Hashtag WhyILoveWinter, hashtag HowDoIGetaThighGap, hashtag BikiniBridgeHoax (hashtag seriously????), hashtag AreThereAnyNewsShowsLeftThatActuallyReportNews?

The other day, I spent time with a twenty-something young lady who doesn't happen to be related to me, which meant she smiled and tolerated me no matter what I said or did. She patiently tried to explain hashtags to me, without once sighing in exasperation or rolling her eyes or calling me an ignorant slut. Something about connecting to topics on Twitter (which I embarrassingly referred to as Tweeter, which would mean that if I took the gaffe one step further, I would start using "twit" as a verb, which we all know would be really silly). So, apparently, if I want to get into meaningful conversations with people I have never met, I can just toss what I used to think was a pound sign (or, maybe for the less sophisticated, a number sign) in front of whatever I want to talk about and I can engage to my heart's content without getting too attached. Hashtag SocializingForSocialMisfits. I hate to admit it, but this whole hashtag thing sounded like it was right up my alley. Hashtag CanYouSayCommittmentIssues? I can spout away with no accountability, and never even have to meet anybody for a cup of coffee.

My young friend was astoundingly good-natured as I practiced my new vocabulary. We were shopping for interview clothes. I realized quickly that tacking on a "hashtag" before anything I wanted to discuss immediately attached a certain gravitas to the topic, and folks would pay attention. Hashtag WhereCanIFindTheBestBoots? She nodded, and I took that to be an encouraging sign. I knew what she was thinking. Hashtag MyMom'sFriendIsSoIncrediblyCool. I was flying high. I was feeling inspired to start my own Twitter conversaion. Hashtag HowToBeCoolInYourFifties. I could offer up my newfound wisdom to millions. Hashtag WhyDoMyOwnKidsThinkI'mADork? I was feeling connected and hip, the complete opposite of a dork.

After a few minutes, the whole hashtag thing began to get exhausting, and my young friend seemed relieved when I came to the conclusion that hashtags and Twitter and Facebook and Instagrams and the whole social media concept had gotten a bit out of control. She told me that kids actually interlace their fingers in a sort of number sign formation when they take pictures. Hashtag LookAtMeLookAtMe. I found that puzzling; how do they take selfies if both hands are busy? Hashtag HowToTakePicturesWithYourToes. I wiggled my own toes inside my boots, wondering if I could ever achieve that kind of dexterity. Nope. I'm cool, but not that cool.

Not that cool, but not stupid either. At one point during my shopping expedition with someone else's daughter, I mentioned something that had happened before she was born, when her mom was a professional with an impressive title. My new friend looked shocked, admitted she had no idea her mom had ever held such a position. All these years, it had never occurred to her that this woman had done something other than be a loving thorn in her side. I looked at her face, which looked so much like her mother's face, and tried to remember the twenty-something young woman I used to know so long ago. The woman who was just venturing out into the world, establishing herself in her career. The woman who, like me, had no idea that her greatest passion in life had not yet been born.

When I arrived home to my own daughter, I decided to keep all my new hashtagging proficiency to myself, even though there was so much I still needed to learn. As far as she's concerned, I am still, always was, and always will be a dork, no matter how many pairs of high waisted "mom jeans" I discard, no matter how good I am at remembering it's "Facebook" and not "The Facebook," no matter how worn down the number sign key gets on my phone.

I can only hope that one day there will be a few little people in the world who have no idea she was anything other than "just a mom." Hashtags will be ancient history by then, and she will be on the receiving end of many eye rolls. But as long as she always knows who she is and what she can do, all will be right with the world.

Flurries of Inactivity

I am fighting the good fight, but Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with. 

Last night, lured by the relative warmth of the snowy white blanket she was tossing down, I took the dog out for a walk. Like me, he enjoys the fresh snow. We claim it as our own, with our footprints and, thanks to him, some deep crevices carved out with pee. Last night, the falling flakes were heavy and relentless, piercing my eyes and making it difficult to see. I began to understand how my blind dog feels; the blanket was so thick it was impossible to tell where the sidewalk ends and the street begins. 

I gazed up at the trees, and I felt small. In my new neighborhood, the trees are old and majestic, and the modest houses seemed insignificant beneath the canopy of tangled, snow covered branches. I had barely noticed all the trees before; last night, were it not for the occasional circle of light pouring from a window, I could swear I was in a forest. Everywhere I looked, it was Mother Nature's canvas, dark limbs crisscrossing each other in stark contrast to the backdrop of invisible air. The dog planted his face in a mound of snow, lifting his head up to flaunt his fresh white beard. Briefly, I considered shoveling, but I knew it would be pointless. 

This morning, I congratulate myself on my decision not to bother shoveling. From my second floor window, I see an amorphous white blob in the driveway, which I assume is my car. My hands are stiff from a week of futile attempts to dig out, and I know when I've been beaten. I know I should probably get to it before the temperatures plunge well below zero, as has been promised, but as long as the white powder keeps falling I will wave my white flag. Not a complete surrender, but a bit of a truce while I let the Advil get to work and wait for Mother Nature, the mama bear of all mama bears, to turn off the spigots and stop showing us who's boss.

Like all mothers, Mother Nature can be fiercely protective, though sometimes harsh -- particularly when she is trying to teach us a lesson. I get it. I have left the shovel hanging in the garage and have crawled back under the covers with the dog. He starts snoring immediately, but my own slumber is delayed by a vibrating cell phone. It is a recording, telling me that the schools in our district will be closed tomorrow, extending winter break for one more day. 

There is a method to Mother Nature's madness and fury. She is taking care of us, giving us all some extra much-needed rest. Who am I to mess with that?