Mother of the Bride

I have nine children, six boys and three girls. I have experienced a lot of things - childbirth, first communions, confirmations, piano recitals, sports, plays, grade school graduations, high school and college graduations, marriages, and the births of grandchildren. I have been the mother of the groom to five of my sons. Now I am taking my first tentative steps into being the mother of the bride. This is a new and awkward role for me. In the beginning, I tried to do it quietly and thoughtfully without stepping on anyone's toes. Unfortunately, I was successful for a few hours, and then I screwed it up. Not only did I put my one foot in my mouth, I ended up with both feet in it. That was just the beginning.

It is hard to be asked questions or advice when you know what you should say but being honest just might get you into trouble. The hardest part for me was the Wedding Fair. I saw more flower arrangements, more photographers with their new and "in" photo presentations, dresses long and short, simple and trendy with and without a flowing train, cakes of all shapes and sizes, and women who had glazed eyes, like mine. But sampling pieces of all different wedding cakes and flavors was a perk, as was the free candy that I snatched out of the bowls on the vendors' tables.

My daughter and her fiancee are paying for the wedding. I should have learned to say, "If that's what you like and want, go for it." But no, I seemed to have added a little bit more like, "You know what would be nice, or if it were my wedding..." That doesn't go over well at all.

A destination wedding might be the best route. Yet, my fear of flying might add more stress upon stress. Then again, it would add to my year of adventure. Since this is just the beginning of my adventures in the role of the mother of the bride, I will be adding more about this in my future blogs.

If anyone has any words of wisdom for the mother of the bride, or wants to share any of your stories, please feel free to do so.

Monster Jam

In my house if you say Monster Jam and Grave Digger, it is synonymous with one another. Monster Jam is an event where souped up trucks take on one another in exciting jumps. Grave Digger is the name of one of the tucks, and the drawing card for this event. My sons and my grandchildren love watching the monster trucks. They love the names and the color of the vehicles and the noise. My one grandson has the whole collection of monster trucks.

If you are looking to spend an interesting few hours at the Monster Jam event...don't expect it to be quiet or to be able to hear one another. Expect lots of noise and definitely expect to be entertained. The Monster Jam usually takes place in the arena with colorful trucks on enormous truck tires competing with one another. The noise is deafening and the fans should wear earplugs. Occasionally, there is the strong smell of diesel fuel in the air. The trucks pretty much fly through the air and crush the beat up cars that are grouped on the dirt floor.

It is a different way to spend 2 to 3 hours with your family and enjoy the show. Trucks with names like Brutus, Spike, Bulldozer, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle are crowd pleasers. But the real winner and all time crowd favorite is a black and green truck, sporting a skull on the side called - Grave Digger. Grave Digger usually ends up with the most points from the races, and the winner of the event. This year was no different.

I spent the afternoon at Monster Jam with two of my sons and four grandchildren. Between the pop, bottled water, and stale nachos with cheese, we enjoyed the trucks spin around the arena, fly over the cars, and smash them on their leaps. It was pretty cool to watch those monster trucks spin around and kick up the dirt as they showed off to the crowd's delight. I think that might have been my favorite part of the entertainment. In between, there were the quad races with Team Pennsylvania coming out as the ultimate winner.

The crowd was as colorful as the trucks. Some of the little fans wore Grave Digger hats shaped like trucks. The hats came along with the purchase of cotton candy. One interesting side show was watching one man walk down the steps and having his pants fall down. I laughed and turned my attention back to the arena and continued to watch the event.

It was fun, off the wall contrived entertainment. It was loud, but worth it. It was not just truck competition, but a show. It was a totally different event then the ones that I am used to and you know something, once I got into the show, it was great! I enjoyed it as much as my 6, 8, and 9-year-old grancdhildren. What can I say - I'm a sucker for something totally different and unusual. I am looking forward to going to the Monster Jam next year.

If you have ever been to a Monster Jam, what are your thoughts about this event?

Brett Favre

Why bother to watch a championship football game? You either love watching football or you are rooting for a specific team. I love football and decided to watch the game between the New Orleans Saints and "Brett Favre and the Minnesota Vikings." You either love Favre or you hate him. I don't hate Favre. I can't stand him and I was sick and tired of hearing about Brett Favre this and Brett Favre that, etc. So of course being that I love football, I rooted for the Saints to win. The Saints won, 31-28, in overtime.

I know Favre isn't a Baby Boomer. He is 40-years-old, and the quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings football team, who played in the recent NFC playoffs. His team, the Vikings was one game away from playing in the Super Bowl. He and the Vikings didn't make it. Up until the game ended I couldn't stand Favre. I thought that he should have retired and quit playing football. Quit vacillating and coming back after training camp and showing up with an entourage of reporters. I felt sorry for Aaron Rodgers, who was his backup quarterback, and rode the bench behind Favre on the the Green Bay Packers team.

But I decided to watch "Brett Favre and his Vikings," (as the sports commentators kept repeating) play the New Orleans Saints. I watched a 40-year-old man play like a 30-year-old athlete in his prime. Favre still showed his enthusiasm, his determination, and his competitiveness. Toward the end of the game with a number of bruises, he sustained an ankle injury only to have it taped and come back in to finish the game.

Granted, I made fun of him. I was sick of him. I was the one who joked with my son about Favre pulling the quarterback for the Saints, playing in his place, and winning the game. But in the end, I came to respect Favre. He is a man, who loves football and can't quite walk away from the game.

As a Baby Boomer, I learned a big lesson from Favre. Do what you want. If you love it, just do it and enjoy it. Life is too short and too fleeting and even though our bodies know how old we are, even as we pretend that the 60s are the new 50s, the 50s are the new 40s, the 40s are the new 30s, and so on. It is never to late to try something and enjoy it. I am not going to try out for football, but I am going to try to let of my fears and try some new things.

When I become too disillusioned, or too bored, or too afraid, I will remember January 24, 2010, when a 40-year-old man stepped on to the field and played with joy and abandonment. Watching Favre play changed my whole attitude about him, and about taking chances.

Everyone has an opinion on Brett Favre - what's yours?

Gail's First Adventure

Water Trail Keepers

There are no seats at the table, the lights are too bright, and everyone seems to know each other. Reluctantly I squeeze in at the end of the table, my heart racing like a wild mustang, already I’m wondering how soon I can leave. Groups make me uncomfortable, but I miss canoeing. My battered green canoe’s been resting on two sawhorses under an enormous evergreen in my backyard for years. Last fall I glimpsed a golden colored fox sleeping beside it.

Though a blizzard is predicted tonight, I’m coaxed out on this wintry evening by the Water Trail Keepers who are looking for new volunteers. They keep the Des Plaines (DP) River clean and free from snags via canoe. Once upon a time canoeing played a big part in my life. I was a certified canoe instructor, conversant in water rescue, taught classes for the local forest preserve and led canoeing trips on the DP. But over the past twelve years I lost that part of myself, a combination of injury and inertia. So I’ve come to this meeting to reclaim that part. The first step in a new adventure. My personal January thaw.

My former canoeing buddy is chairing the meeting and to be honest her presence is the only thing keeping me firmly planted in my seat. The people gathered around the table are various ages from twenties to well, my age. A robust woman, who looks like she could single handedly portage an 85-pound canoe, thrusts a tin cookie can toward me, “Candy,” she offers. At the thought of eating, my stomach does a flip like a 14-year-old gymnast on a balance beam. I wave her off, hoping I appear gracious. Finally, my friend calls the meeting to order and I surreptitiously push back on my chair as if that will make me invisible.

Why am I putting myself through this social agony of a group meeting? Because the feel of my wooden paddle in my hands guiding my canoe down a stream, across a lake, into a hidden tributary with sun dabbling my skin, the surprise of an otter, the snag of wildflowers, are sensual experiences that pull me out of myself and connect me to the natural world. Then there are the unexpected surprises: the dead deer bobbing in the middle of a river; the naked guy standing on the bank as we canoed past on a summer day. My canoeing buddy and I ended up identifying him in a police six-pack and he was prosecuted for indecent exposure. With canoeing, you just never know what’s around the next river bend.

My friend turns the meeting over to the volunteer coordinator who explains that the Water Trail Stewards go out in threes to clean up the river. “We hauled a crankshaft outta the river once,” he jokes.

“Yeah,” a middle-aged woman pipes in. “That was something else.”

Do I want to haul a crankshaft out of the river? I wonder. I guess the real question is: Am I capable of hauling a crankshaft out of the river? Only one way to find out.

Tentatively I raise my hand. “How soon can we go out on the river?”

My friend exchanges glances with the volunteer coordinator. “April,” she says.

I count the months. Three. That means three more meetings in this stuffy, brightly lit room. But after that, I’ll be on the water. Is it worth it?

After the meeting, I’m the first one out the door. The cold night air feels good against my skin as I walk to my car thinking how I need to check out the river.

Mary's First Adventure

I hate breaking away from my comfort zone and trying something new. Even when I buy new shoes or new clothes, I never wear them right away. I hang up the clothes and place my shoes in my shoe bag. I look at them for a long time before I actually wear them.

Or like when I used to walk in the park. One day I became bored with my routine and decided to walk in the opposite direction. I did and it felt awkward. I became disoriented and uncomfortable. The next day, I resumed my old pattern of walking in the park and I felt comfortable again.

It is obvious that I am a creature of habit and comfort. New things really throw me for a loop. So, this year, I set up a Blog with my high school classmate, Gail. We both decided to do something new and different. We decided to try a new adventure that would take both of us out of our comfort zones.

So, here goes my first adventure. A few nights ago, I attended the Writers at Work meeting at my library. The group meets on one Monday of each month. At least 15 writers were at this meeting. I looked around the long table, and didn't recognize a single person. After things settled down, each person took a turn and introduced themselves. I was nervous and uncomfortable but managed to get my name right and tell a little bit about my
writing background. I was proud of myself for being able to do this without passing out.

For each session, the writers are given an assignment to write, provide copies of each story, read it out loud, and are given helpful critiques from the other writers. Each writer took their turn reading what they had prepared. After the stories had been read, I realized that four of the six writers had written about murder. That surprised me, and I wondered, what's with the death theme? Was I among a frustrated group of wanna be killers? Then it occurred to me that maybe the assignment had opened up their bloodthirsty writer's vein.

When the meeting was over at 9 p.m., I was tired and I was ready to go home. Throughout the evening, I wrestled with the question - would I return? Yes, but not for a while. Earlier that day, I had signed up for beginning classes in Italian. The classes will run every Monday night for eight sessions. But I did come away from the meeting with a few good tips about blogging.

For whatever it is worth, trying a new and different adventure (whether it is a big one or a little one) just might help to pull me out of my old comfort zone. It just might help me to go outside the python.

A Year Outside the Python

A Year Outside the Python is dedicated to adventure, inspiration, and sharing. Every week either Mary or I will write about a particular adventure—52 adventures total, 26 each. These adventures will be singular to our sense of daring. What’s adventurous to me may not be adventurous to Mary and vice versa. Some will be things we’ve never done before but always wanted to do, others will be things that challenge us. Some will be big time ventures; others will be small but significant journeys. Our intention is to have fun, some laughs, and expand our experiences at this time in our lives.

In case, you wondering where the title for our blog came from, it’s a take off on a designation given to our generation, the baby boomer generation, affectionately called the pig in the python, among other endearments. Boomers have also been called the shockwave, but we couldn’t figure out how to use that designation without sounding like an amusement park ride.

Now here’s the really interesting part. Though Mary and I graduated from the same high school, Lourdes Academy in 1964, we never hung out together. And after we graduated, we never communicated with each other for over forty-two years. Then three years ago we connected via email, drawn together because of our mutual writing careers. We’re both published writers. I write mystery novels (Leigh Girard mystery series) and poetry, and Mary writes magazine articles and short stories. For the past three years, we became good friends through our daily emails—never once talking on the phone (until we decided to do the blog) or getting together in person. Mary lives in the Pittsburg area and I live in the Chicago area.

We invite you to read about our weekly forays and leave comments in the spirit of good will and encouragement. Then go out and have adventures of your own.

In the words of my dear friend Robert Davis, “Have a few laughs, try not to hurt anyone, do good deeds once in a while. And when something interesting happens, tell others about it.”