All through my schooling, I tested well. When other students complained of sleepless nights, sweaty palms and nervous stomachs during finals week, I remained smugly silent. But lately, I, too, suffer from test anxiety because now a test means having my vein stuck with a turkey baster, my bottom exposed to strangers, or my bosom squeezed to a crepe.
Since the 2007 movie, “The Bucket List,” senior citizens occasionally make the news by celebrating their birthdays with daring exploits or unusual experiences. When I learn that former president George H.W. Bush jumped out of an airplane or that a gray-haired grandmother rode a camel across the Sahara, I think, “Oh, my, that was plucky.”
“Mom, where are my baby pictures?” I asked as I idly turned the pages of a family album. So far I’d found a studio portrait and numerous photographs of the first born, Lawrence, and several more snapshots labeled Carolyn or Bob, but no bald Bray baby called Janet. “Didn’t you take any of me?”
I listen to the national news, and it alarms me: crumbling infrastructure in sprawling cities, abused children in homes where they should be safe, unspeakable murders in peaceful towns, the weak apologies of elected officials involved in questionable acts, counter-claims of racism and police brutality, mentally ill or evil people wielding knives, guns, cars, fire, and poison to harm others.
I greet both the summer and winter solstice with enthusiasm, but for different reasons. December’s winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, motivates me to reflect, lose myself in memories, and appreciate the quiet pleasures of home and family. The summer solstice on the longest day of the year in June beckons me outdoors, fills me with energy, makes me feel happy and alive.
I was waiting to have my teeth cleaned and skimming through a magazine when a quote by Elizabeth Gilbert caught my attention: “I don’t have much fear of getting older, but I do fear that someday a wicked genie will make me go back and live my twenties over again.” I related to the lady’s words, though I had no idea who she was.
Craig Daily Press columnist Janet Sheridan shares beloved memories of her brother.
My grandchildren believe chips to be one of the USDA recommended food groups for healthy eating; so they strive mightily to eat an adequate amount each day, consuming any greased, salted, crunchy morsel available: fried, baked, seasoned, or stale. Though I‘ve warned them they’re eating Styrofoam peanuts dyed orange, they even eat cheese puffs. I’m appalled by their addiction and aghast when they wash the chips down with gigantic soft drinks and then munch cookies to refresh their palates. But I keep my thoughts to myself because I recently encountered one of my food obsessions at a funeral luncheon. And my loved ones noticed.
A shadow hovered over the United States in the early '60s. Its darkness lurked in the background as I married and graduated from college; it fell across the school where I taught fourth-grade children the intricacies of long division, comprehension skills of reading, and correct fingering for their flute-o-phones. Busy with my life, I didn’t notice the shadow blacken, move closer, threaten. I didn’t know it would envelope me.
First, my older brothers brainwashed me, then the speed and athleticism of the players and the changing rhythms of the game hooked me. I became a college basketball fan. Football caught my attention when I attended Utah State shortly after the glory days of Merlin Olsen. A knowledgeable guide in the person of my college boyfriend cemented my enjoyment of a game played by strong, quick athletes who mix it up, emerge battered and dirty, and come back the next week to do it again.