A new term for splitting a hog or a side of beef with your family and friends is "cow pooling."
Like car-pooling, cow-pooling allows people to share their resources, save money and connect with others.
Although I have no personal need for cow-pooling, because I don’t eat red meat, I like the idea.
Before convenience stores and 24-hour super centers, people more freely shared what they had by obliging neighbors and even strangers with a cup of coffee, a hot meal or a night's stay.
Back then, if you were smack-dab in the middle of baking a cake from scratch and found that you were out of vanilla extract or eggs, you would simply dial your neighbor or rap on her back door to borrow the missing ingredients.
Then, after the baked the cake, you would share some with your generous neighbor as a show of appreciation for her generosity.
Now, if you are out of something, you run to the store.
I miss the idea of borrowing a cup of flour or a teaspoon of cream of tartar. Most of all, I long for the sense of closeness and community such interdependence fosters.
Could the concept of cow-pooling extend to what’s in our cupboards? Could we cupboard-pool to save, share and connect?
Take, for example, my two cans of baking powder. Both are open and hardly used. I probably have two open cans because I couldn’t find the one and drove to the store to purchase the other.
Not being much of a baker, I will probably not use this amount of baking powder in my lifetime. Instead of it going to waste, I could cupboard-pool with my neighbors so that they could use my baking powder.
Consider the savings with cupboard-pooling. Fewer trips to the store to buy what neighbors already have and are not using. We would reduce gasoline consumption, which is good for the environment and lessens our dependence on foreign oil. We would save on the wear and tear on our vehicles.
Cupboard-pooling could be a co-op of sorts with goods such as sugar, flour, bread, milk, baking powder, cinnamon, sage, salt, cream of tartar, vanilla extract, allspice, black pepper, ginger, cinnamon sticks, chili powder, oregano, sweet basil, and ground mace.
This borrowing and lending would foster acts of giving and receiving. Cupboard-pooling would enlarge our relationships and diminish our self-absorbent independence.
Sharing resources would help us to connect with the people who are living out their lives in virtual isolation right next door or down the street – people we may hardly know or with whom we seldom converse.
Consider your neighbors. Look inside your kitchen cupboards. Think of the ways you can share your resources. You’ll probably see that my story is your story. Cupboard-pooling, anyone?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Garage door revelation reveals fine line separates giving up, giving in, letting go
Some 40 years ago, my husband and I faced a good share of adversity. In the years leading up to our marriage in 1972, Brian’s mother died of cancer at the age of 47. Two years and one month later, his father died of a massive heart attack just weeks after turning 50.
Somewhere in between, his grandfather died.
We were young and probably in shock over so much loss in such a short span. Even so, we stayed with our plans to marry and move from our hometown of Jamestown, N.Y., to Iowa.
The day after we said, "I do," we loaded up the 1971 bumblebee yellow Chevy Vega station wagon with all of our belongings, including Brian’s childhood beagle "Princy," and headed down that long road to Iowa. Brian was finishing his undergraduate degree at Wartburg College in Waverly. We did not have jobs or a place to live.
Then, a few months after we were married his grandmother passed on.
We were sad but not defeated by our losses. We had hope, love, and each other, which seemed to suffice our every need.
Now, 37 years later, it came as somewhat of a surprise when Brian suggested that we cancel our annual vacation Out West after our automatic garage door closed on the very tip of the bumper of our car.
I had backed the car into the garage but, as I quickly learned by a loud grinding, crunching sound, I did not back it far enough to clear the door.
"Well, do you think we should go on vacation tomorrow?" Brian questioned while wrestling with the slightly mangled garage door.
"Why wouldn’t we?" I asked back.
"For a lot of reasons," he replied.
"What reasons?" I persisted, not wanting to let go of our treasured time away.
"This is a heck of a way to start a vacation," Brian debated, with a subtle tone of exhaustion.
"Yes," I reluctantly agreed, "But why would we let something like this stop us from doing what we love to do?"
Brian was silent while continuing to work on the door.
"Whether we stay or go, what difference will it make?" I added, pushing my perspective even further. "What happened to the garage door is past tense. It’s not still happening to us."
As the evening wore on and after Brian and I repaired the door, we talked it over some more; then decided to continue as planned, packed the car and left on vacation early the next morning.
On our long drive westward, I pondered what had changed. Over the years, we have shifted from possessing blind faith to being easily discouraged.
"Why so?" I asked Brian.
"You just get tired," he answered.
"Do you give up," I asked, not liking his answer.
"You just give in," he replied.
"So do you let go," I puzzled, not backing down.
"Sort of," he slightly agreed.
"What’s the difference between giving up, giving in and letting go?" I quizzed forlornly, resisting his side of the matter.
"Not a lot. You either accept your circumstances, quit trying to change them or you just get tired," Brian sighed. "Either way, you back down."
I kept quiet, holding tightly to the memory of our free-spirited start, not wanting to have anything to do with his reality.
"It’s really about not allowing adversity stop us, isn’t it?" I entreated with a sense of loss. "Isn’t it?"
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Somewhere in between, his grandfather died.
We were young and probably in shock over so much loss in such a short span. Even so, we stayed with our plans to marry and move from our hometown of Jamestown, N.Y., to Iowa.
The day after we said, "I do," we loaded up the 1971 bumblebee yellow Chevy Vega station wagon with all of our belongings, including Brian’s childhood beagle "Princy," and headed down that long road to Iowa. Brian was finishing his undergraduate degree at Wartburg College in Waverly. We did not have jobs or a place to live.
Then, a few months after we were married his grandmother passed on.
We were sad but not defeated by our losses. We had hope, love, and each other, which seemed to suffice our every need.
Now, 37 years later, it came as somewhat of a surprise when Brian suggested that we cancel our annual vacation Out West after our automatic garage door closed on the very tip of the bumper of our car.
I had backed the car into the garage but, as I quickly learned by a loud grinding, crunching sound, I did not back it far enough to clear the door.
"Well, do you think we should go on vacation tomorrow?" Brian questioned while wrestling with the slightly mangled garage door.
"Why wouldn’t we?" I asked back.
"For a lot of reasons," he replied.
"What reasons?" I persisted, not wanting to let go of our treasured time away.
"This is a heck of a way to start a vacation," Brian debated, with a subtle tone of exhaustion.
"Yes," I reluctantly agreed, "But why would we let something like this stop us from doing what we love to do?"
Brian was silent while continuing to work on the door.
"Whether we stay or go, what difference will it make?" I added, pushing my perspective even further. "What happened to the garage door is past tense. It’s not still happening to us."
As the evening wore on and after Brian and I repaired the door, we talked it over some more; then decided to continue as planned, packed the car and left on vacation early the next morning.
On our long drive westward, I pondered what had changed. Over the years, we have shifted from possessing blind faith to being easily discouraged.
"Why so?" I asked Brian.
"You just get tired," he answered.
"Do you give up," I asked, not liking his answer.
"You just give in," he replied.
"So do you let go," I puzzled, not backing down.
"Sort of," he slightly agreed.
"What’s the difference between giving up, giving in and letting go?" I quizzed forlornly, resisting his side of the matter.
"Not a lot. You either accept your circumstances, quit trying to change them or you just get tired," Brian sighed. "Either way, you back down."
I kept quiet, holding tightly to the memory of our free-spirited start, not wanting to have anything to do with his reality.
"It’s really about not allowing adversity stop us, isn’t it?" I entreated with a sense of loss. "Isn’t it?"
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Writer reveals pet peeves. Is she talking about you?
"What are your other pet peeves?" my son-in-law asked me with a detectable cautionary tone. "I want to know so that I can be sure to not commit any of them when I am in your presence," he explained.
His question came just after I had been ranting about how the table server had rested the water pitcher on each glass as she refilled them. "That’s one of my pet peeves!" I grumbled.
What are my other pet peeves? I drew a blank. Later I asked my husband, "Do I have a lot of pet peeves? For some reason, I can’t think of one, other than table waiters contaminating my water glass."
"Yes, you have a lot of pet peeves," my husband reassured. "For example, you can’t stand the sound of people chewing food."
He’s right. That drives me nuts.
"And you start to twitch at the sight of people eating while they are driving," he continued.
At that point, I wanted him to quit reminding me of my all my pet peeves, but he continued.
"Come to think of it, you have another pet peeve centered on food."
"What’s that?" I said, even though I wanted him to stop.
"You despise it when people talk with food in their mouths."
Right again. That makes me crazy.
"Okay. Okay." I get the point," I cut him off.
Nonetheless, more of my pet peeves came to mind.
It drives me bonkers when people chitchat when they’re supposed to be working.
I squirm when people use clichés, such as "Get a bigger bang for the buck," which has seedy roots in the business of prostitution; and "Close but no cigar," which refers to women in labor during childbirth. Don’t people realize what they are saying?
My list extends to cars and driving. It kills me when people park their cars on the other side of the street right at the end of my driveway.
People who drive too near the centerline really irk me, too.
And what is with people who compulsively forward junk email stories and poems to all their friends and family. Don’t they know that no one reads that stuff?
Anytime I see someone spitting chewing tobacco I get nauseous. Watching that slimy yellowish brown drool dribble down the chin makes me want to throw up.
It gets under my skin when people use the word "insure" instead of "ensure," as in "I ensure you that I really don’t have too many pet peeves."
It holds true for when people use the verb "loan" when they should use the verb "lend."
What really puts me over the edge is...is...No, I had better stop. At this rate, I will scare away my son-in-law and I don't want to do that.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
His question came just after I had been ranting about how the table server had rested the water pitcher on each glass as she refilled them. "That’s one of my pet peeves!" I grumbled.
What are my other pet peeves? I drew a blank. Later I asked my husband, "Do I have a lot of pet peeves? For some reason, I can’t think of one, other than table waiters contaminating my water glass."
"Yes, you have a lot of pet peeves," my husband reassured. "For example, you can’t stand the sound of people chewing food."
He’s right. That drives me nuts.
"And you start to twitch at the sight of people eating while they are driving," he continued.
At that point, I wanted him to quit reminding me of my all my pet peeves, but he continued.
"Come to think of it, you have another pet peeve centered on food."
"What’s that?" I said, even though I wanted him to stop.
"You despise it when people talk with food in their mouths."
Right again. That makes me crazy.
"Okay. Okay." I get the point," I cut him off.
Nonetheless, more of my pet peeves came to mind.
It drives me bonkers when people chitchat when they’re supposed to be working.
I squirm when people use clichés, such as "Get a bigger bang for the buck," which has seedy roots in the business of prostitution; and "Close but no cigar," which refers to women in labor during childbirth. Don’t people realize what they are saying?
My list extends to cars and driving. It kills me when people park their cars on the other side of the street right at the end of my driveway.
People who drive too near the centerline really irk me, too.
And what is with people who compulsively forward junk email stories and poems to all their friends and family. Don’t they know that no one reads that stuff?
Anytime I see someone spitting chewing tobacco I get nauseous. Watching that slimy yellowish brown drool dribble down the chin makes me want to throw up.
It gets under my skin when people use the word "insure" instead of "ensure," as in "I ensure you that I really don’t have too many pet peeves."
It holds true for when people use the verb "loan" when they should use the verb "lend."
What really puts me over the edge is...is...No, I had better stop. At this rate, I will scare away my son-in-law and I don't want to do that.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
She dyes her hair purple, he goes into Victoria Secret
I am prone to overhearing conversations. It’s not that I am eavesdropping. It’s just that what I overhear can be much more interesting than what people say directly.
I am intrigued by these conversations at the mall, in the neighborhood or at the store.
What follows is my diary of sorts of those snippets of dialogue. There are many back-stories here, but you have to listen closely....
A short trim man with salt and pepper hair was talking on his cell phone: "It may prolong my drinking a little bit today."
A middle-school boy revealed squeamishly, "I’ve been in Victoria Secret."
His friend countered in a competitive tone, "I have, too, but not without my mom."
A woman exclaimed, "She dyed her hair purple!"
A grandmother emphatically shouted into her cell phone, "He’ll help you dig it out. I’m telling you he’ll help you dig it out," she stressed while trying to catch her breath.
A young man in his 30s shuffled along while talking on his cell phone: "My heart is broken. But I’m going to keep moving forward." Silence. "Yeah, she wants all of my stuff out by the weekend."
Two teenaged girls were filling out entry forms for a "Win This Car" contest. "You’ll win it if you fold it like this," one girl said to the other while folding and then crinkling the form.
One guy to another, "I’m going to keep the car until she gets it paid off."
An elderly woman insisted, "I told him that I’m not going to send a card until I see it in the paper."
A woman said under her breath, "She’s probably cheating on him."
One hurried shopper to another, "I think it’s over here on the right side."
Two teenaged boys hanging out. "I’m texting her that we’re going to be out at the mall for awhile," the taller boy said. "How do you spell awhile?"
"It’s two words, a while," his friend instructed.
"No it’s not. It’s one word a-w-h-i-l-e," the other debated.
"No, it’s not!" The argument continued.
Recently, while on a walk in my neighborhood, I overheard a man speaking in a singsong "Once upon a time" voice. He was sitting on a porch bench reading a book to a young girl who was situated beside him. The sound of his voice fell on my ears like beautiful ancient music.
On Mother’s Day many years ago, when I was on a late afternoon walk, I heard the voice of an angry elderly woman come barrelling through the front door of a modest little cottage. "Get out!" the woman shouted. "Get out, you [expletive] son of a [expletive]!" I dared glance sideways to see the poor soul she was chasing down her front walkway. He was a tall lanky man with scraggily gray hair and a long white beard. She continued to fire away, hollering and waving her arms at him while he stiffly made his way to the street. "And don’t ever come back! You hear me! Never!"
It’s just that what I overhear can be much more interesting than what people say directly.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
I am intrigued by these conversations at the mall, in the neighborhood or at the store.
What follows is my diary of sorts of those snippets of dialogue. There are many back-stories here, but you have to listen closely....
A short trim man with salt and pepper hair was talking on his cell phone: "It may prolong my drinking a little bit today."
A middle-school boy revealed squeamishly, "I’ve been in Victoria Secret."
His friend countered in a competitive tone, "I have, too, but not without my mom."
A woman exclaimed, "She dyed her hair purple!"
A grandmother emphatically shouted into her cell phone, "He’ll help you dig it out. I’m telling you he’ll help you dig it out," she stressed while trying to catch her breath.
A young man in his 30s shuffled along while talking on his cell phone: "My heart is broken. But I’m going to keep moving forward." Silence. "Yeah, she wants all of my stuff out by the weekend."
Two teenaged girls were filling out entry forms for a "Win This Car" contest. "You’ll win it if you fold it like this," one girl said to the other while folding and then crinkling the form.
One guy to another, "I’m going to keep the car until she gets it paid off."
An elderly woman insisted, "I told him that I’m not going to send a card until I see it in the paper."
A woman said under her breath, "She’s probably cheating on him."
One hurried shopper to another, "I think it’s over here on the right side."
Two teenaged boys hanging out. "I’m texting her that we’re going to be out at the mall for awhile," the taller boy said. "How do you spell awhile?"
"It’s two words, a while," his friend instructed.
"No it’s not. It’s one word a-w-h-i-l-e," the other debated.
"No, it’s not!" The argument continued.
Recently, while on a walk in my neighborhood, I overheard a man speaking in a singsong "Once upon a time" voice. He was sitting on a porch bench reading a book to a young girl who was situated beside him. The sound of his voice fell on my ears like beautiful ancient music.
On Mother’s Day many years ago, when I was on a late afternoon walk, I heard the voice of an angry elderly woman come barrelling through the front door of a modest little cottage. "Get out!" the woman shouted. "Get out, you [expletive] son of a [expletive]!" I dared glance sideways to see the poor soul she was chasing down her front walkway. He was a tall lanky man with scraggily gray hair and a long white beard. She continued to fire away, hollering and waving her arms at him while he stiffly made his way to the street. "And don’t ever come back! You hear me! Never!"
It’s just that what I overhear can be much more interesting than what people say directly.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Does anyone know who sent those flowers?
"Here I am at the end, and I’m begging God," the elderly man’s words came from a deep place. "I feel so alone," he added.
This encounter took place in the hours before dawn when I was called to visit a dying person in my role as lay minister.
Driving through snowy darkness, I finally arrived at the hospital. There, nurses spoke in low tones and moved about like surveyors, measuring the long rough terrain before them.
The patient had been diagnosed with cancer and would be released to Hospice that day.
"He thinks he’s going to die tonight," his nurse explained to me. "I ordered sleep medicine for him," she said while leading me to his room.
Perched on the edge of his bed, his arms were firmly planted at his sides, while he tightly gripped the edge of the mattress. With his eyes wide open, he looked as though he was about to jump off a cliff or a bridge, perhaps.
"I’m sure sorry to call you out on a night like this," he apologized.
"That’s o.k.," I said, dismissing time and weather.
"Is it storming hard?"
"Not too bad, really."
"I don’t want to be a bother, but I am feeling so lonely.
"What makes you feel so alone?"
"My wife is usually sitting right over there," he said, glancing at the chair next to his bed. "I miss her, but I sent her home. She needs the rest."
He rattled off his fears. "I have tumors that are growing very fast. They told me I might not make it to Christmas. I don’t want to die all alone. I haven’t been to church since I was confirmed. I was always working and just too lazy to get up and go on Sunday morning. And here I am at the end begging God and I feel so alone."
"You don’t have to be alone," I tried to console. "God is with you."
A deafening silence followed my response, which seem sorely insufficient.
"God has been right at your side all those years," I tried again.
More silence.
"I believe," his eyes grew bright. "I believe. I do. And, I’ve been praying to God. I’ve tried to be good," he continued.
Feeling at a loss, I offered Psalms to relieve his grief. "The Psalms have given me great comfort over the years. They have been like God’s voice speaking directly to me. Would you like me to read from the Psalms?"
"Would you?" he obliged.
I read Psalm 43, which is David’s call to God in time of trouble.
"Thank you. I felt so alone tonight," he said. "You don’t know how much this has helped."
As I was leaving, I noticed three flower arrangements on a table near the door. Each had a note card attached.
"These flowers are beautiful!" I remarked.
"Yes, they are," he replied with a smile of reassurance. "I know who two of them are from, but that one," he said, nodding to the flowers on the far right, "I don’t know who sent that one. Take a look at the card."
I opened the card to find it completely blank inside – no words, no signature.
"Well, maybe this one is from God," I suggested. "Maybe this is God’s way of telling you that you are not alone."
"Maybe so," he said with his eyes fixed on flowers.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
This encounter took place in the hours before dawn when I was called to visit a dying person in my role as lay minister.
Driving through snowy darkness, I finally arrived at the hospital. There, nurses spoke in low tones and moved about like surveyors, measuring the long rough terrain before them.
The patient had been diagnosed with cancer and would be released to Hospice that day.
"He thinks he’s going to die tonight," his nurse explained to me. "I ordered sleep medicine for him," she said while leading me to his room.
Perched on the edge of his bed, his arms were firmly planted at his sides, while he tightly gripped the edge of the mattress. With his eyes wide open, he looked as though he was about to jump off a cliff or a bridge, perhaps.
"I’m sure sorry to call you out on a night like this," he apologized.
"That’s o.k.," I said, dismissing time and weather.
"Is it storming hard?"
"Not too bad, really."
"I don’t want to be a bother, but I am feeling so lonely.
"What makes you feel so alone?"
"My wife is usually sitting right over there," he said, glancing at the chair next to his bed. "I miss her, but I sent her home. She needs the rest."
He rattled off his fears. "I have tumors that are growing very fast. They told me I might not make it to Christmas. I don’t want to die all alone. I haven’t been to church since I was confirmed. I was always working and just too lazy to get up and go on Sunday morning. And here I am at the end begging God and I feel so alone."
"You don’t have to be alone," I tried to console. "God is with you."
A deafening silence followed my response, which seem sorely insufficient.
"God has been right at your side all those years," I tried again.
More silence.
"I believe," his eyes grew bright. "I believe. I do. And, I’ve been praying to God. I’ve tried to be good," he continued.
Feeling at a loss, I offered Psalms to relieve his grief. "The Psalms have given me great comfort over the years. They have been like God’s voice speaking directly to me. Would you like me to read from the Psalms?"
"Would you?" he obliged.
I read Psalm 43, which is David’s call to God in time of trouble.
"Thank you. I felt so alone tonight," he said. "You don’t know how much this has helped."
As I was leaving, I noticed three flower arrangements on a table near the door. Each had a note card attached.
"These flowers are beautiful!" I remarked.
"Yes, they are," he replied with a smile of reassurance. "I know who two of them are from, but that one," he said, nodding to the flowers on the far right, "I don’t know who sent that one. Take a look at the card."
I opened the card to find it completely blank inside – no words, no signature.
"Well, maybe this one is from God," I suggested. "Maybe this is God’s way of telling you that you are not alone."
"Maybe so," he said with his eyes fixed on flowers.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Economy of motherhood has currency, raw materials like no other
"And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see – or like a sealed letter, they could never plainly read." – Alice Walker
Grandmas, aunts, sometimes sisters, but especially mothers fuel the economy of motherhood.
This is an economy like no other, where moms are the majority shareholders. They are the primary investors who sacrifice and sacrifice some more for their children.
Among the raw materials in this economy are gentle guidance, seamless acceptance, solid protectionism and, most of all, unconditional love.
No matter their age, children are the primary consumers in this economy.
The relationship between investors and consumers produces a universal alchemy caused by self-denial on the behalf of all moms combined with an insatiable need of all children to be mothered.
The economy of motherhood has a currency of indefinable intimacy and indelible devotion.
In this economy, mothers also work hard to make up for any deficits their children may have.
They rationalize that an incorrigible child is exercising critical thinking. An embattled child is protecting himself. A sassy child is holding her own.
This economy may even pay far-reaching dividends from its priceless "goods" and "services" in the form of compassionate stewards whom the children may become.
Not surprisingly, the geography of this ancient economy can be mapped most clearly through the kitchen, where food transforms motherly love into something so tangible that you can smell it, see it, touch it and taste it.
The economy of motherhood consistently rebounds and recovers from economic downturns, since moms usually find a way to make things better with a hopeful smile, a reassuring hug, an affirming look, a batch of cookies or a loaded debit card.
[Happy Mother’s Day.]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Grandmas, aunts, sometimes sisters, but especially mothers fuel the economy of motherhood.
This is an economy like no other, where moms are the majority shareholders. They are the primary investors who sacrifice and sacrifice some more for their children.
Among the raw materials in this economy are gentle guidance, seamless acceptance, solid protectionism and, most of all, unconditional love.
No matter their age, children are the primary consumers in this economy.
The relationship between investors and consumers produces a universal alchemy caused by self-denial on the behalf of all moms combined with an insatiable need of all children to be mothered.
The economy of motherhood has a currency of indefinable intimacy and indelible devotion.
In this economy, mothers also work hard to make up for any deficits their children may have.
They rationalize that an incorrigible child is exercising critical thinking. An embattled child is protecting himself. A sassy child is holding her own.
This economy may even pay far-reaching dividends from its priceless "goods" and "services" in the form of compassionate stewards whom the children may become.
Not surprisingly, the geography of this ancient economy can be mapped most clearly through the kitchen, where food transforms motherly love into something so tangible that you can smell it, see it, touch it and taste it.
The economy of motherhood consistently rebounds and recovers from economic downturns, since moms usually find a way to make things better with a hopeful smile, a reassuring hug, an affirming look, a batch of cookies or a loaded debit card.
[Happy Mother’s Day.]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
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