Is it too late to get in the game? A few of the successful bloggers I read are slowing down or even shutting down their blogs and I’m just getting to the starting line. I began bookmarking and regularly reading blogs just a few years ago when I was googling how to paint out window trim. Young House Love showed me the way with a list of tools, videos and comprehensive text. Their blog inspired me to take on switching out electrical outlets, painting cabinets, convincing Honey that we could do a relatively inexpensive kitchen update. (We did spend close to double my initial budget proposal, though I contribute the increase Honey’s fault at insisting we spend more on appliances and buy granite counter tops. Or, do I own it since I took him with me to Lowe’s to look at refrigerators and formica in the first place?)
Anyway, have you ever told yourself ‘I’m too old, it’s too late’? I’m no bible scholar, but even I know that Moses was an old man when he parted the Red Sea. That’s a pretty significant accomplishment after living in the desert for 40 years. I bet that wasn’t even on his bucket list.
This blog wasn’t on my bucket list. I decided one day that I had something to say and I thought some of you might be interested. Thank you to all who have given me positive feedback. It was way more work than I expected and It’s still kind of scary hitting publish each time I write a new post. Stretching ourselves, trying something new, can be scary.
Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
Your next start happens when you blow the whistle. No matter your age, your past, you have a story yet to be told. Your future looks bright because it can be anything you choose. It’s never too late to get in the game.
My dad drove a semi-trailer truck. Over the years he drove short-haul, long-haul and around the piers of Seattle. He did not own a tie, a suit or a sport coat. For my wedding he rented a tux at the Tux Shop with the rest of the groomsmen. While every one of his shirts had a collar and a chest pocket for his cigarettes, they were folded neatly in his two dresser drawers. In the summer his shirts had short sleeves, in the winter he wore flannel. He had a stack of white undershirts he wore everyday as well. My mom used something in a small bottle called bluing to keep the white load white. (Does anyone know what that was or where I can find it?)
Isn’t it great we get to decide the memories we choose to recall and dwell on? I could list the many hurts and frustrations my dad caused over the years. Instead, I am choosing to remember my dad for his gentle presence. Many mornings we sat quietly at the kitchen table while I ate my cereal and he read the paper. He laughed easily, like to play cards, watch 60 Minutes and read. He cooked the Sunday roast.
Today I am thankful for my past: my hardworking parents, my comfortable childhood home and that my dad always cooked the Thanksgiving turkey.
The more I think about it the more I recognize the voices from my past rolling through my thoughts. Honey might call it my reticular activating system: I thought he was making that up the first time he said it out loud. One sibling taunt was the word, “Rookie!” Used in a derogatory way to indicate you didn’t know what were doing. Like striking out when you were up to bat.
I’ve had a lot of rookie mistakes in my life. As I was making chili the other night I remembered once when I tried to make Cioppino. It was a newlywed cooking disaster– Honey & I still laugh about it after 30 years. I brought the recipe home after tasting the delicious soup at an office potluck. If I had the Internet and Google in 1985 I would have looked up several recipe options, read reviews, learned from other’s mistakes. I may not have made it had I known it was fish stew. Instead I had a few scribbled notes on a yellow notepad.
Honey was golfing so I spent my whole Saturday & most of the week’s grocery budget making this soup. My notes called for 2-4 fish heads. I went to a local fish shop and got 2 huge King Salmon ones. The counter guy said that would be plenty and gave them to me for free. I also bought scallops, shrimp and crab. I stewed ’em up, those heads, all day, until the eyeballs fell out. That should have been a warning sign. It was kind of gross. OK, really gross. I strained the fish parts out and finished the recipe. (I saved the eyeballs to show Honey later; appetizing, right?)
I set the table with our wedding china, placemats, candles, everything. I was SO EXCITED for Honey to come home so we could eat. Well the soup was horrible, so fishy, like eating fish oil. I was shocked it didn’t taste like the one from work. We tried to save the seafood by straining and rinsing. We ended up ordering pizza.
So what went wrong? Well, I never once tasted the stew as it was cooking. And, turns out my co-worker used 2 little, tiny lake trout heads. Oops. Sometimes only those close to us see our failures. Sometimes we are publically humiliated when we make mistakes. The key is to not let our past errors define our future. It’s ok to be a rookie. We have to start somewhere, right?
A penny for your thoughts. Don’t do a job unless you do it well. Nobody puts baby in a corner. You don’t pour my cereal. Don’t get your hopes up. Two all beef patties… The expressions, jingles, comments from our life can occasionally roll through our thoughts. Sometimes we don’t even realize they are words we might never have spoken.
Sometimes, these unspoken words can have more power than those we say out loud. I realized how much power one day when I was on a ladder, painting a window frame. I was alone and imagining a conversation where a person was apologizing to me for their bad behavior. With a shrug of my shoulders I thought, ‘well, a day late and a dollar short’. It was a dismissive, leaving no room for forgiveness or understanding.
Ouch. Is that the person I want to be? The story in my head, your head, doesn’t have to become a broken record.
