My Quora Post about Given First Names, or What Not To Name Your Baby

What are some names you should not name your child?

Any names you have found over the years that were funny, interesting, or just awful that you would not name your child?

Given your last name, what would you not name your kids?

One kids’ name that I read about was “Shi-Thead” (pronounced as Shi-Tead). Horrible!

LizzaCat, "Teach people how to treat you."

Written just now

Gay. or Gaye.

I am grateful to see the post, further down, from another woman who has had to endure “Gaye” as a first name. Born in 1950, I, too, suffered from this name, spelled “Gay” on my birth certificate. What made it harder is that (1) our family surname has a “y” and a “g” in it, which made my name sound guttural and unfeminine; (2) My parents went on to have four more daughters who got normal names; Susan, Catherine, Margaret and Nancy.

I loathed my first name; at the age of four, I actually said to my mother: “Why did you name me Gay? I’m not a happy child.” I made up several aliases for myself throughout grade school, junior high and high school.

Yes, I endured Gail, Kay, and mockery. In junior high I added the “e,” thinking “Gaye” would at least look more sophisticated.

The only thing I loved about my name Gaye was that it was fun to write.

I started college in 1968. One of my friends had to take me aside and tell me that I should NOT introduce myself by saying “I’m Gaye.” I had no idea what the term “gay” meant - it was just coming into use to mean “homosexual.”

At age 27, I had had it. I read a book called Born to Win, which made me realize that I could take control of this curse. I immediately dropped my first name and started going by my given middle name, Elizabeth, which I’ve always loved. (My parents were relieved) I officially announced it at work. I went back over old drawings I’d done and altered my signature. I even got a new Social Security card and drivers’ license.

I wanted a middle name but it seemed very weird to just pick out something. Sometimes I would tell people my middle name was Amanda, because that is actually a name in my family.

Then, a friend of mine who did not receive a middle name publicly gave herself “Rhiannon” as a middle name. That seemed reasonable to me. If she could do it, why couldn’t I? At the time, the singer Enya’s sister, Maire Brennan, named her newborn daughter “Aisling.” It means “dream” or “vision” in Irish/Gaelic and can either be pronounced as spelled or as ASH-ling. I’m Swedish, not Irish, but I fell in love with that name and claimed it for my middle name in 1996, and I have been Elizabeth Aisling ever since. My boyfriend calls me “Lizza,” which I love.

Later poor Maire sold out and started calling herself “Moya” as her sister Eithne did earlier, to become “Enya.” They probably got sick of the mispronounciations.

I still don’t know why I didn’t get the name Joy, or Felicity or Felicia (my grandpa’s name was Felix!) or even Hilary if they’d wanted a cheerful name—or Abigail or Gail if they were going for that G-gay sound. The only G name I can think of that is ickier than Gay/Gaye is Gladys. Even Gertrude would have been fine. Gaia is beautiful, but no one would have known how to pronounce it. I’ve even heard of MEN named Gay - not Gaylord - just Gay. Bevare oss väl!

It is because of this unfortunate moniker that I have been fascinated, to the point of obsession, with bad baby names. There’s a wonderful website, Best of Bad Baby Names that gives some choice examples.

For years I would not disclose what my first name was, but when Facebook came along, I had to out myself at times so my high school friends could find me. I am no longer embarrassed about my given first name; I will tell people what it is if the subject comes up. I have decided to own it. Damn, though, I am very glad I got to put Elizabeth on my passport. And even though my father was an avid genealogist, no one is going to find me under the name Gay, because I just found out that you can actually have your birth certificate changed. I’m going to look into it.

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Who Am I, and Why Would Someone Want to Be My Friend?

DISCLAIMER: I was asked by a Buddhist therapist to ponder these questions. I planned to work on this during my vacation in Florida from January 20-Feb. 4. As bad luck would have it, a few days after Marie and I arrived in Florida, I received the news that my sister Margaret had died. You will see details surrounding her death in this post. I also must note that when I finally saw the therapist, she didn't even read it. Does it matter? Not really. I like to write. It was an interesting activity.

January, 2017 was not a good time for me to try to write something like this – or was it? Perhaps we never know who we really are until (1) we receive startling news and (2) any time our values collide with opposing ones, and we discover where the other person stops and we start. 

All my life I’ve let others define me. The loss of my sister and the subsequent family interactions have profoundly changed me.

I did read this to aloud one person: my best friend from college (1968-72). She thought it was prolix. When she got to the part about me being a rock, she laughed out loud and said, “You’re a skipping stone.” And I think she is right. I am a rule-breaker, and I’ve broken another one now – I’ve decided to take what she said. I am, indeed a skipping stone. And here is my dissertation.

I am Elizabeth, the eldest of five sisters – now we are four. I am my sister’s keeper; or, I tried to be.  I am the sister who called the police to do a welfare check on my sister Margaret in Hawaii, on January 24 of this year, because no one could get hold of her on her 60^th birthday. While my friend and housemate Marie and I were hoping to have fun on our Florida vacation, I was the one who found myself placing that call to the authorities. Yes, I am the Great Family Heroine whose inquiry led the officers to my sister’s apartment, where she had been dead for four days. I am the Responsible One: the sister, the daughter, the cousin, the friend, the aunt, the messenger who delivered the terrible news, wrote the obituary, and sobbed every day, 1400 miles away from home, trying not to bleed out. I didn’t know that I needed to be at home. We stayed in Florida; what could be done? It was so beautiful there. We had the best vacation we could, but this hung heavily over every day we spent in the paradise we love. Leave it to Margaret (the only other drama queen in the family) to be found dead on the day Donald Trump was sworn in, right at the beginning of a family member’s vacation. Timing is everything. Timing is nothing.

I am a rock. My sister’s last text to me before her death was “You are my rock.” But a rock feels no pain, sings Paul Simon. And an island never cries, sings Art Garfunkel. Not true. If I am a rock, I don’t know if I am a fine, smooth stone on which someone can lean for anchor, or a little pebble in a brook. Perhaps I am a rare piece of quartz crystal, or a sliver of mica, or some type of jewel. I do know this: whatever type of rock, or stone, or jewel I am, it is covered with so much seaweed and moss and other dreck that I can’t see how I shine.

Always a bridesmaid, I was the Brownie Scout who never flew up. I was the one with the Bachelor of Arts degree but no librarian credentials, yet I got to be the music librarian at Rockford Public Library because Marie, who was my boss at the time and didn’t care much for rules either, gave me the position. Actually, I was an art major; I chose art because it gave me time to dream and write fanfiction, walk in fields with my guitar, and spend most of my college days in the music department. (To this day, most people assume I was a music major; I am only beginning to reclaim my art). I am from the second generation of sisters to fight over the piano; Mom and my aunts taught us “Safe piano” to reserve it after the dishes were done. The piano bench was my safe space. Mom sang to us; we each had our own song. I grew up in a family with a soundtrack. Music is who I am. I identify myself through music. So, I am music.

My soundtrack still evolves; it follows me, marking my journey. When contented, I am melodic with sweet, flowing harmonies. In joy, I am an outburst of ecstatic choral singing, always with deep feeling and majestic form, always with me conducting. The parts of me that are complete always resolve on the tonic note. I am a weeper and a growler – I roar and pierce as a pipe organ with state trumpets and I whimper with the chiff of flutes. I cry out loud with the terrifying grandeur of loud registration. I am radiant, full organ when I feel intense – all my stops are pulled out. At ease, I am that sound you hear in the wind: a symphony with some choral sections, majestic in parts and numinous in others.

Pensive, I am a wire-strung harp with sustain, or a classically fingerpicked fretted dulcimer. I am a writer; I am always telling a story in my head. I write as a talented choir, swirls of radiance and majesty interspersed with wistful longing, bearing an undertone of melancholia. I am drama. I am pure light when my songs flow. I am a talker and I am a jumble of words that I sometimes reverse. I can be powerful; when misused, my power drains others. When I am in flow, my power can enchant and energize. In morose mode, my power shrinks into a flaccid pool of loss, and I am silence.

I am a poet; I discovered at age 22 that my father had snitched a notebook of my poetry and hidden it in a closet, as a guilty boy would stash forbidden comic books. Mom still has it. I am also an artist, but life drawing has been replaced by photo-editing software with a sketch setting. Like cursive, my drawing is obsolete. Most of my skills are decorative and not too useful. I am an ornament. I am an educated middle-to-upper middle class Chicago suburbanite with white privilege. I attract smart people. Rockford is an embarrassment of poor grammar, misplaced apostrophes and polyester. I am a snob.

I fear and avoid chaos, dissonance, high-pitched shrieking, robotic drumbeats and any type of jazz that is jumpy and unpredictable. I crave harmony and symmetry. I am a creature with an intricate range of settings, but I perceive myself as either on or off, much like a television set. I am sung in the key of F, on a bright Asian piano. The key of F is blue, but I am purple. A bruise is purple. I am a bruise, so I have come here. I am bruised and battered because I am a lost soul who has spent her entire life granting others permission to tell me what I am and even how I feel. Throughout the years, I’ve tried to force a reluctant Marie to define my emotions; she has obliged at times. This is a very odd thing to be asked to write.

I am female. I am not gender-specific when it comes to falling in love. I have identified as lesbian; now I find that my kindred spirit and soulmate is male. Am I heterosexual now? Am I an alien from a planet where there are no labels? No-- I label everything. Human brains would explode without some sort of categorizing mechanism. I think that lack is what causes autism; they are the ones whose brains cannot filter out any type of input; they are trapped at seven plus or minus two for life. Sometimes, my mind can’t block things; other times, I am in a tunnel, oblivious to the world. I am a person who needs structure. I am auditory kinesthetic. I can be digital if I have to be. I forget faces; I am the one who will remember your name but have no idea who you are. I am sinister (left-handed.) Coarseness and vulgarity disgust me; I believe life should be a work of art.  I am an elitist. I am also a brand, and my brand is HAIR. I am my hair, and my hair is me. I am a bit of a narcissist about my hair.

Marie says that I constantly look at myself in mirrors. She put an existentialist spin on it –she thinks I want to reassure myself that I am real. I mostly want to know if my bangs look all right. I keep wanting others to tell me what they see. All I see is my image in reverse, in the mirror. Now we have smartphones, so I am a selfie - I can see myself as I am! It often horrifies me. I am a selfie who is often Photoshopped, by me, before others see my image on Facebook. I am constantly taking selfies. So perhaps Marie is right.

I am one of over a billion souls with bodies alive on this planet. I am an abyss-walker, and I recognize my fellow abyss-walkers – as they do me. Many people took the ferry across the river of life; I am still struggling to swim. I thought I was a young soul; now I don’t know. I am told I am a wise, kind, and brilliant person, so perhaps my soul is old. But my soul doesn’t seem to fit in with the majority of other souls in this earthly realm. I am a living thing, leaning toward the sun after a lifetime of owning only my darkness. I am a chameleon; I am a person who fears authority and punishment, and have let others define me because that is the only way I can stay safe.

I am articulate, but I am a bubble off. My clock doesn’t run in sync with the preferred clock of society. I am a contradiction: I test as intuitive, but I always need things spelled out to me and I panic if I cannot have closure. (That damned MBTI again) My life is a jumbled tapestry, but there are some consistent threads. I am a person who wants to follow these threads. I am a broken mosaic but I am a work of art. The pastor where I attend church says that I am a beloved child of God. Am I?

I hate groups. I am someone who has trouble picking up the beat in meetings or groups, unless I am jamming with other musicians. When I am playing my instruments, which I play by ear, I am in flow. That is how jazz evolved. Music is communication for those who don’t understand each other’s spoken language. I communicate comfortably with music. People love to listen to me play. People like to be around me and listen to the music I make.

As I said, I was a paraprofessional librarian. I chose this field because it was, at one time, a respectable haven for a person like me who didn’t “fit the mold” and had an unmarketable liberal arts degree. At the library I found my fellow abyss-walkers, lovers, friends and enemies. The mermaids sang for many of my co-workers; they never sang for me. Ultimately it turned to corporate hell and I was pushed into early retirement.

I am supposed to label myself as “an alcoholic.” I am not a friend of Bill Wilson. AA is a patriarchal, book-thumping, slogan-bearing herd of anti-intellectual people who talk in bumper stickers, thrive on groupthink, and believe that they are powerless. I am not powerless. And I am suspicious of anything that reeks of a cult.

I believe in God, but God isn’t what keeps me sober. I said that at an AA meeting. Horrors!  That’s why I was scapegoated and called out at least once a week when I went to AA meetings-- I asked too many questions. AA doesn’t like that. (“Elizabeth! You think too much! That is stinking thinking!”)  Donald Trump doesn’t want any Americans to think very much, or ask questions, either. Most don’t. That’s why he won. (Personal note: AA would call me a dry drunk, certainly not a sober person, since I don’t attend meetings any more. To them, sober means “doing the steps.”) (Sober – dictionary definition: not intoxicated or drunk.) I have no desire to drink alcohol.

  

I am a performer. I’m the girl with the guitar on stage. I’m the one in the crystal-dyed top, leaning over a fretted dulcimer with a spotlight on my head. I’m the daughter at the grand piano at my mother’s independent senior living home. The old folks love me, (“Play the piano, Elizabeth!”) and they want to be my friend. But I am in a cage, and on some level it feels like everyone knows that I am naked. 

I am the queen of overshare, or TMI – and my specialty is attention-seeking. I agreed with Marie's suggestion that I might not want attend the monthly Retired Librarians’ Lunch because talking about death is such a downer at a social gathering. She was correct; I might have disclosed too many details about Margaret’s death and monopolized the conversations – Elizabeth, the tragic queen of the Ladies Who Lunch. Marie is correct, of course. But even the Beatles got by with a little help from their friends. And damn it, there was no visitation, no funeral, and no neighbors bearing casseroles. I need my friends! I thought that since I didn't show up, my former co-workers would send me sympathy cards. They did not. Is it being self-centered, to have hoped for this? (Is there anyone whose whole life has been an identity crisis who isn’t self-centered? The selfless ones are the ones whose energy isn’t drained by this struggle). Find me someone “in therapy” who isn’t “self-centered” and I will eat my shoe.

I am someone who is loved by many, liked or tolerated by most, and disliked by others. The support I’ve gotten on Facebook shows me that there are indeed many people who not only want to be my friends—they are my friends. Some of them love me. God bless social media. The people from my church signed a sympathy card and mailed it to me. They care. The pastors like me – I am literate, educated and liberal. (Am I liberal? I don’t have any idea. You’re supposed to be, these days, if you want to be among the intelligentsia. (When I was growing up, you were considered lower-class if you were a Democrat.)

I am known to do anything to avoid my deepest terror, which is abandonment. I hate being ignored. Yet I love cats more than I do humans and certainly more than I do dogs. Go figure.  I am rebellious. I delight in shocking people. I am morbidly afraid of being a “goody-goody,” or too prissy, or too wholesome. That is another part of my personal brand – to be unconventional and outrageous.  I am unusual to the point where finding kindred spirits is a chore.

I am the cousin who was just told by another cousin: “You have always been the most loving, caring person in your family. You wear your feelings on your sleeve.” I thought that was supposed to be bad. I am someone who has always let others define me; in this case, I’ll take it.

I am a mass of cells. I am one of any bodies on the same boat, each on his or her own journey, but I seem to be one of the few who recognizes that we’re all on that boat together. I am the one who rushes in even where the devil fears to tread. (I do not believe in the devil)

I am a collage of obsessions. I am the published author of a roman à clef entitled The Five Notebooks. Yes, it’s on Amazon. Go ahead and buy it and read it. I am told it reads like a diary and that people are embarrassed for me when they read it, but it has good reviews.

I am lost, and I am terrified of being lost. I am someone with literally no sense of direction- north, south, east or west. Do not use those words with me, please. I will have no idea what you are talking about.

I define myself as a person possibly somewhere “on the spectrum,” but I know that this is the hip diagnosis of the decade—ADD to ADHD to Asperger. I look to others for validation, and when I get none, I feel crazy. Actually, I am told that I DEMAND validation. This tortures Marie.

I am the little girl in grade school who always wanted the teacher to be interested in ME. I am the adult who still wants the teacher (mother, boss, pastor, or any other authority figure) to be interested in ME. I'm a misfit. I am probably perceived by most people as boring and lost in my own little world.

I am that mean-looking woman who worked at the library and always looked hateful, because with my face in repose, I resemble my Swedish grandmother. I’ll have you know that she was as silly as they come, but she had a frowning expression. Sorry I don’t have laugh lines; maybe I’ll get some in my next life.

I have a terrible temper and I am the type of person who screams at customer service people who don’t speak English well – yet I did NOT vote for Donald Trump. I think in a lot of ways I am sort of like Donald Trump. This frightens me.

What makes me a unique individual? Why would someone want me for a friend?

•  I am loyal, nurturing and helpful. I have empathy.
• I am intellectual. I am creative. I am talented. I am witty. I have “flair.” I am a deep thinker, well-educated across disciplines. Those who like that kind of person will want me for a friend.
• In a crisis, I am the calm, rational one who knows exactly what to do.
• I have a freckle on the bottom of my right foot, near my toes. When they put a tag on my toe, it will be easy to ID my body if you know where to look.
• I have no idea how baseball, football or any other sport is played. I can’t follow it. I had to fake it all through high school. People who hate sports as much as I do might find that amusing.( I also flunked Driver’s Ed. the first time)
• I was an authority on all makes and models of automobiles at age 5. That makes people laugh.
•  I am not terrible-looking, and I have pretty hair and I wear hippie/ “boho” clothes. People who think that is cool are going to want me as a friend, because they will think I am cool. I have straight teeth; some people are really turned off by bad-looking teeth.
• Overweight people aren’t jealous of me, because my skinny figure went away after I was 40.
• I am passionate and expressive, and I can tell good stories. I am a good conversationalist as long as I remember to listen and not talk too much
•  I am so clumsy that I make other people feel graceful.
• I have a tremendous skill set from having worked with the public for 35 years.
•  I have a silly, sick sense of humor and I write hilarious parodies.
• I can be diplomatic and polite when I want to be.
• I am “with it” and on board with popular culture. I am a computer geek.
• I can be what anyone wants me to be—or, at least, so far I have been successful.
• I can find an answer to almost every question I’m asked (So why can’t I find answers for my own?) 

My Soul Sista: Today I Wrote her Obituary

             

Margaret (“Peggy”) Miller

   Margaret Lynn (“Peggy”) Miller, née Flygare, 60, died at home in Honolulu, Hawaii on January 24, 2017. Margaret was born on January 21, 1957 in Idaho Falls, Idaho to Robert J. and Viola (Swedberg) Flygare. She was the fourth of five sisters.

   Margaret graduated from Springfield High School in Springfield, Illinois in 1975, and attended Lincoln Land Community College in Springfield, where she received training and certification as a registered nurse.

   Margaret had a deep love for animals, and was known for her gift of compassion and caring throughout her life. She had unconditional positive regard for all people, and her brilliant insight and unselfish love for others provided affirmation and acceptance for all she encountered.

   Margaret was a licensed pilot for many years, and a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. In addition, she loved nature, especially bird watching and being near the ocean. Margaret expressed her joy in life with her astonishing gift of humor, which included her ability to write hilarious satire; in addition, she was a deep thinker, able to express herself with eloquence on a variety of topics. She possessed a tremendous vocabulary, a ready smile, a spontaneous gift for silliness, a generous spirit, and a complete lack of materialism. Throughout her sweet walk in the world, Margaret spent several years living in China, where she taught English as a second language. She was beloved by her students.

   Margaret is survived by her three sons: Jonathan, Clifford and Stuart. They were the greatest pride and joy of her life. She is also survived by her mother, Viola Flygare of St. Charles, IL; sisters Elizabeth Flygare of Rockford, Illinois, Susan (Peter) Felice of Countryside, Illinois, Catherine (Ronald) Martin of Cherry Hill, New Jersey and Nancy (John) Siegel of Greenwood, Indiana. In addition, she is survived by numerous nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews, cousins, and many dear friends. She is predeceased by her father, Robert J. Flygare.

  Per Margaret’s wishes, cremation rites have been accorded.  A celebration of Margaret’s life will be held at a later date in Illinois.

How I am boycotting the inauguration of Donald Trump

Sad Friday

Tonight, President Obama closed his farewell address to the nation by repeating the promise he made to all Americans in his campaign and at his victory in 2008: "Yes, we can." Who could ever forget that phrase? Now, eight years later, for the last time, he reminded us of the power of hope and faith: "Yes, we did," he told the nation tonight. "Yes, we can."

Donald Trump will be sworn in as President of the United States on Friday, January 20, 2017. I find it ironic that his inauguration falls on a Friday. I have also, all my life, been stunned and horrified that the day that commemorates the execution of Jesus Christ, observed on a Friday, is called Good Friday. Why isn’t it called what it is: The Crucifixion of Jesus? Bad Friday? Sad Friday? It is, of course, because most Christians believe what the Bible tells us: that Jesus Christ suffered and shed his blood for us to save us from our sins, and He rose with glory from the dead on Easter Sunday.

Barack Obama isn’t going to come back on Sunday, January 22, to redeem this country. There won’t be salvation for the sins of those who voted the monster Donald Trump into office. 

I think of Friday, January 20 as a tragedy. A death. To me, Barack Obama is Christ-like, not because I confuse him with who most Christians believe to be the son of God.  No, I don't believe he is divine; I have no delusions that he is Jesus Christ come again.  I don’t worship Mr. Obama. I say it because he embodies, to me, the human being I aspire to be, which is the type of person Jesus was. I grieve because Friday is the day that I am losing my beloved President, Barack Obama, to the evil likes of Satan. I feel like it is, indeed, a crucifixion of sorts. When President Obama’s term officially ends at noon on that Sad Friday, I hope somewhere in this nation a moment of silence is observed. If I flew the flag, it would be at half-staff. I feel that God has forsaken not just me, but all of us. 

To me, President Obama is a hero. He is also human, of course. He has his faults. But he has done a magnificent job, and he has been respected worldwide. And now he has to go away. In ten days, he leaves the White House to a narcissist who ran for the office as a publicity stunt and never thought he would win – and now that he has, he and his family will probably not even care to live in the White House. I cannot even imagine Melania Trump as the First Lady, although I’m told that she has more common sense than her spouse does. How could this have been allowed to happen? Barack Obama was a President who made America great; what pride I have felt during this past eight years. More than once I've heard people lament the fact that he couldn't run for a third term; I understand that U.S. Presidents get but two. But couldn’t the Republicans have nominated and run a sane, ethical woman or man to take the torch from Barack Obama if their party won? Why and how could this have been allowed to happen in the United States of America, my country? I thought there were already written provisions in place to prevent an unfit fool from ascending to the highest office in the land. The United States is already shifting from being admired to becoming a worldwide laughingstock. I bow my head in shame even though it isn’t my personal doing. I didn’t vote for the man, but I am an American and Donald Trump is going to be President of the United States, which means he will be my president. But Donald Trump will never have my respect. I find even the thought of hearing Hail to the Chief being played for Donald Trump reprehensible; in fact, incomprehensible.

To me, Barack Obama has always exuded an aura of kindness, compassion, wisdom, and hope. Every time I see a picture of him, or watch a video of him speaking, I just break out into a smile. He has always been my sunshine – our sunshine. And the First Lady, Michelle Obama, exemplifies the class and grace that we haven’t seen since the Jackie Kennedy days. Malia and Sasha were kept under the radar, as it should be, but never did either of them bring shame upon that family.  Nor scandal. Nor embarrassment. Never on President Obama’s watch did anything occur to cause him censure. He never had to proclaim, “I am not a crook.” There was no Watergate. There was no tabloid drama. Our country has had eight years of grace, led by a respected man who is – yes – from Illinois, where I live, which I suppose contributes to my loyalty. I have been so proud to be an American – to say “This is our President! This is our First Lady!” I have felt nothing but trust, joy, and hope as I have watched President Barack Obama lead our country with such elegance, genuine charisma, compassion, wisdom, and an affect that I can only describe as noble and dignified.

On January 20, I won’t be sitting in front of the TV. I will be in the car with my friend Marie and our four cats, en route to our vacation spot in Port Charlotte, Florida. We won't be listening to the live broadcast; instead, we'll have music. Each of us has made a playlist of songs which we’ll listen to as a protest while this travesty is taking place.

Marie’s is different, she says. Hers starts with the election of Trump. I chose to start mine with Bill Clinton’s campaign; I didn't bother with Bush. President Obama didn't have a campaign song that I know of, so I segued to Hillary Clinton’s nomination, her hopes and dreams, the early warnings of disaster with the rise of Trump, a flicker of hope after the debates, and the terrible night of the election. I cried for almost two hours after it was announced that Mrs. Clinton had phoned Donald Trump, and her concession speech the following day left me too numb for more tears. I’m know I’m not the only one who reacted to this surreal Donald Trump victory with shock and horror, followed by fear and depression. 

My playlist continues with the absolute worst-case scenarios that go through my mind when I can’t sleep: Trump’s seeming disdain for the poor, his legitimization of the scathing racism and sexism that have lurked in the deepest bowels of ignorant human minds, his cruel deportation threats, his name-calling, his lack of concern for the environment, and the fear of war that his actions are generating. I add the prayers, my own and those that came from the pulpit of my own mainstream United Methodist Church, although I ask God to give me strength. Our pastor prays for God to give Mr. Trump the ability to succeed, although I think the odds are against it. And I will continue to fight for justice in any way that I can. My playlist turns to hope and to the will to survive, and to my vow to live my life as a strong, positive woman who will stand up for what’s right, rather than lying down and sucking this up.

I end my songlist with Sir Paul McCartney’s moving tribute to President Barack Obama at the White House in a live performance of Hey, Jude with the President and First Lady and Malia and Sasha singing along:

“Hey Jude, don't make it bad

Take a sad song and make it better…

"… and any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain

Don't carry the world upon your shoulders,

For well, you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder…..

"...and don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do

The movement you need is on your shoulder…

"Then you'll begin to make it

Better, better, better, better, better oh

Nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah, hey Jude.”

Nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah, hey Jude."

Here is my playlist:

ELECTION BLUES

Don't Stop (Official Live Version) - Fleetwood Mac

High Hopes - Frank Sinatra

Watch Out! - Holly Near

Nowhere Man - The Beatles

God is Sleeping/You've Got to be Taught - Ann Reed

Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival

I Have a Dream - ABBA

I Dreamed a Dream - Susan Boyle

It Could Have Been Close - Tret Fure

Isn't Life Strange? - The Moody Blues

The Times, They are a-Changin' - Simon and Garfunkel

In My Hour of Darkness - Gram Parsons

Calling All Angels - Eliza Gilkyson

God Give Me Strength - Elvis Costello with Burt Bacharach

Chiquitita - ABBA

Who Brought the Flood? - Debra Cowan

Way Down - Bonnie Koloc

Chilling of the Evening - Arlo Guthrie

Eve of Destruction - Barry McGuire

Greenfields - Eliza Gilkyson (written by her father, Terry Gilkyson)

Dancing at Whitsun - Priscilla Herdman

The Band Played Waltzing Matilda - Priscilla Herdman

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll - Phranc

Requiem for the Giant Trees - Eileen McGann

Ohio - Dala

Trouble in the Fields - Maura O'Connell with Nanci Griffith

Ruins by the Shore - Debra Cowan

The Blackest Crow - Bruce Molsky with Julie Fowlis

Crow on the Cradle - Trapezoid

Blessed - Simon and Garfunkel

Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley

Hard Times Come Again No More - Eastmountainsouth

Kumbaya - Joan Baez in Concert

From a Distance - Judy Collins

Little People - Les Miserables Cast

I Want to Live - John Denver

Mountain Song - Holly Near

Talkin' Bout a Revolution - Tracy Chapman

I've Seen All the Good People - Yes

Singing for Our Lives - Holly Near and Ronnie Gilbert

Do You Hear the People Sing? - Les Miserables Cast

Hey Jude - Live Performance - Sir Paul McCartney 

"Yes, we can!" I pray that you are right, Mr. President.              

  

"I want to be with Carrie."

Those were Debbie Reynolds' last words, just hours ago today. Just a few moments ago, Marie and I turned on our computers and Huffington Post wouldn't load. We tried CNN and saw the headline, and couldn't believe it. We checked NBC, and it is true. Debbie Reynolds has died.

Debbie Reynolds. This breaks me into little pieces. Yesterday, while posting about the death of her daughter, it didn't even occur to me to quip, "This will just kill Debbie Reynolds." I am sitting here numb. Debbie Reynolds, at 84, looked so vital. So fresh. So strong. I was so wrong.

She was at her son Todd's house, it is reported, beginning preparations for her daughter's funeral, when she experienced shortness of breath. She was rushed to the hospital where she died of a stroke. One day after losing Carrie. Devastated, I can only imagine. But gone now? I can't get my mind around it. Marie tells me that she's read about Debbie Reynolds apparently having a couple of strokes, but we don't know the source of that information. It isn't in the news story - yet. She seemed functionally OK when she posted the comment on Facebook yesterday, although the missing punctuation marks show a red flag, now that I take a second look.

Debbie Reynolds has died of a broken heart. May she be reunited with her daughter and find peace.

Carrie Fisher:1956-2016

Remembering Carrie Fisher

  What does one say? How does one express feelings when our primary vehicle these days seems to be either blogs or social media? I grew up with Carrie and Todd Fisher. I watched their father leave their mother; even then, at a young age, I wondered about how those two siblings would be affected. 

No mother should have to bury her child. It’s looking like what happened to Carrie is, in some ways, similar to what happened to my beloved friend Jean Mangan three years ago, at the age of 59. My heart broke then for her mother, Joan; and my heart breaks today for Debbie Reynolds, who is just six years younger than my own mother, and is faced with this heartbreak. I turn to Facebook for inspiration from folks I know personally; it's late at night and I simply don’t know where else to go. I’m not surprised to find wise words from so many thoughtful people. 

MaryEllen Morgan, a dear friend from my high school days, posts: “Let's face it, we all wish we could make as deep an impression as Carrie Fisher did in her 60 years (a small amount of time, if you look at the lifespan of our fathers and mothers); her lifespan was short. But we all need this as a lesson to us. What do we need to do and say in the new year? What does your life say about you? What legacy do you want to leave? There is so much work to do out there, my friends. Please make room in your weekly schedule to step up and forward to advance the ideals we all believe are important.” 

I respond to her: “MaryEllen, I resolve that as I grow older, I shall always remember that as each day passes, life becomes more and more precious." I continue: "I will try to hold back the curt word, the sarcastic comment, the impulse to retort. I will strive to react kindly and with courtesy to Marie, my best friend with whom I live. I will make a heartfelt effort to control my quick temper, and to avoid the curt response. To smile at people. To give from my heart to others." Quietly, I pray that for the maturity to think beyond my own personal bubble. I ask for guidance and hope in the coming years. May all of us find a meaningful way to work for peace and justice in this troubled world. Because MaryEllen is right. There's so much to be done.

 I talk with my significant other, Paul Dale Anderson, who reminds me: "Know that every minute we spend with loved ones is a gift not to be taken for granted. We ought to consciously cherish those times, and to make all our interactions positive." My response to Paul: "Yes. Life is a treasure. I'll do my part by striving to remember to put others first; and by making amends when I am wrong, without expecting forgiveness. I desire to radiate love and acceptance to all people of all backgrounds, ages, religions, personal life choices, and situations. To find a way to work for peace and justice. It all begins within one's self." 

That's why I pray every day. 

Right now, I think of a certain 84-year old (yes, famous) mother, dear to me from my youth, who now has to bury her 60-year-old child. I pray for Debbie Reynolds and for her family and friends, who will surely provide a wellspring of strength to her. May she know peace and grace at this time of sorrow. 

And so I add:  "Everyone is a beloved child of God.  Think before you speak. Think before you speak. Think before you speak.”   

 

More on Claw Hammer: I get to repeat myself because I'm old

Another Paul Dale Anderson essay, because this is my blog and I get to write it. Even if I repeat myself. I get to do that, too, because I am 66 years old and have earned that privilege.

This book has a great amount of personal significance to me, because it marks the beginning of my friendship with Paul Dale Anderson. In 1989, when Claw Hammer first came out, a co-worker at Rockford Public Library told me about it and I was immediately intrigued. I've always been a horror fan, and I was impressed that a local author had published what promised to be the type of read that was right up my alley. I got hold of the book and I was not disappointed - I devoured it, and I decided that I had to meet this Paul Anderson. At the time, I was running the Northern Illinois Writers Conference, so I immediately hired him to present a workshop, which he did - and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his lovely wife, Gretta. Paul and I connected immediately and were to go on to become great friends. That same year, I performed on my fretted dulcimer at an event sponsored by Rock River Friends of Folk Music, and Paul and Gretta were in the audience. I again had a chance to talk with them and it just reinforced to me what intelligent, interesting people they were. Paul got a job at the Library soon thereafter, and our friendship clicked; we went on to share grisly stories and try to outdo one another with demented humor and the sharing of our love for language. We co-wrote a stage production to commemorate the retirement of Joel Rosenfeld, our director; I wrote parodies on four show tunes and Paul did the script. I have pictures of us from that era, posing with Mr. Rosenfeld - me sporting a dreadful spiral perm and Paul with his signature beard, bushy black hair, and evil yet charming smile. We spoke often about Claw Hammer, and Paul encouraged me in 2008 when I wrote my own novel, The Five Notebooks.

Paul left the library at some point but came back; both of us had been through enormous life changes. The connection had survived; I remember rolling my desk chair up to his cubicle and pouring out my heart. I imagine I was ranting about work, or maybe just the state of things at large; in any case, he listened. We'd often see one another in the staff lounge, each in a corner with a book, and that twinkle in his eye continued to make me smile. Remember---at this point, we were friends. Co-workers and kindred spirits. Nothing even vaguely romantic crossed my mind in my interactions with Paul; he was a happily married man, devoted to his wife.

I retired from the library in 2010 and Paul retired the following year to devote his time to Gretta, whose health was failing. When he posted on Facebook of her death in January of 2012, I broke down and cried for this kind man who would have done anything under heaven for her to live. I sent him a letter immediately, expressing my condolences, and I attended Gretta's memorial service. That winter, I thought often about my dear friend Paul, now so broken and bewildered. He would come into the Friends of the Library shop were I volunteered, and we'd talk frankly about his loss, and I noticed in these conversations that he spoke freely to me as if I were family. I was honored by that. I still considered him a dear friend and I wondered what life had in store for him.

Months later, Paul sent me a message on Facebook - basically a greeting. What started as banter turned into a deep conversation that went on for quite some time. Through the written word, we mutually decided to meet. AGAIN - for me, it was to touch base with my dear friend, share a bottle of wine and some memories, and give him a chance to talk his heart out with someone who knew him and would listen to what he needed so express. Both of us were blindsided by what transpired that night—we fell in love.

We didn't expect to fall in love. Love is sneaky and capricious and I think love has a sense of humor as demented as the twisted plays on words that Paul and I have always shared. Love calmly sailed in that evening and tapped both of us on the shoulder, stunning me. (I can only speak for my own reaction.) For him, it meant more than just beeing moonstruck; he had to cope with the well-meaning but intrusive comments that inevitably came his way, most not complimentary to me. For me, it involved a 180 degree change in the way I chose to love, along with equally snide comments from others who thought I was temporarily insane. It could have disrupted my household, but it did not. Love was the joker, but the joker wasn't wild; love was sensible and compassionate. For almost five years now, Paul and I have continued to love one another deeply while choosing not to marry and not to share a home. My mooring points are intact, and he is doing his dream; he followed his heart and gave up his hypnosis practice to return to his true calling: writing. My challenge is to remember to give him the personal, physical, mental and emotional space he needs so he can do this work.

Why do I share all this? Because it was through Claw Hammer that we met, and now Claw Hammer is born anew - this time updated and presented in trade paperback with a gorgeous cover that calls out "Buy me!" I reread it, of course, as soon as I got my autographed copy, and I found that even then, the Paul Dale Anderson of 1989 had the chops and the talent and the gift for plotting and creating memorable characters that is the trademark of the Paul Dale Anderson of today. I watch him now, with joy, as he has begun editing the sequel to Spilled Milk, and I relish in his Instruments of Death series. His Winds series took me to a different level; he combined personal catharsis with his deep knowledge of everything from military strategy to Eastern spiritual practices to the history of our beloved city; weaving a series of genre-bending, gorgeously written books - well worth reading. In addition, his short stories are masterpieces.

So, Paul---you and I have walked through this forest apart and together--marveling at trees, sitting on stumps, tripping on vines, laughing into the sun and crying in the rain. I am honored to call you beloved friend and now loved one as well. And I celebrate this by seeing Claw Hammer come full circle. I know that even though Gretta is on the other side, she's still right beside you, feeling pleased that you are happy and that you’re back in the world of writing. I’m proud to be by you side now, and I couldn't be prouder of you, Paul Dale Anderson. as I hold in my hand my copy of Claw Hammer, which is still a perfectly-paced, intelligently written and terrifying read. I love you, Paul, and I love your writing. All your books. But this one will forever be special. ----Lizza