I'm Not "Reaching out" to anyone

I haven't written any posts on this blog since 2024, so I hope it still works.

I have to vent today. Almost every day, I get a phone call or a text or an email in which I'm told that the sender is "reaching out" to me. I get it in person whenever I am communicating with a doctor, dentist, financial advisor; in short, any entity that is not a personal friend or family member. I have never heard my mother nor my three sisters nor any of my close friends, including my housemate of 23 years, announce that they are "reaching out" to me.

"Reach out" is the new impersonal jargon for "contact," and I suppose corporatespeak thinks it sounds friendlier; hence, the appearance of "reaching out" or "reach out" in all their communications. I HATE IT. It reminds me of fake plants and furniture covered with plastic. 

I hate "reach out " even more than I hate "at the end of the day," which gets under my craw. Whenever someone tells me that they are reaching out to me, I hear myself responding in a rude, sarcastic manner; often I say. "You mean that you are contacting me." The final straw was last week, when the head pastor of my church used the phrase in a conversation with me. We are in the process of recruiting a new organist/pianist/accompanist, and I suggested someone to him. "E--lizabeth!" he almost sputtered. "Why would I reach out to _______?" It was all I could do to contain my fury. If I hear "reach out" from the pulpit, I  will have reached out to the end of my rope. I will get up from my pew and reach out for the door.

Why do I hate this jargon so much? Because it is fake--impersonal impersonating warmth. It is just more annoying phrase that started on the corporate level and is infiltrating our culture. Hearing or reading it triggers my rage. Just stop it, all of you who are using this with clients. Tell me that you are contacting me.

My mother is 100 years old. I thank God that when she calls me or writes to me, she never announces that she is "reaching out" to me. I have a sneaking suspicion that she hates "reach out" as much as I do. 

End of rant!

Musings on the new Rockford Public Library
July 10, 2024

On June 22, Marie and I attended the grand opening of the new downtown Rockford Public Library. First impression: It's beautiful, but I can’t tell what that building thinks it’s supposed to be. Lit up at night, along the riverfront, it looks like a cruise ship. By day, it is a vast circling of open spaces with a disastrous lack of signage. The layout seems illogical and chaotic, but I will be gracious; they need time to settle. Such a shock, knowing that Marie and I will never see the back offices nor the staff lounge. I don’t even know where it is. As for the staff, most of them have no idea who I am, except for dear Jean Lythgoe, who runs the Local History Room at the age of seventy-seven with no immediate plans for retirement. Marie and I saw no reference books. In fact, we saw no reference desk. There is no romance there, no hardwood.  The chandelier from the old building went to the City Auction.

Yet just days ago, on the Fourth of July, Marie and I drove down to see the fireworks, and we found a parking place close to the new library. We carried our lawn chairs to the area that used to be the esplanade and had a perfect view. Arriving early to ensure this, we had an hour to sit and observe, and as I looked up at the new library, I realized something: it had been constructed in such a way that it appeared to be up on a hill.

A high and holy hill.  As in Sydney Carter's song. A newly-seeded grassy hill, in the exact spot where the lot used to be—the place where Dave Erickson and I parked our cars long ago. And there were children running and shrieking with joy, rolling down that hill the way I used to love to roll down hills with my sisters when we were little girls. Watching those children reminded me of the scene at the end of Steel Magnolias, during the Easter egg hunt when Annelle went into labor. “Shelby, I guess,” she replied, when asked her girl/boy name choices. I almost expected to see Kevin J. O’Connor in his bunny suit, and I laughed out loud. My library! I couldn’t stop smiling.

I looked up again at that gleaming new building on the hill, and something inside me whispered Yes. “My library,” I repeated, this time aloud. Marie didn’t hear me, and it was all right. I felt a sense of peace. Life goes on.. The sacred ground has been set free. They didn’t pave Paradise and put up a parking lot, Joni Mitchell. They rebuilt Jerusalem, a temple that stands where those feet once trod in ancient times, sporting a mustache and black-rimmed glasses, wearing cowboy boots.

 

 Who Makes Up This Crap? 

I saw a heading on Quora today for a list of "Things Baby Boomers Still Think Are Cool." I went through the clickbait so you don't have to, and I offer you the list, along with my comments.

1. Cursive. I happen to love cursive writing, and I admire beautiful penmanship and calligraphy. I write my journals in cursive and I'm proud! I'm also happy to think that my descendants won't be able to read them.
2. China Plates. I suppose. We do have Haviland. We even have an antique china cabinet with curved glass doors. One of my sisters has my parents' complete set of Castleton Caprice. Surprised that this list didn't include sterling silver.
3. 24-Hour News Networks. If an unbiased one existed, I'd probably enjoy it. I do miss journalism--thank God my mother sends me the Tribune. I'm surprised that newspapers didn't make this list.
4. Diamonds. What? I wear my necklace with a tiny diamond on an 18k gold chain every day. It was a retirement gift from my best friend 13 years ago. I love diamonds.
5, Patterned Wallpaper. Ugh. Agree. So 1980's.
6. Unpaid Internships. Why is this on here? To me, irrelevant.
7. Crocs. Again, I agree. Glad they didn't put Birkenstocks on their list. I have about 25 pairs.
8. Blaming Millennials. For what? Why? 
9. Home Shopping Channels. I don't think they're cool. Never have. My home shopping channel is amazon.com.
10. High Waisted Jeans. You try being 72 years old with abdominal fat. I can't even zip up my size 18 Sevens. I will always wear my mom jeans.
11. Writing Checks. Of course I write checks. Just not as many as I did 20 years ago.
12. Landlines. Yup--got rid of ours around 15 years ago. I still miss it.
13. Fossil Fuels. Why would someone think this is cool? Why is this on the list?
14. The Mall. Yup. Osteoarthritis in both knees. The good stores went away long before I reached the stage of finding walking uncomfortable. Amazon.com is my mall.
15. Khaki Capri Pants. Oh, please. I own several cute pairs of convertible pants (you can roll them up and snap them) I guess it's not a matter of coolness, unless you're talking about the weather. I won't appear in public in shorts.
16. Denim everything. Agree. That went out with the Duggars. I do love my jean jacket.
17. Jello everything. Ugh. Agree. Never thought it was cool.
18. Encyclopedias. Yup. I was a paraprofessional reference librarian for 35 years, and never used them.
19. Socks and sandals. I wear socks with my Birkenstocks sometimes. I must be the epitome of uncool.
20. Phone books. Agree, but I miss them. They were fun to look at. When I was still working, whenever I had a shift in the Local History and Genealogy Room, I enjoyed looking at the old phone books from our city. Can't say I used them for reference questions.
21. Shag Carpets. Ugh, ugh, triple ugh--I have hated them all my life. I always thought that carpet companies should have coordinated with cat food manufacturers, in order to match the various hues of cat throw-up. I have always preferred hardwood floors with Turkish or kilim area rugs.
22. Visors. Agree, unless you're sunbathing on a beach.
24. Fuzzy Toilet Seat Covers. They've always seemed tacky to me, and I know no one who thinks they're cool.
25. Records. LPs? Some purists like them. I still have mine. But I prefer digitized music, either loud in the car or with Bluetooth earbuds at home.
26. Ironing. It's "cooler" (also in the context of weather) to wear rayon batik dresses or tops, and 100% cotton clothing. Covering your body in an oil slick of polyester material has always been disgusting, in my opinion. Wrinkled attire is not cool. Yes, I iron--and we had a pull-out wall ironing board installed in our laundry room last time we remodeled. Just like Grandma's.
27. Bar Soap. I think it's unhygienic. It's not a matter of what's cool.
28. Meatloaf. I love meatloaf!
29. Patterned vests. Never wore them, never thought they made a fashion statement. Were they 80's preppie? I guess.
30. Cop dramas. Never watched them. Never watched western/cowboy shows, either. This week I heard, for the first time, the expression "I got the hell out of Dodge." I had no idea what it meant - I had to google it. That does it. I'm certifiably uncool.

 

ON LIVING WITH ADD

I was born in 1950, and I went all through childhood, grade school, high school, college, and most of my working years with untreated ADD (I don’t call it ADHD, because I'm not hyperactive). It didn’t yet exist as a diagnosis, even for children, when I was little. Adult ADD wasn't "invented" until I was in my forties. It simply drained my energy, cost me respect, and removed the option for me to marry, have children, earn advanced degrees and excel at what I was: a paraprofessional librarian. (Always a bridesmaid!) I was fortunate to be able to retire at 59. Even now, on Adderall, it is difficult for my family to bear my society for any length of time. At least now it's acknowledged and not treated as a fad diagnosis. I'm quite sure my dad had it, too, rest his soul. It is a disability, and how well I remember the cruelty of teachers and classmates in school, especially elementary school--all the way up to the horrors I experienced at a large state university, away from home for the first time--and, of course, at work. I was lucky to be employed at the public library; back in the day, it was considered a respectable haven for the unloved--especially those of us with unmarketable liberal arts degrees.

At age 71, I am still in regular therapy, but I struggle--a LOT. I know what a burden I am for my housemate, although I do my best. I struggle every day with feeling stupid and incompetent, enduring criticism and being shunned by family members who say I drive them "crazy" and create "too much drama," even though I’m smart, creative, a published author, a talented artist and an accomplished musician. At least I can be entertaining; my therapist constantly tells me, "You're so funny!" I love that. People who struggle as I do appreciate any kind of affirmation that comes our way, even if we're crying inside. Because we don't get a whole lot of respect in this baffling world.

 At least I don't. Or do I?  I don’t think so. If it's there, it's fleeting, and I might not notice it, because I'm not paying attention. That's how life feels, in the endless loop of ADD.

 

ABBA is back! And they have a new album!

In ABBA's heyday, I was a self-proclaimed musical snob, and refused to listen to any music that wasn't classical. They were probably at their peak in the USA when I was 27, in 1977. My car had AM radio, so I heard the songs, but I didn't wax poetic over them. Of course, the sound quality of car AM radios back then wasn't the greatest. It wasn't until I was in my fifties (!) that I got off my high horse and started to listen to their music and appreciate it. Being of Swedish heritage, I discovered a newfound sense of pride that this group, of my nationality, was so beloved. 

Fast-forward to the dark Muriel's Wedding, with its hilarious Waterloo scene, to the release of the two Mamma Mia movies, which I found priceless--all I could think was "What on earth was I doing when this group was so popular? I love them!" I bought all their albums and have been a fan ever since. Now, as I connect with my cousins in Sweden, we're all rejoicing over the appearance of Voyage, just released this past Friday. Here's a picture of them - they are MY generation (!) - followed by my comments on the recording.

                                                     

                    Agnetha                 Bjorn

Benny                  Frida

My take on ABBA'S new album, VOYAGE:

 

1. My 3 Favorites:

      -- I Still Have Faith In You

      -- Ode to Freedom

      -- Bumblebee

2. Comments on tracks:

--  I Still Have Faith in You: Beautiful, perfect! My favorite.

--  When You Danced With Me: Great melody and rhythm--love it!

--  Little Things: Lovely melody, perhaps I would enjoy it more at Christmas. Instrumentation is a bit birdlike and twee. If that's a children's chorus at the end, I don't like that. My least favorite.

 --Don't Shut Me Down: Great song, love it, wish the ending weren't so abrupt.

 --Just a Notion--Nothing to critique. Love rhythm and harmonies. Very ABBA!

 --I Can Be That Woman: Sweet, poignant;  I  love the lyrics, love the song!

 --Keep an Eye on Dan: Good song, I love chorus,  people say ending is reminiscent of SOS - I'll have to listen to SOS again to hear that.

  --Bumblebee: Enya-esque, beautiful melody-- a favorite! I hear a little bit of "Fernando" in the intro.

  --No Doubt About It: Starts out "country" but I don't think of it as a country song. Love it, but ending is too abrupt.

  --Ode to Freedom: Beautiful, a favorite--and even if the chorus is augmented in production, I love the song!

3. Overall opinion: Great album! Thank you for the music, ABBA!

On Turning Sixty - a Letter to my sisters Nancy and Cathy

December 19, 2020

Dear Nancy and Cathy,

What a beautiful soul you have, Nancy, expressing the idea of honoring our dear sister Peggy by living the rest of your years well for her. l'll add another one, if I may. Occasionally, I "mother" her son Jonathan.  He knows that I'm always there for him. We have deep talks, and I remind him that his wisdom and insight come from a beautiful source - the spring that flows through him and his brothers - from their mother! I remind him how much she loved them. They were her world. We talk about Cliff a lot. Also, I talk to Stu. I love those young men as if they are bone of my bone - especially JonBob. I have learned that you don't have to birth children to have those bonds.

With aging come the usual aches and pains, from which we learn to be brave - as in Sara Barielles' song. Age entitles us to speak our minds (with gentleness and tact, of course), and draw on our experiences as we mentor the younger ones. Aging teaches us that even though there are bodily and cognitive changes, our core selves remain - as a silk thread of constancy running through the tapestry of life. And we learn to treasure family more.

With aging comes the acceptance of the body - there is less emphasis on hair and clothes. And even in our own aging, we sisters have our mother to look up to. She still guides us with her wisdom. We cherish our elders, and we strive to become the elders who are moving into that role.

Do not be afraid of 60! Relax and enjoy life. Dad often said that. Every day is a gift and an opportunity to do for others. One is never too old to learn new things. Look at Marie and me, beginning to play a new instrument. Yup, it's a challenge, but worth it!

Aging gives us a closer walk with our spirituality. We have faith. We learn to be less concerned about material things. We treasure family, and learn to forget about the fleeting little dust-ups that come from time to time.

Nancy, sixty is a wonderful, pivotal year. Look at you and Jack! The grace of your bodies because of healthy living. The four exceptional adults you have raised. Cathy, you are surrounded by clan. Rejoice in it!

I miss Peggy every day. JonBob and I talk about her. If he asks me questions, I answer them honestly. I miss Dad every day, too.

Please don't forget about our sister Susan. Love her and call her and think about staying in the '"now" when you talk to her. That's good advice for everyone.

So yes, we Flygare sisters have achieved the honorable status of cronedom. Wear that crown proudly but humbly, Queen Nan Jeanne.

2021 will be a grand adventure. President Biden! A vaccine! I look forward to the day "when the lights come on again, all over the world." (That's an old song) Because, indeed, they will. And we shall all see it together.

With all my love and respect,

Elizabeth

Appreciating My Parents

Yesterday, my nebulizer machine wouldn't work. I took it apart methodically. After I'd removed the hose from the unit, I turned it on, and felt air coming through. Turned it off, re-attached the hose, and again felt air. Then, I replaced the inside part where you pour the Albuterol solution, and felt no air. Aha! I took a paper clip and stretched it out and poked it through that sucker. The tiny pinhole was clogged up. I replaced the part, and felt air! I tested the final attachment, including the mouthpiece, after filling the little compartment with an ampule of Albuterol. Voila! I now have a working VIOS nebulizer. Next cycle I run through it will be with a solution of vinegar and water, to clean out any other buildup. 

My father, Robert J. Flygare, who passed away in 1997, was a chemical engineer. Hence, I composed the following and sent it to my mother and sisters.

"Well, things breakin' down can cause ya dismay
Unless you're a daughter of Robert. J.
He could fix anything, and I'm just that way--
Thank God I'm an engineer!"

Then, I got to thinking about Mom, who turned 92 in May. Her response to my e-mail had been, "Yes, all our daughters are 100%."  I thought about that for a few minutes, and then sent her this:

"Mom, you said in an e-mail to me: "Yes, all of our daughters are 100%." Well, you are 100%, too! Yes, I sent a poem about learning to fix things by watching Dad, but that doesn't mean I couldn't write a volume about all the things I learned from you, back when I was "Gigi Doll," (aka "Little Vi.")  Here is a list, at random, of things that warm my heart because I got them from you: (and I am still learning!)

1. When driving, even though we now have seat belts, if I have to brake suddenly, I automatically swing my right arm across the passenger seat to protect the person sitting there, even if there is no passenger!            

2. I sing my life. I find myself turning so many things I do every day into a song! Mom, you sang our childhood to us. This link is to a video from You Tube of five sisters singing "Music in my Mother's House" to their mother and her friends at her 80th birthday party. You won't be able to understand the verses because of the laughter, (I couldn't).  But the chorus comes through loud and clear.

 Music in My Mother's House

3. You were wonderful when I was learning to drive. I felt so calm and relaxed when I was in the car with you! You were calm and patient with me.

4. .Every day, after we got our stereo, I'd come home from Linden Park School and ask you if I could listen to one of our classical records. You were always so pleased to fulfill my requests. It was because of your description of the music course you took in college (you even gave me the textbook!) that I decided to pursue music as a minor in college. Who could ever forget you singing "Ceeeee-sar Frank! Ceeeee-sar Frank!" to the Symphony in D Minor? (It is actually pronounced "SAY-sar Fronck") You taught me so much about classical music!

5. "Do for OTHERS." What a gift. Your words, so often said to me, are my motto. People can't be happy if they are self-centered. You taught me that.

6. You drew me to the United Methodist Church, and back to my Christian faith. I am forever grateful for that.

7. You taught me some simple things that I still appreciate--here are two: (a) how to put polish on my fingernails the correct way, and (b) the polite way to fold your hands in your lap at church if you aren't wearing gloves--always cup your hand with a beautiful ring on your finger inside the other hand--do NOT lay it on top, because that looks like you are admiring your jewels and showing off the people next to you in the pew.

8.  You taught me to assert myself. I have always admired how forthright you are. I like to think that I got that from you. I bet we all did!"

I'm sure there are many, many more things I could add to this list. 
______________________________________________________________________

I hope all who read this take a moment to cherish their parents, be they living or not. I continue to feel blessed every day of my life because of the beautiful childhood they gave me.

My response on Quora to the question: What is the most cringeworthy thing you have seen at a wedding?

Elizabeth Flygare, former Retired Paraprofessional Librarian (1975-2010)

Answered Feb 5

Myself, in true ADHD fashion, nonchalantly photobombing every attempt the professional photographers made to take pictures at my niece’s wedding reception last May. My fat ass got in about twelve of them - me at an awkward angle, snapping with my phone, oblivious to the horror that was rippling throughout the room as I blocked their view. The sister of the bride had to text my sister (mother of bride) to tell her that “Elizabeth needs to sit down and stop taking pictures.” A month after the fact, my sister emailed me the worst of the photos. You can even see the looks on the faces of the guests, the wedding photographers and the wedding party. I will add that I had on a bright pink batik tunic and shocking pink leggings, finished off with bling Birkenstocks. I looked like I was wearing the drapes.

I honestly was clueless about what I was doing. I was simply focusing (forgive the double entendre) on our 91-year old’s mother’s request to me, that I “take lots of pictures,” because she doesn’t travel any more - she has a caregiver - this is the first family wedding Mom has missed. Mom does not know about my faux pas (too lazy to look up the plural of that) and - thank heavens, the other family members at the table were too polite to mention it to me after the event, and I know they didn’t tell Mom.

I will never wear that outfit again, but here is a photo of me wearing it at WisCon in Madison, a week or so after the wedding. In this one, I am with my boyfriend, and I’m not being a fool. (at least I don’t think so) Obviously I packed the outfit for the con and wore it with aplomb because I hadn’t yet heard about my “performance” at the wedding reception. (My sister didn’t see the proofs until June) She was plenty pissed off at me, but she promised me that no one else would see the photobombs, and that they would not be printed. Haven’t worn the outfit since. The shoes hurt my feet, too.

My Review of Girl at the End of the World on Goodreads

Girl at the End of the World: My Escape from Fundamentalism in Search of Faith with a Future by Elizabeth Esther
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have heard horror stories about daily spankings, ("the sword of the Lord,”) starting when children are six months old. I have read about the fear of being "left behind" (when, not if) Armageddon happens, and families who have meeting spaces in case the Rapture occurs and they are "arrested by the Antichrist." I’ve heard all about the modest clothing, the practice of "courtship" (arranged marriages) in place of dating; in short, the self-flagellating, terrified affect carried around like giant rocks around their necks by people who were born and raised in this environment. I have read countless non-fiction books about fundamentalist sects that are out of the bell curve, and I have observed people who appear to be carrying that weight.

But never in my born days have I read someone’s actual words about how she believed that "being a pacifist means hitting your kid to save her soul." The use of violence against children is abhorrent to me, as I am sure it is to most. Never have I ever heard of a little child forced into street preaching, believing "I am ready to die for Jesus." In this short book by Elizabeth Esther, we are taken into the graphic world of hyper-literal interpretation of the Bible (my note: which version?) along with rigid rules, fear, child-beating and brainwashing.

This is religious abuse.

Elizabeth Esther's wake-up call comes following the tragedy of the attacks on 9/11/2001, which were interpreted by her family as the Apocalypse. Following this is a private disclosure by Elizabeth's own mother, where she confides to her daughter that before marrying Elizabeth's father, the love of her life died of a serious illness. Catapulted by the shock of this loss, her mother lands directly into a marriage into what amounts to a cult. Yes -- even so, Elizabeth’s mother chooses to follow the rigid teachings and practices.

Elizabeth marries a man named Matt, who was raised as she was. They start out resolving to bring up their children along the lines of their childhood mindset. Then, one day, the light comes on: It is the moment Elizabeth’s mother hands her a kitchen spoon and orders her to discipline her one-year-old baby. She realizes that she that she does not have to break her daughter's spirit by beating her. Eyes opened, Elizabeth finds the courage to say "No!" The cycle is broken. She and her husband, Matt, begin to hunt for the truth. They find others who are willing to give eyewitness accounts of their own abuse. Through arduous research, including the process of hearing from others about this type of fundamentalism, they learn about misuse of tithe money, adultery and horrendous beatings of women by their husbands in similar sects.

"Love me, God. I dare you," she prays. She feels a call so strong that she follows it. Now, she and Matt are raising their children in the Catholic Church, where mystery is embraced and service to others is encouraged. Through her new faith, Elizabeth is freed from the terror of a vengeful, punishing God. She learns, through therapy and her newfound beliefs, to be gentle with herself. She gains the courage to put away the self-loathing and, for the first time, feel able to be both holy and happy. We see her make peace with her mother, accept her parents’ apology, and become able to forgive. I am glad I stayed up late enough to finish this book. I slept better knowing that Elizabeth Esther and her family have found security, safety and grace. I will never again make fun of the fundamentalism movement in which she was raised, because cruelty is never funny. Many who read my review will question her decision to turn to Catholicism; I respect it. I respect her for having the guts to write this book in hopes that it will help others. I am thankful that she has realized that she is a beloved child of God, and that she has found joy and purpose in life.






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The Stolen Marriage by Diane Chamberlain

The Stolen Marriage by Diane Chamberlain
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I finished Diane Chamberlain's new novel, "The Stolen Marriage" late the other night; I simply couldn't stop reading until I turned the last page at 4 AM. Yesterday, I was so lost in a post-reading reverie ("book hangover?") that I forgot to go to an appointment I had at 5 PM. I am a great fan of Diane Chamberlain and have read and loved most of her books; however, "The Stolen Marriage" moves her up to the next level--from the Kristin Hannah/Barbara Delinsky crowd to the Chris Bohjalian/Wally Lamb/Curtis Sittenfeld realm. Based loosely on a true story, this powerful book is the real deal - a brilliantly-crafted, well-plotted, and flawlessly researched novel that will not disappoint any reader who loves suspense in a family setting.

Set in 1944, the storyline revolves around three major issues of the era: the taboo of out-of-wedlock pregnancy, the laws against interracial marriage, and the epidemic of infantile paralysis (polio). Chamberlain's tightly-woven plot kept me turning pages. "The Stolen Marriage" is replete with multi-dimensional characters who are certainly not who they seem to be, but I won't disclose the ending. I will say that the twist outdid Jodi Picoult. I commend Diane Chamberlain on her graduation to the next league of literary fiction writers. Highly recommended!


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The Summer of Impossible Things by Rowan Coleman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I stayed up all night reading this 424-page novel because I was so drawn into the story that I could not put it down. The basic premise is that a young woman named Luna, who lives in England and works as a physicist, loses her mother to suicide. Before she and her sister Pia travel to Brooklyn, New York, to settle the estate, Luna views footage from a film their mother made as a goodbye. In this footage, the mother alludes to a terrible event from the past, and reveals that the man Luna always knew as her dad is not her biological father. The footage ends with the cryptic words: "If you look very hard you will find me in Brooklyn.....if you want to look after you know what I did....He wouldn't let me go, you see. Find me...please."

Luna senses a deep dread and a primal knowledge upon hearing this message. Her fear stems from the fact that she has been experiencing intermittent flashes and odd, disorienting episodes that suggest that she may have the ability to travel back in time. In fact, as soon as Luna and Pia are in Brooklyn, Luna has the same strange, familiar flashes, which intensify as she approaches the building where their mother once lived. She hears the song "Hotel California" coming from her mother's building. There she encounters unusual furnishings and a group of young people in late 70s attire, and she realizes that she has landed in 1977. She is stunned to discover that the woman she sees sitting on the back of a brown sofa is her mother. When their eyes meet. Luna sees that her mother, Marissa ("Riss"), is free-spirited and lighthearted, unlike anything Luna remembers from her late mother's affect. This makes it immediately clear to Luna that Riss has not yet experienced the trauma that altered her personality and eventually drove her to kill herself. It is obvious to the reader that whatever happened to Riss resulted in Luna's conception. (A major hint is disclosed early on: Luna is the only member of her family with blue eyes).

When Luna and Pia meet the lawyer who is handling the estate and the sale of their mother's building, they are given a box labeled "To My Daughters" in their mother's handwriting. It contains four reels of Super-Eight film, a projector and a battery pack. When the sisters watch the first film, they see their mother and hear her tell them the story of what happened to her in 1977 that destroyed her life. Now knowing the truth, a horrified Luna resolves to rewrite time in order to save Riss from the experience that drove her to take her own life in middle age, even though this will eradicate Luna's very existence.

Luna discovers the identity of her birth father. She travels back to 1977 several times; inevitably she and Riss are drawn together and bond. This strengthens Luna's determination to find her birth father and prevent Riss from ever meeting him. The blue-eyed man revealed as her father comes as a shock to the reader - at least to me. At this point, I was unable to stop reading.

Each time Luna goes back in time, something is altered about the past. (This is reminiscent of Stephen King's 11/22/63). I won't reveal any more of the details; suffice to say that Luna falls in love with one of her mother's male friends from the past, and she encounters older versions of these individuals when she is in the present time. Just when everything seems to fall into place, a shocking twist occurs, and the book's resolution left me reeling.

I will admit that even though I caught some hints early on, I was so drawn into the story that I suspended my imagination and went for the ride. I'm glad I did, and even happier that I didn't glance ahead (as I often do) to see how things would end.

The odd thing about this book is that it came out this past summer, and I was unable to buy it on Amazon; I had to get it from England. I am still pondering this. I am also eager for the movie that I hope will follow. This is by far the best book I have read in 2017; I will add that I've already read Rowan Coleman's earlier books and was already enchanted by her writing. This book will resonate with anyone who loved The Time Traveler's Wife and 11/22/63. I am looking for more of Rowan Coleman's work; needless to say, I highly recommend this novel!



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My response to Quora question: "How would you compare SMART Recovery to AA?"

    

I’m intrigued by SMART Recovery, and might check it out if we had a group in my home town, but I doubt I’d go to a lot of meetings.

I will say this: AA does not work for me.

I have four years of sobriety, and I attended AA diligently for over three years. By last fall, I had had it up to the gills; I had been getting more and more annoyed with the behaviors I observed at the group. I was disagreeing more and more with the philosophy; the final straw was the day I found myself at a meeting at which the chairperson used the “Tag, you’re It” method rather than the customary going around the table. I was never called on. As it was, at this particular meeting, my “sponsor” (that is in quotes and I’ll explain later) was sitting right next to me. To make a long story short, it was five minutes before the end of the meeting and she had just spoken, and she knew I had not had a turn. Instead of being classy and turning to me and saying “Elizabeth?” she “tagged” a person who had already spoken! I felt like a high school kid in gym class - humiliated because I wasn’t chosen by anyone for a team. I’ve never cared whether I got a chance to share at a meeting or not; I accept that the meetings last an hour and if you are going around the table, which is the norm, it’s based on where you’re sitting. But this was, in my mind, so terribly inappropriate that I decided not to go back. I vehemently object to an AA meeting turning out to be a popularity contest. I digress; back to the question: 

How would you compare SMART Recovery to AA?

Since I haven’t been to a meeting of SR, I can’t speak about what they are like, but I will make a list of the reasons why I don’t like AA:

• I don’t buy the “one day at a time.” When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. The morning after I took my last drink, I decided that I did not want to drink any more. I wanted to live. I wanted to stop hurting my loved ones. So I stopped. That is the same way I stopped smoking in 1983—I had just bought a house with a marathon runner and had no desire to pollute our home with tobacco fumes. I had no “meeting” to go to to help me through nicotine withdrawal, which I think is harder than alcohol cessation, but I have not bought a pack of cigarettes since the day I quit, and that was 34 years ago. Yes, I have bummed one from time to time, but doing that did NOT make me want to become a full-blown smoker again. I have no desire to smoke and no desire to drink - period, the end. At this point I’ve developed asthma and won’t go near cigarette smoke under any circumstances.
• The AA group I went to was full of very conservative, cliquish, right-wing Big Book bangers. The woman I chose for a “sponsor” did nothing but spew slogans at me, peppered with laughter and constant interruptions from her theatrical young daughter. I don’t need nor want a lay person to go to when I am burdened. I prefer professional help. In addition, there is a lot of gossip and scapegoating going on in that group, and there isn’t a single person there who would appeal to me as a confidante and/or support person. I was actually told more than once that I was not well-liked.
• I've gotten the cold shoulder from them because I ask questions. When I do that, I am scolded and told that I sound like a “little professor,” that I am “too smart,” that I “think too much,” and that I should read “the book.” I am United Methodist, and in my denomination, we are never instructed to read the Bible and take every word literally. My pastors invite discussion and debate, and there is an academic atmosphere that I very much like. AA seems almost like one of those fundamentalist churches I’ve heard about, where you are told what you must believe, and that it is not OK to question things - much less, to think for yourself. That is called brainwashing.
• I stated at one meeting that while I go to church on Sunday and believe in God, I don’t think that I am sober because of God. I was called out for that, and shunned outwardly afterwards.
• I can’t stand being spoken to in bumper sticker slogans. I don’t like being glibly told “Make a gratitude list” by someone I barely know if I appear to be having a bad day.
• Many of the people there are party people, and they were used to going out to bars with their friends and getting drunk. These folks had two problems - one, they needed to stop drinking and two, they were going to need to find a new social circle. This group is their “crowd.” In my case, none of my friends drink and I was never a bar person. Quitting alcohol has not affected my social life in the least, expect for the fact that I’m no longer drunk every day, to my great relief and to that of my loved ones.
• I find AA meetings to have a robotic vibe; so many people sit there and rattle off what sound like memorized responses. There is simply no room for intellectual dialogue. It is like a religious revival meeting. Since I value religion, I attend my church. My faith and beliefs are my business, not the AA group’s. (I even had one person try to get me to attend her megachurch!)
• Stopping drinking for me was a matter of reframing my ideas around alcohol, and deciding I no longer wanted it as part of my world. It had nothing to do with a higher power. It had everything to do with not wanting to die of alcohol abuse, which is what happened to one of my sisters this past January. This just reinforces my decision not to drink.
• I have always made amends when needed. But I am not “powerless.” I am empowered. And I can't stand being in an environment in which people are constantly beating up on themselves. How is that helpful? In other words, I agree with some of the steps; I take issue with others. I will be damned if I’m going to sit and listen to “Half measures availed us nothing. We stood at the turning point. We asked His protection and care with complete abandon.” I didn’t do that. I just told my family, my boyfriend and my best friend that I had decided to stop drinking, and I did, and that was that. And that language about how people who don’t do the steps and don’t go to meetings will surely relapse and die (“There ARE such unfortunates”) pisses me off.
• After I stopped going to meetings, I did NOT have any urge to relapse. Are you kidding me? It killed my little sister on her 60th birthday. When I think of alcohol, I want to vomit. I don’t care if other people drink; however, I do believe that I would put myself at risk if I took a drink, so I choose not to. That IS one part of the AA philosophy that I buy.
• I hate labels and I don’t call myself a smoker. I don’t like calling myself an alcoholic. I am a person who developed the unhealthy habit of using alcohol in excess to self-medicate when I was depressed, rather than getting help from a cognitive behavioral therapist and joining a church. I know I had a serious problem with alcohol, but the fact that I was able to stop without effort suggests that maybe I am not an “alcoholic.” I don’t think my sister nor most of the people who go those AA meetings could have cut it out completely. I will repeat that I believe that it would be unwise for me to drink again, and I will not.
• I have ADHD and I have trouble concentrating at meetings or at any gathering where I have to listen to other people for a long time. I carry a notebook with me and I take notes if I feel like I am tuning out. Being able to write is a safety valve for me; I often take notes during the sermons at church and my pastors know it, and they don’t mind. At AA I actually had a person grab my notebook away from me. That was a violation of my personal boundaries.
• Finally, I know I am on the Aspie spectrum. I will reiterate that I hate groups. I will also say this, wholeheartedly: I love life, and I want to live. And I don’t believe that I must depend on a group and meetings and steps in order to live. I will not live my life driven by fear of relapse. I am 67 and I plan to be around for a long time. I know AA has helped thousands, and I respect that. But - groupthink is just not for me.

Quora asked: What is something that you just realized?

What is something that you just realized?

Very open-ended question. Curious to hear your stories!

Elizabeth Flygare, "Teach people how to treat you."

Answered just now

1. That love is not a zero-sum game. Love multiplies; it’s not one pie that has to be cut into pieces and divided up. You don’t have to take some of your love away from one person in order to give love to another; you can give each person (and each pet!) ALL YOUR LOVE. If parents could explain this to their kids, maybe using circles to illustrate, perhaps there wouldn’t be any of that “Mom and Dad love you MORE” type of sibling rivalry. It took me until age 67 to learn this very simple thing about life, and I got it from a sermon in church last Sunday.

The rest of my list comes from a meeting with a licensed clinical social worker:

2. Do not give overwhelming emotional responses to people you don’t know well. Pay attention to who the recipient is before you disclose the personal. Otherwise, you are putting that person on the spot and creating a very uncomfortable situation, and you come off as insecure and immature. The recipient will have no idea how to respond, and the response might be very hurtful. Example: You belong to a group that meets regularly, and you feel rejected by the others. You tell a random person in the group - someone you barely know - “Everyone here HATES me!” What is this person supposed to say to you?

3. That if someone is trying to hook you, scapegoat you or otherwise push your buttons, step back and ask yourself, ”Is this my shit—-or your shit?” Think to yourself, ”Does this person KNOW me?” They may very well have no idea what you are about—this is covered more in the next point:

4. Realize that abusive remarks often come from people who are remembering past unpleasant encounters with you, or old patterns that you exhibited that invited the rib jab. More often than not, people refuse to see positive changes in others; their default is to hang onto stereotypical attitudes.

5, I have come upon the knowledge that there are often times when one simply has to walk away from the toxic past, move on and seek the positive - and maybe end up with a lot of new friends. (Consider those who “knew you when,” yet remain in your life and have your back. Those are REAL friends!)

4. If you have had these issues and are now working toward growth and positive change, it will become easier to tell the difference between your baggage and that of others. Tell yourself: “The more I believe in who I am as a person, the less I will be a target. If I still find myself getting gaslighted or hooked (we all do), I don’t have to take the bait, because I am learning a skill set that will teach me how to respond to such treatment, and how to avoid setting myself up for more.”

That, my friends, is a combination of one wise lesson and some good cognitive behavioral therapy, all in a span of three days.