One Ticked Off Old Bird

Angry Birds

I have a slight addiction.  And if I were really honest, I'd admit I probably have a few.  But for the purposes of this confessional, I am only divulging one. It all started back in August when my sister’s facebook status warned others of falling into the deadly nest of a game that is otherwise known as Angry Birds. I, of course, immediately downloaded it to my iPad. 

As it happened, we were just about to embark on a massive road trip to take our son back to school in Vermont and then make a stop in Chautauqua to enjoy a few last fading days of summer.  And if I was going to be spending the next week mostly sitting in the passenger seat of a car, I figured I owed myself some options of entertainment.  Enter Angry Birds.

Over the course of 2680 miles traveled, I worked my way through poached eggs and a mighty hoax. I looked out for danger above and landed somewhere in the midst of a big setup before pulling back into my garage.  Several months later, I had smashed and bashed my way through every level and every scene, taking out pigs left and right, collecting all the golden eggs along the way.  And since I wasn’t always a three-star academic, I have to admit that seeing my three-star achievements on every screen gave me a sense of pride, warped as it was.

Then last week my iPad had syncing issues.  I should have known right then and there this wasn't going to turn out well.  But I didn’t even think twice when I hit “restore.”  It never crossed my mind as I watched the bars reload and fill.  With syncing issues resolved and updates updated, I was very pleased with my techno-assuredness. 

Jump forward a day or two when I went searching for the latest Angry Bird level.  Imagine my surprise (read horror) to find that it was like I had downloaded the game just yesterday!  What remained were screens and screens of padlocks!  All that progress!  All those Golden Eggs!  All those Stars!  Gone. Gone! GONE!!  Who’d have thought a silly game would cause such angst and dismay?  Well, had I even thought of it, I surely would have.  After all, "know thyself" is one of those things I've been working on for close to 50 years.

So after a few choice words that proved that I had indeed become an angry old bird myself, I’ve now started again… slowly collecting the eggs (in which I’ve saved time because I know where they are - as if "saving time" is any part of this endeavor).  And earning the illusive triple star is slightly easier this time around, but only slightly.  However, hours upon hours have been lost accomplishing a whole lot of nothing else, made even more obvious since there has been no road to travel on this particular trip.  The reality is that on a couple of levels, I've gotten exactly nowhere.  Fortunately(?), my obsession is usually concentrated to the evenings.  But that I can hear those stupid birds chirping in my brain as I drift off to sleep has let me know that its time to back away from the screaming flock.  

I hear them calling my name.. there are eggs to collect, stars to amass and levels to clear.  I am thinking I might have to plan a road trip to get me there.  Anyone else care to drive?

More than Happenstance

I often wonder about colliding circumstance.  You know, the age-old question of whether the universe is simply random to the wind or if we somehow attract meaningful coincidence to us because of something even bigger?  Are things really a matter of fate or is life little more than the result of decisions made of our own free will?  With mostly whispers as answer, these are big questions for sure.  I don't have much insight to offer, but I do have this...


Two days ago the U.S Postal Service delivered a big fat envelope telling us that the bank deemed us worthy enough for them to lend us money - a lot of it - to buy a little place at the Lake.  There were lots of places to “please sign here," which I gleefully did.  It would be dishonest, however, if I didn't also mention my slight trepidation and fear in thinking, "What exactly have I gotten us into?"  Then yesterday, a recently debuted PBS documentary about Chautauqua became available for instant viewing on Netflicks.  You get exactly one guess of how I spent 53 minutes of my Wednesday afternoon!  Was it just coincidence that these two things converged one on top of another or was the universe offering me something deeper?


Sure, one could describe Chautauqua: An American Narrative as mostly a marketing blitz to boost attendance and therefore, Chautauqua’s revenue stream.  The cynic in me sees this clear as day.  It also was clear that the current PC world had a loud voice as well.  For while Chautauqua is wildly diverse in its ideas and is undoubtedly welcoming to all, I saw more faces of color in this one hour show than I have in a lifetime of summers spent there.  As a life-long Chautauquan prone to sharing an opinion or two in all things, I had to quibble with a somewhat limited view of what defines diversity.  To me, color is but one aspect, but that's an entirely different post.  Nonetheless, I had a few other quibbles as well.


First of all, beyond the inordinate amount of time spent with the Chautauqua Theater Company comparatively, is it wrong that I found Ethan McSweeney's use of the word “campus” off-putting?  Admittedly, I don’t even like when someone uses the word institute over Institution when talking about Chautauqua, and perhaps my vernacular snobbery need be put on notice. But even if the grounds might loosely fit the definition of a campus, it simply isn’t done.  Second, when referring to the range of housing options on the grounds, was it just me or did the guy carrying a stack of books and pulling a wagon look like he was searching for a place right then and there? All in all, however, this mid-winter opportunity to walk around the grounds on a beautiful summer day was a tonic of pure bliss for me. Sure, call it kool-aid because I drank it.

Aptly described by a visiting pastor as “...a mother’s love, a professor’s discipline and a pastor’s passion all rolled together,” Chautauqua is an experience as much as it is a place.  As far as documentaries go, it’s understandable that PBS mostly focused on the unique history and the daily programming of the place.  After all, it’s an incredibly ambitious nine-week marathon that has existed for the past 137 years! But Chautauqua is much more than its historical relevance or its present day programming.


Being a fifth generation Chautauquan, I spent the majority of my youthful summer days at Girls and Boys Club.  I'd jump on my bike just as the Bell Tower began chiming at 9am and land squarely on the benches of Girls Club just in time to sing its anthem by the ninth bell.  Friends made there are life-long friends, many of whom are still there today.  Our children have done the same, much like our parents and grandparents did before us. That PBS gave "club" only a passing glance was disappointing.  And what about the Bell Tower?  Beyond the very opening scene, where was it?  While undeniably a lovely backdrop to any view,  its chorus is the essence in understanding the rhythm of the place.  It tells you when to get up (8am), return home for lunch (noon) and when its time for dinner (6pm).  It calls you to morning lecture, church on Sundays and evening performances in the Amphitheater.  And when I was younger than I am now by far, its supersonic boom on the hour let me know if I was going to make it home for curfew or, as was too often the case, not.


Some will say that it’s the intangibles of the place that leave it impossible for anyone to capture, even in being there.  And I admit that perhaps some of what PBS missed were the intangibles central to my own experience.  While not giving more attention to life lived on the lake, some might conclude it missed the boat (literally), or that by not offering so much as a glimpse of the bowling green in action was an opportunity lost.  But putting all of Chautauqua into a context the masses will understand has never been for the faint of heart.  Added to this is that for many of us the complexity of Chautauqua also includes a layering of family tradition that colors everything else, leaving it indescribable.


I admit to not having answers to some of life's big questions. But I do know that any fear I had in signing away my kids' potential inheritance has been replaced with the belief I am giving them and their (someday) children something far more valuable.  Our family house there will forever hold a large piece of my heart, but come Tuesday, March 1, THIS will become our new home!! 

New Digs - (second floor)

How happy am I?  Ecstatic barely covers it.

Heaven Can't Wait

By acknowledging that my siblings lead fabulous lives, I didn’t mean to imply that I didn’t have it pretty good myself.  Because on most scores, I do.  It’s just, as I’ve said, different.  For example, for the past several months, I’ve been consumed with buying a little slice of heaven in a tiny hamlet called Chautauqua Institution in New York.  Five generations of my family have spent their summers in this place and it has been a life dream to someday have a place there to call our own.  So back in September, I embarked on the process to make this a reality.

After much searching, we found a charming little condo with a great porch and a view of the lake.  Perfect. But before I go talking about the cart (and really, at less than 900 square feet, it’s not much bigger than one), let’s talk about this horse that is a mortgage.  

Whereas my two older sisters would simply plunk down a big pile of green stuff to buy a property and then plunk down another big pile to transform it into something out of Architectural Digest (and have), my station in life is to work with an industry that has been raked over the coals by a mortgage crisis in a current economy that has left more than a few folks smoldering in the ashes.  Let’s just say, it’s not as easy as it used to be.

Not that I ever really understood how easy it used to be either.  It’s been nearly 17 years since I’ve dealt with getting any kind of mortgage.  Yes, we refinanced at one point about 10 years ago when the rates were low enough to warrant it, but that’s not the same thing.  However, what’s also true is that 17 years ago there wasn’t this thing called the Internet where you could simply Google the phrase “getting a mortgage” and be met with 68,900,000 results in exactly .11 seconds.  Yes, it’s awesome that you can cue up all kinds of things you knew absolutely nothing about less than half a second ago.  But it’s also a tad overwhelming, especially when the goal is to learn everything there is to know just so you’ll appear less stupid than you really are.  At best, I’ve ended up only slightly less stupid.  After all, I was an English major.

Up until a few years ago, you could apparently just show up at a bank and politely ask the person sitting behind the desk for a large sum of cash to finance your dream.  Actually, I don’t think you even had to be all that polite about it.  Bad credit?  No problem.  No money?  It’s all good.  It’s not like that anymore.  In fact, it’s quite the opposite and for some very good reason. 

When it comes to understanding the business of lending these days, especially via the Internet, paying attention to when things were written becomes prudent.  The good news is that headlines and taglines extolling the boon of sub prime mortgages or the benefits of 0% down became an easy tip that I was dealing with outdated information, eliminating the vast majority of the 68,900,000 hits of my search.  What I did learn during this round, however, is that a good part of the housing bust problem was the fault of the people lending money to people who couldn’t possibly keep up with the moving targets of variable interest rates and resulting balloon payments because, duh, they had no air to breath under their already suffocating debt.  But that’s enough about what I didn’t need to know.  Suffice it to say there were a lot of additional links on “how to avoid foreclosure” and "plummeting house prices" during this particular hit parade.

What I did need to know, and am still learning, is that buying real estate in New York is very different than buying property in Minnesota, regardless of a need for a mortgage to help finance the thing.  And buying something in Chautauqua is hugely different than buying something anywhere else where the average age of property is far younger than 100 years old.  Go figure.  At the end of the day, hiring an attorney to protect your interests is not only good business; it’s absolutely necessary to doing business. 

Add to this a self-employed husband who doesn’t receive your typical W-2 to confirm income, and you’re then dealing with things like copies of K-1’s, cancelled checks and bank statements ad nauseum, to say nothing of tax returns, current mortgage statements and signing over the rights to your first born.  (No, not really.  But if Rumpelstiltskin happens to show up any time soon, I am in trouble).  We also have not a small wrinkle in that we are trying to do all of this via email and fax from a thousand miles away.  So toss in the need for Power of Attorneys in there as well.  In the end, it would have been a heck of a lot easier if I had had boatloads of cash.  But, hey, when it comes to living a life, EVERYTHING  is easier with boatloads of cash.  I could even buy the boat to hold it all!

Where we are now (sans money boat) is that assets have been confirmed, appraisals have been done, insurance confirmed, overnight deliveries made and documents documented.  And while not completely done without the help of a well-phrased Google now and then, none of it would have been possible without the incredible assistance of some very nice people along the way.  Flowers seem appropriate.  Most important, however, is that I can almost see heaven from here.  ALMOST!

Stay tuned (and maybe cross some fingers and toes)!

Welcome!

All three of my siblings have blogs.  Of course, their lives are interesting and fabulous, and therefore worth blogging about. Mine is not.  My life is mostly about laundry.

We're different that way.

Actually, we're different in a lot of ways.  But this blog is not about them, not really anyway.  I will, however, reserve the right to regularly pull them out for comparative analysis and to further illustrate my unique perspective in life.  I would be crazy not to!  Like I said, they lead fabulous lives.

And too, I am a firm believer that we are all products of our upbringing and it's inclusive of all those who were along for that particular ride.  I also believe that how you define yourself in life is all on you in the end.  My therapist readily agrees and encourages in me a positive narrative on a bi-monthly basis. Fortunately, she appreciates the irony (and my sarcasm).

So here goes: I define myself as a black jelly bean.  Sure, not everyone likes them.  They are a little bit of an acquired taste and, without a doubt, they hold a distinctive spice all their own.  Most relevant to my sanity, however, is that my Father loved them.  So I choose the upside.

Welcome to my world...