Author: Terri

But How Do You Wrap It?

Despite my reputation as the Anti-Santy, I must have landed on the nice list. I got a new car for Christmas.

Nobody actually gifted me the car. My decreased bank balance and the fact that I now have a car payment for the first time in about 10 years testify to the fact that I paid for this vehicle myself. However, the circumstances surrounding its acquisition are magical enough to qualify as a gift.

When Max and I planned our move from California to Florida, we discussed what to do about our cars. We had no intention of driving across the country, so the choices seemed to be to either hiring a car transport company or selling our cars in California and buying new ones in Florida. Max’s car was fairly new, so it clearly made sense to invest in a car carrier for his. My car was in a bit of a twilight zone. It was a long way from being new, with about 75,000 miles rolling through the odometer. On the other hand, I would not have considered replacing the car if I were staying in California. Finally, I decided to go ahead and transport the car. I took a chance on longevity because the idea of selling a car as we prepared to make a life-changing move and then trying to buy a new car while simultaneously settling into a whole new world kinda sucked. The car carrier guy loaded two Hyundai sonatas on the truck in California and set off across the country to meet us in our local Florida Lowe’s parking lot to deliver our California cars.

Everything was fine for the first ten months we were in Florida. My car was in good condition and showed no signs of needing major repair or replacement. I was feeling pretty spiffy about my decision to transport it.

Then, I went into the dealer for a routine oil change service. They found a couple of things that needed fixing and the whole bill was about $400. Not great, but no big deal for a car with over 90,000 miles on it. However, what happened after the service guy gave me the news about the repairs was a big deal. Another guy asked me to come to his desk to chat. I did not realize it at the time, but he was a salesman. His job was to convince me to buy a new car rather than repair the old one. He told me that it was important to trade my old car in now while it still had less than 100,000 miles. In retrospect, I am not sure that having 92,000 miles on a car rather than 100,000 miles was going to make an enormous difference to anyone. I told the guy I was not in the market yet… that I was targeting another six months or so on that sonata. He argued that, if I were going to make a change in six months anyway, why wait when I could avoid paying for the necessary repairs on the sonata and could get a higher trade-in price. I kept saying no- I was not ready to give up my old sonata and I was not prepared to decide on a car in that moment. The sales guy kept pressuring and I finally caved. I agreed to buy a new sonata.

After the sales agreement, of course, came an equally high-pressure pitch from the accessories guy. I ended up spending even more money on extras that I was not convinced I needed. By this point, I was feeling aggravated and hangry. I had been at the dealership all morning and it was long past time for a snack. Instead of feeling happy and excited about getting a new car, I felt a hot, seething resentment over a sense I was getting duped.

But wait… there’s more. After all that, they sent me to the finance guy. I balked at this because I was paying cash for the vehicle. I did not understand why I had to see the finance guy. Turns out the finance guy is also the warranty guy. One aspect of the whole experience was the salespeople trying to “blind me with numbers.” They produced inexplicable numbers that would demonstrate why I should buy what they were selling. I could not back into these numbers, no matter how I worked my calculator. The warranty guy was the worst of a bad bunch. He kept trying to tell me how much money I would save by purchasing different warranty packages. I could not, for the life of me, understand where he was getting his figures.

By that time, I was digging my heels in and kept saying “no” to every option he produced. He became increasingly belligerent and demeaning. I kept telling him that I was going to leave, but that was an empty threat because the service department still had my old car. He kept coming back with how illogical and short-sighted I was for not agreeing to “protect my investment.” He kept saying that I must not understand because if I understood the benefits, I would absolutely agree to add a few thousand dollars to my rapidly expanding total. I kept saying that, if the cars at this dealership were so unreliable that I was going to truly need the extent of repairs he was proposing, then maybe I should not be buying one. I could not get him to just shut up and stop badgering me. The phrase “held against my will” occurred to me more than once. My blood sugar was low, this guy was belittling me, I could not easily escape, and I knew I was being bamboozled.

Still, I finally succumbed and bought the cheapest package he was pushing because I could not stand the pressure anymore. I was almost in tears and saw no other way out of that little room except to sign on the dotted line. I left with a new red sonata, but also with a heavy load of resentment. I could never quite warm up to that car. It was a fine car and served me well, but I just never enjoyed it because of the sour experience I had purchasing it.

That resentment kicked up a notch when the next model year rolled around. That year, Hyundai introduced the Kona- a compact SUV that came in many vibrant colors. It was a cute, kicky little vehicle that appealed to me. What appealed to me the most was that the highest “trim” level of the Kona (read, most expensive, extra-loaded version) came in a lime green color that radiated Tinker Bell vibes. I have never bought a car that was anything but a stripped-down base model. I would have ponied up the extra money and bought this “limited edition” trim model just to get that color. However, I wasn’t getting anything because that sales guy pushed me into buying a car before I was ready. With a sonata that was eight months old, I was certainly not in the market for a new vehicle.

I lived in hope that, by the time I was ready to buy a new car, Hyundai would still be offering that Tinker Bell green Kona. Every time I saw one on the road or in a parking lot, I would make a mental note. I planned to buy a new car in 2022, so I kept my fingers crossed.

Alas, when the 2021 model year arrived, Hyundai discontinued my Tinker Bell green color. I began mourning the death of my dream. I consoled myself with a reminder that I had never actually driven the Kona. Maybe I would have hated it. Maybe not.

When 2022 arrived, the world looked vastly different than it had in 2015. We had survived a worldwide pandemic. Russia and Ukraine were at war. Supply chains which had functioned effectively for years suddenly fell apart. Car prices, both new and used, escalated. I decided it was not the best time to buy a car, especially since the car color of my dreams was no longer available. I thought I’d wait at least for the 2023s to come out before I took the plunge. I believed that, if I clapped hard enough, Tinker Bell green might come back to life.

When the 2023s came in, there were still no green Konas. To pile on the disappointments, the problematic supply chain issues had prompted Hyundai to limit the number of color choices on the sonatas to boring black, lackluster white, ghostly grey, and rerun red. The car I purchased (uh… had forced upon me) was still going strong and I decided I’d keep waiting.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, as I was driving past the dealership, I noticed a lime green Kona on the lot. I felt wistful but dismissed the idea of purchasing it because I knew it could not be newer than a 2020 model and I didn’t life the idea of taking on the potential pitfalls of a used car. A couple of days later, I saw it again. After spotting it several times, I finally decided to check the dealer’s inventory to see what was up.

It was a 2020 model…. BUT… it had only 3200 miles on it. Yes, thirty-two HUNDRED. Suddenly, a door opened in my mind, and it was a Tinker Bell green door. I called John, the sales guy who sold Max his last car, which was a much better experience than mine. I explained my story to him, and he felt this car would be a good fit for me. Not wanting to waste my time (well, that’s refreshing!), he told me he would check with the lot manager just to make sure the car had not sold yet. He called me back a little bit later to tell me that, sadly, the Tinker Bell green Kona had sold. He even walked the lot himself to make sure. I was sad, but we agreed to keep in touch as I would eventually have to buy a car, even if it was a car the color of doldrums.

The next day, Max and I passed the car dealership again. There, in the second row from the street, was a Tinker Bell green car. I knew it might not be the same car. Still, I could not get it out of my head. When we finished running our errand, I stopped at the dealership and pulled up behind the car. It was the 2020 Kona. I looked at the invoice in the window and it showed 3200 miles! I called John and explained I was standing right behind the Tinker Bell green Kona.

John came out to meet us. He was extremely apologetic and embarrassed that he had missed the car. He had walked the back lot but had not thought about the cars right in full view. I drove the Kona. I loved it. There was a bonus. The interior was black leather, with TINKER BELL GREEN TRIM! It was all extremely exciting. I did not get a greatly reduced price compared to a new sonata or basic Kona, even though it was technically a used car, because it was that extra-laden special limited trim. Although the practical part of me (and I do have one) objected, I have to say I didn’t even mind. I decided that I get to be extra-laden this time. There are people who say I am pretty extra most of the time.

I went home with my dream car. I get happy every time I walk out into the garage and see it in all its shiny greenness. There was definitely some pixie dusting going on to get me that car.

Sometimes, a gift is not a thing. Sometimes, the gift is just an opportunity.

What was your favorite gift this holiday? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri/Dorry😊

The Tinkmobile exterior

Beclaus

There is a rumor going around town that I am opposed to Santy Claus. I am the Anti-Claus if you believe the hot gossip. Nothing could be further from the truth. The people who believe this rumor clearly do not know me. As I have said in the past, I forced myself to believe that Santa visited on Christmas Eve with a sleigh full of presents until I was at least eleven. Few 63-year-olds play Elf on the Shelf every morning in December. I do. If there is no Santa Claus, is there really any point in hunting for an elf? I mean, if there is no Santa, from whenst would the elf have come? My personal elf, Kringle, knows his stuff and he tells me that he has a direct line to Santa, so I had better be good.

There is a story behind why some people think I am anti-Santa, but the why is somewhat irrelevant. The point is that the episode that gave rise to this mistaken belief has caused me to consider my own position on the matter.

I shared in prior Christmas-related blogs that I have a bifurcated view of Christmas. There is the sacred, faith-centered celebration of the incarnation when God entered the world fully human as well as fully divine in order to reconcile His people to Himself. While we recognize that Jesus probably was not born on the date we celebrate Christmas, we have identified the date to celebrate that He was, indeed, born to save us. The date is not important; the celebration and worship of Christ is.

There is also a secular celebration of Christmas that has a loose, diaphanous connection with the faith-centered celebration. It is a celebration of love and family and giving and magical story-telling that happened to intersect with the celebration of Jesus’ birth. We certainly see these lovely, sweet concepts in Christianity, but we believe that Jesus’ incarnation means something much, much more important. The notions of love, family, giving, the magic of storytelling also exist in the humanist world. Whatever a person’s world view, whatever their faith, whatever their philosophy- that person probably embraces the benefits of these notions.

The secular celebration evolved and endured even after the world culture started to grow away from Christianity. Some people who do not identify as Christians or churchgoers may still somewhat vaguely accept that the “true meaning of Christmas” is that the baby Jesus was born in a manger in Bethlehem. For other people, the connection between their secular Christmas tradition with Jesus may be as tentative as believing that the birth of Jesus is simply the origin story of a probable myth. Other people who do not believe in Jesus at all may also embrace the secular tradition of Christmas.

Many Christians try to amalgamate the sacred and secular views of Christmas into one, big, eclectic “Santa Claus kneeling beside the baby Jesus in the manger.” There is nothing wrong with that, but I find I cannot quite reconcile the two types of Christmases enough to combine them in my brain. I find it easier to honor the true meaning of Christmas for me if I focus on the fact that there are actually two celebrations on December 25- the celebration of the Incarnation and the celebration of a cultural Christmas.

People tell me that Santa Claus is an effective way to introduce children to the concept of giving. They say that we have Santa who gives gifts because the Three Wise Men brought gifts to the baby Jesus, who brought us the greatest gift of all- salvation. They say children relate to Santa.

I do not argue against that notion. There are plenty of opportunities for children to relate to Santa and for parents to teach the lesson of Christmas giving. I can even understand that we can get to Jesus using Santa as a starting place. I certainly do not argue against the fact that children relate to Santa.

I simply suggest that, in a Christian church, it makes sense that children also relate to Jesus. If there is anywhere where Santa should step aside for Jesus, it would be at church activities.

In my household, you will find three smiling Santa Claus figures. There are, however, at least 10 Nativity sets. While one Santa and one Nativity is probably sufficient for a 1500 square foot house, I like to think that my ratio of Santa and Nativity sets represents the focus of the relative celebrations. I relish hunting for Kringle each morning. I have been known to sit on Santa’s lap as an adult. I enjoy the beautiful lights and secular decorations. I like the funny Christmas t-shirts. I rock around the Christmas tree with the best of them. However, nothing can match the sheer joy and peace I get out of celebrating Jesus’ birth. My favorite Christmas songs are hymns. I light the candles on my Advent wreath every night and pray our daily devotional. My favorite holiday activities revolve around worshiping with my brothers and sisters in the faith.

Yes, I definitely enjoy the secular celebration- the term “giddy” comes to mind when I think about describing my cultural Christmas experience. So, I am not anti-Santa. However, as lovely as giddy is, I would rather feel joy and peace than giddy.

I have more Nativity sets than Santas beclaus Santa is with us for a season and Jesus is with us forever. I have more Nativity sets than Santas beclaus I think the story should start with Jesus and only then continue with the Santa tradition rather than starting with Santa and working our way back to Jesus. I have more Nativity sets than Santas beclaus Jesus is the Alpha and the Omega, while Santa is just something fun to brighten the time in between, like Yahtzee and golf. I have more Nativity sets than Santas because Santa makes me jolly, and Jesus makes my joyful.

I have more Nativity sets than Santas just beclaus.

Those of you who follow along with my journey know that it is unusual for me to skip posting for two weeks in a row. I have been missing in action from the blogosphere the last couple of Wednesdays. I have been working on this piece for several weeks and have been a bit stuck. Even in reading it now, I am not sure about it. Maybe I am just an old curmudgeon. I’d love your feedback. Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Merry Christmas!

Terri/Dorry 😊

The Bizarre Bazaar

My church women’s group has been holding an annual holiday bazaar since the beginning of time. It may be that the creation story in Genesis stops just short of proclaiming, “On the eighth day, God created the ECW bazaar.” The bazaar is, according to those parishioners who come from a long, multi-generational line of St. James Episcopal attendees, iconic. There have been some minor changes over the years, but the bazaar is a Leesburg institution. The pillars of the church would come tumbling down without the bazaar. The only year we missed was 2020 when a worldwide pandemic rendered hosting a group of people breathing on each other inadvisable. After the usual bazaar time, I checked the church’s foundation and I think there may have been some cracks.

There are a lot of benefits to the bazaar. The money we earn goes to support local, national, and global charities. Pretty much every dime goes directly out of the till into the coffers of worthy organizations. It is also a chance for our church to be more visible in the community. During the bazaar, we give tours of the beautiful stained-glass windows in our church. Our parishioners work together to produce the event. We try to involve as many sub-groups of our congregation as possible, even if doing so may mean we take in slightly less money.

The bazaar is not easy, though. While everyone does work towards the same main goals, not everyone is going to agree all the time on how to pursue those goals or when auxiliary goals should take precedence. Not everyone works the same way. Some people like to plan and schedule. Others like to embrace the serendipity. Some people like to stick with tradition. Others like to experiment and try new things. Some people enjoy working with new technology. Others find it a bit intimidating. Even when everyone agrees, it is a whole lot of work to produce this epic adventure each year.

I was co-chair of the bazaar this year. How exactly I ended up in this august role is a long, bewildering story, which I will spare you. Such a job is definitely outside my wheelhouse. Ironically, one of the reasons I agreed to take on the job is because I thought the skills that DO reside within my wheelhouse might be helpful. It turns out that I greatly overestimated said skills and their value in producing a bazaar. I was not very good at it. In fact, it might be said that I was spectacularly bad at it. In addition to my incompetence, I found that being bazaar co-chairperson brought out the absolute worst qualities in me that I like to pretend are not there.

The results of this year’s bazaar are a testament to God’s ability to use even very poor efforts to the benefit of his people and the glory of His name. I find the whole endeavor to be proof that there is indeed a Holy Spirit. We earned over $10,500 for the charitable organizations we support. This total is about $2000 more than last year.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for these results and the good that the money will do to help people. I am even more thankful that the bazaar is over!

Christmas is coming! Don’t forget that my book, Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go, is available on Amazon (Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go: Curran, Dorry: 9798842188574: Amazon.com: Books).  It will make a wonderful holiday gift! And thanks, Bonnie Little, for the terrific review!  If you would like a signed copy, please reach out to me at terriretirement@gmail.com and we will make that happen.

Have a thankful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

All Souls’ Day

I think God is doing marvelous things all the time. I also think we often don’t even notice them. Recently, I had one of those rare, perfect moments of clarity when I absolutely noticed.

My life coach had been encouraging me to find a way to “actively grieve.” He explained that it might be healthy for me to pick a day to just concentrate on allowing myself to feel the difficult emotions related to my brother’s death. He suggested that it is easy to hide those emotions away in some toxic part of my heart when I am running around bobbing and weaving through the normal activities of everyday life. The idea had merit. The idea of planned and scheduled grieving appealed to me. Of course. I wanted to try it, but my calendar was pretty full. I wanted to try active grieving but could not figure out how I was going to squeeze it into my already crammed schedule.

Right after this conversation with my life coach, God did one of those marvelous things.

The three local Episcopal parishes were holding an All Souls’ Day evening service at the church in Eustis- about fifteen miles from where I live. My pastor was going to give the sermon. I had been debating about going but decided to attend for two reasons: to support my pastor and to hear what he had to say at an All Souls’ Day sermon. I have a logical and theological conundrum with the idea of praying for the dead. If they are dead, surely their fate is decided and do not need our prayers? I understood the concept from my life as a Roman Catholic because the Roman Church has the doctrine of purgatory. The doctrine of purgatory seems to me to be a scriptural stretch. If I had to guess, I’d say God probably takes care of the “purgatory process” while the person is still breathing. I am not so sure this “purgatory process” is about punishment or even purification in the sense of making us “good enough.” I think it might be more about the person coming to a regretless and joyful feeling of readiness in body and soul to leave this life. I trust that God has some elegant, perfect way of sorting all this out, so I have never worried too much about it. Determining how God works out the whole balance between justice, love, and mercy is way above my pay grade.

At any rate, if one believes that there is an actual place or state of purgatory where people go after they die, as the Roman Catholics do, it makes sense to pray for those people. However, Protestants do not subscribe to the doctrine of purgatory, so I was interested to observe how Episcopalians experience All Souls’ Day.

The main point here is that I went to the service to be supportive and to benefit intellectually. I did not go to the service with the intention of grieving. As improbable and clueless as it sounds, it never occurred to me that I was going to have any sort of personal emotional experience.

When I arrived at the church and perused the Order of Worship, it was clear that the service was more about healing the grief of those of us who are still living than praying for the deceased. There was a candle-lighting service, recitation of the names of the lost, individual anointing for those of us who are mourning, communion, and an opportunity for individuals to talk with clergy afterwards if difficult emotions bubbled up during the service. My pastor’s sermon was about the relationship between sorrow and hope… the gift of learning just how much we need and rely on hope when we experience grief.

The whole thing was a bit “high churchy,” which is usually not my “go to” worship. Even when I was a Roman Catholic, high mass did not speak passionately to me. I can and do appreciate the beauty in observing a formally, poetically crafted liturgy the way one appreciates a painting in a museum. It never felt like an active, experiential worship immersion for me, though. However, the formal, somber tone of the liturgy on All Souls’ Day was absolutely perfect. Maybe for the first time, I experienced “leaning in” to that sort of  worship experience. I was no longer looking at the picture on the wall. I followed willingly as the Holy Spirit led me into it.

Actually, everything about the evening was absolutely perfect.

The lighting in the church was very low. Candles provided almost all the illumination. There were only about thirty-five people in the pews, so I did not feel a lot of energy coming from other people. The mood was somber and respectful. It was like my very own interior, homogenous, private experience even though it was a public forum. I was not picking up on other people’s divergent emotions at all, even though I am usually finely attuned to other people’s moods. I noticed that I regularly closed my eyes unconsciously and simply listened, focusing on what I was hearing in an almost  meditative way.

Before the service, ushers asked us to print the names of the people we wanted to remember in prayer. In this type of situation, I usually list all my relatives and all Max’s relatives who have passed from this life. This time, I listed only the names of my father, mother, and brother. It was instinctive. It was something I had to do just for me.

When the pastor read the names- Ernest Goodness, Dorothy Goodness, and Ernie Goodness- I felt this intense pain inside of me. It screamed, “You left me. You all went away and left me all alone.” I could almost see them together- happy, without conflict or brokenness- watching me. I needed a hug desperately- I needed touch. As it happened, I ended up kneeling at the communion rail right next to my pastor’s wife. We were shoulder to shoulder. Without my even asking, she reached her arm around me and hugged me. It felt so good.

The sermon, which I expected to enlighten me theologically did nothing of the sort. My pastor did not even really talk about the concept of “praying for the dead.” Instead, he talked about grief. As I listened, I experienced some feelings that have come up inside me regularly. I have struggled to describe them. My pastor’s words helped me to understand. I felt somehow small and innocent, enrobed in a strange kind of purity- like the bedraggled psyche I usually carry around with me was fresh and clean. I also felt lost and alone in the dark- vulnerable. It was a weird combination of despair and hope steeping in a stew of acceptance. It occurred to me that perhaps this emotional state is what it feels like to let go of the past and start exploring the future with a new frame of mind.

Tears oozed out of my eyes periodically throughout the service. The organizers of the event were clearly much more aware of the purpose of the event than I was. They provided boxes of Kleenex at the end of every other pew. Since I was not expecting emotion (improbable, clueless, etc.), I did not come prepared with tissues. I gratefully pulled a generous handful of Kleenex out of one of the boxes as I got in line to light my candle. I used them all throughout the evening. As I walked to the altar to light a candle in memory of my father, mother, and brother, I noticed that one candle lit by someone before me had gone out. I reached over and relit it. I found that action inexplicably satisfying and calming.

As I write this, I am not sure how to stop. This experience has embedded itself in my soul and I doubt I will soon forget it. I think I may be having trouble ending this story because the experience has not ended. It is still living inside me, as, I am sure, my father, mother, and brother are. The experience continues because grief continues. My gratitude to God for giving me this perfect evening continues because my walk with God continues. My confusion and chaos continue, even if a gossamer blanket of grace now covers it, because life and death are confusing and chaotic. Someday, I will join my family where there is no confusion and chaos. Until then, I am clinging to that gossamer blanket of grace.

Have you ever experienced one of those rare moments of clarity when you are sure you have seen God do something marvelous? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a reflective day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Flying Through The Air With The Greatest Of Ease

As most of you know, my birthday is kind of a big deal to me. I think everyone should get at least one day a year for things to be all about them. I celebrate me on my birthday, not my age. On that one day a year, I put myself first.

This past year, Max and I had to negotiate this issue. We were considering going to Las Vegas to see Rod Stewart for our autumn vacation. I told you a little bit about that adventure in last week’s blog. What I did not say was that, to maximize this trip, we would have to spend my birthday in airports flying home from Las Vegas. This certainly did not sound like an enticing way to spend my very own annual special celebration day. On the other hand, I did want to see Rod Stewart and the logistics were much simpler if we spent September 30th traveling home.

We decided to pretend we were in some alternative universe where my birthday was actually September 29th. I like to think I have improved with age (despite the protests of my body suggesting otherwise.) Maybe I have become so adaptable and so efficient, I have developed the ability to twist time. At any rate, I took the position that, for 2022, my birthday was September 29th.

It was a fun-packed day, but things really took off, so to speak, when my friend Kathy and I went ziplining. Yes, ziplining.

I have done ziplining twice before this trip. My experiences were a mixed bag.

Once, I was in a leadership readiness program in Colorado. As part of the class, we spent a day at a ropes course. We each had to do three of a number of activities that involved heights, ropes, balance, and physical endurance. I guess the idea was to help us overcome fears and realize how powerful we could be. All around me, people seemed to be getting the message… or, at least, some version of the message. I heard one woman scream, as she jumped from a telephone pole, “If I can do this, I can do anything. Watch out, I can fire your ass!” I wasn’t really afraid. Heights have never particularly bothered me. Ziplining always looked like fun when I watched The Amazing Race on television. Any concerns I had were related not to heights, but to my physical ability to do certain things. Climbing a telephone pole, maneuvering myself into a standing position on the summit, and balancing on the top of the pole seemed improbable for someone who trips over lint.

I was not afraid, but I should have been. I was the class injury. After successfully completing two other ropes activities with little trepidation, it was my turn to zipline. The instructor fastened me into a harness, and I climbed up the ladder to a platform. I do not remember any warnings. I do remember thinking that the people on The Amazing Race sort of sat in their harnesses. At this ropes course, the rider stood and held a bar above her head. On the way down, I screamed. The people below thought I was scared. I was not scared. I was actually in excruciating pain. I am not sure what I did wrong, but I almost dislocated my shoulder. I spent the next several weeks consuming Aleve and admiring the rainbow bruise that extended from my left breast over my shoulder down my back to my waist. Luckily, there was a hospital across the street from the ropes course.

The next ziplining opportunity was at the San Diego Safari Park. I am not sure why I thought ziplining was a great idea after my first experience, but I did. We had a practice run on a short course, which was fine except for an extremely abrupt end to the ride. When I hit the brake position, the momentum threw my heels over my head. I had second thoughts, but decided “in for a penny, in for a pound.” I got in the truck and rode three miles up into the hills. I soared over the African veldt in Escondido, viewing antelope, zebra, and elephants from my seat in the sky. Because it was a longer route, the stop was more gradual, and my feet did not go flinging all akimbo. The whole experience was fantastic.

I decided I’d like to try ziplining over the Las Vegas Strip. Kathy enthusiastically embraced the idea at first but became a little anxious as the time for our ride grew closer. I say, “became a little anxious.” She says, “almost had a panic attack.” It did not stop her, however. Even though she kept asking everybody she saw about what the ride entailed, she did not turn back. When it was over, she thought it was one of her favorite things about the whole Las Vegas trip. I thought it was amazing. It was such a celebratory, powerful thing to do on my birthday (yes, yes, I know it wasn’t really “on my birthday” but please humor me.)

After our ride, we had my birthday dinner at In and Out Burger. This may sound a little anti-climatic, but I LOVE In and Out Burger. It is a deep source of disappointment for me that Florida does not have any In and Out Burgers. Whenever I am in California or Nevada, I gorge myself like I am storing up hamburgers and French fries for winter hibernation. I took a bite of my double meat plain hamburger, and I was in Hamburger Heaven.

I had more than enough to eat for dinner, but we had to have dessert… ‘cuz it was my birthday. My answer to “cake and ice cream” was sharing a brownie sundae with Max at Ghiradelli. All of this wonderfulness of a day while Hurricane Ian was raging his way around town at home.

Sometimes unbirthdays are the best birthdays of all!

How do you like to spend your birthday? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

My Misspent Youth

I was never a child. Somehow, when I was very young, I did not get the message that children are charming and endearing. I got the message that children (or at least the child I used to resemble) were ridiculous. The adult smiles and laughter that most children correctly perceive as affectionate amusement, I saw as mocking and deriding. It was not anything that anyone did. My emotional translator was just too smart for its own good. As a result of my faulty interpretation of the adult reactions around me, I quickly learned to stifle childish impulses. Instead of experimenting with new things, saying what was on my mind, and acting my age, I pretty much just waited to grow up.

I absolutely hated being a teenager. Thinking back on the whole experience, I realize that it sucks to be an adolescent. I wonder how any of us gets through it. When I get to heaven, I really want to have a talk with God about puberty and the whole maturation process. I feel like there has to be an explanation. An almighty God could certainly have designed a more elegant, less traumatic way to transform children into adults. At any rate, I did everything I could during my junior high and high school years to try to avoid typical teenage life. I did not date. I did not rebel. I did not even hang out with a group of friends. I pretty much just waited to grow up.

As part of that “waiting to grow up” thing, I got married when I was 21 years old. I had a grown-up job. I had a husband. I lived in an apartment for which I paid the rent. My peers were going to clubs, taking trips to Cancun, and reveling in the freedom of being young, single, and adult. I was managing a budget, putting a husband through school, and falling asleep in front of the television. Heck, I spent my first New Year’s Eve after turning twenty-one bereft of all alcohol at the Disneyland party.

After seven years of marriage, my husband decided he wanted a divorce. I was now a “grown up.” It was quite disappointing to discover that the “waiting to grow up” strategy I employed when I decided to bow out of childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood did not result in the “happily ever after” I thought it would. When my husband left me, I also learned something about trying to skip developmental steps. You can’t. As adamantly as I had said “no, thank you” to childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood during the appropriate chronological times in my life, I soon realized that the Universe was going to force me to experience these stages at some point or another.

In the long, sad, lonely months in the wake of my separation and divorce, I found I had to learn to play. I had to learn to play with abandon without fear of being ridiculous, the way a child plays. When I entered the dating world, I found I had to go through the thousands of little and big heartbreaks of embryonic attraction and love. I had to learn to live with the disappointments intrinsic to social situations without losing myself, as a teenager must learn that she can survive even those situations that seem catastrophic at the time. When I finally gained some confidence and began to enjoy life, I had to find a way to stay true to myself and to understand that other people won’t necessarily behave as I expect them to behave… just as young adults must learn how to discern their authentic place in the world.

I think I am still working on learning that last bit. I never did really experience the bold, busy, boisterous milieu of the young adult scene. To me, the word that best distills the young adult experience is “more.”  In this phase of life, we are trying to be ourselves but also trying to figure out who “ourselves” are in the context of the world. Everything is magnified so that we can better examine it. The volume of life is higher. The saturation of color is brighter. The number of experiences per square inch explodes. The contrast of life is on “high.” I am still a more muted person than most people project in young adulthood. I am an old adult who is missing a misspent youth. I’m still trying to acquire one.

Recently, I went to Las Vegas. The main reason we decided to go to Las Vegas was because we wanted to see Rod Stewart in concert. Rod Stewart is an old adult who is still living a misspent youth. He is 77 years old and still presents himself as someone in the eye of the young adult hurricane.

The night of the concert, I adorned myself in my most “rocker chick” finery. I wore black jeans with a beaded graphite-colored vine running down the leg. I wore a rose gold sequin blouse, and I topped it all off with a somewhat distressed, studded jean jacket. I felt like I was really letting loose my inner wild child. Part of me felt hip, sexy, and edgy. The other part of me felt ridiculous. I decided to go with hip, sexy, and edgy. I locked “ridiculous” in the closet before Max and I set out to the show.

As we waited in the elevator lobby for our friends, A man at least 35 years younger than I walked by me and said, “You look lovely this evening, ma’am.” I looked around to see who he was talking to, realized it was me, and blurted out a quick “thank you.” Random strangers do not usually compliment my looks. It was kind of a rush. I even forgave him the dreaded “ma’am,” which might have been a buzzkill.

We had excellent seats at the concert. One of the perks of being an old young person is that one typically has more disposable income with which to buy expensive tickets. We were in row eleven, almost exactly center stage. Sir Rod gave a fantastic, supercharged show. He sang around 35-40 songs- belting, tossing his hair, dancing, and gyrating like a man at least 35 years younger. His affected youth was contagious. I felt my inner young adult breaking out of this elderly woman’s shell of a body. I sang. I tossed my hair. I don’t know that I did much gyrating, but I did dance. My, how I danced. I checked my pedometer soon after the concert started and checked it after the performance. I danced the equivalent of 1.8 miles of walking while occupying the small piece of real estate around my seat.

I felt powerful, free, and vibrant. I felt like I had life by the cajones. At the time we were watching the concert in Las Vegas, Hurricane Ian was raging past our home in Florida. The threat of the hurricane had obviously been on my mind during our trip, but the energy of the concert quelled my anxiety. Hurricane, what hurricane? I was at least as powerful as any natural disaster. Move over, Ian. The misspent youth of Terri LaBonte has arrived. I was my own little pudgy bundle of wind, rain, and energy. I was the hurricane!

The next day, of course, I was back to the calm. Once more, I was the placid, responsible, quiet, introverted, awkward person I was before my evening of misspent youth. I am sure my aging body can stand only so much misspent youth at a time. I would not have it any other way.

I guess I did have a misspent youth during my actual youth. It was misspent because I did not misspend it the way young adults do to find, develop, and accept themselves. I plodded along through my twenties, spending my youth being who people expected me to be- responsible, sober, and serious. I am not sorry for the life I have lived, but I do think I could have made more productive bad choices when I was younger. Something else I have learned about trying to skip developmental stages is that the stakes are typically higher when you go back and live those developmental stages at an older age. You do not have the same kind of safety nets around you when you are sixty as you did when you were sixteen.

That still does not mean one cannot misspend their youth at age 63. I am proof that there are benefits from slipping the leash and maturing backwards, even later in life!

Did you have a misspent youth? When did it occur? What was the best takeaway from that developmental stage for you?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Spend your day well… whatever that means to you!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Me in my rocker chick finery!

Commemorating And Celebrating

Someone once said that you should do at least one thing that scares you every day. As we approach Halloween, it strikes me that I did a very scary thing last Saturday.

Last Saturday, I celebrated the launch of my newest book. Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go is the story of my mother. It is the story of a woman who made her own choices and built her own joy. It is the story of my relationship with her. It is the story of maturation and change. It is the story of relationship, aging, support, and grief. It is the story of living with loss. This book is the most personal thing I’ve ever written. It exposes the most tender parts of me. As part of the event, I planned to read a chapter from the book. The thought terrified me.

I thought my anxiety and nerves and general busyness in preparation for the event had to do with worry over things like having the right amount of food, the right flowers, and a good internet connection for Zoom. I did notice that the overplanning and overworry turmoil that I have worked so hard to overcome with my life coach came roaring back over the week prior to the launch party. As I journaled out my feelings, I could sense the pitch squeaking ever higher and the volume shrieking ever louder until I reached a crescendo on Thursday evening. I texted my little group of helpers with a minute-by-minute, blow-by-blow schedule of what I expected to happen on Friday and Saturday. I had my furniture set-up, my decoration set-up, my cake delivery, my food and drink presentation, the Zoom initiation, my welcome, my reading, the door prizes, the toast, the cake, and book sales all slotted into convenient artificial timeslots. It was clear to me that I was certifiable. My friends were charitable enough to ignore the insanity and just follow the plan to the best of their ability.

Everything turned out beautifully. Just as I knew in some deep, dark, muted place in my brain- there was no need to sweat the small stuff. However, sweating the small stuff enabled me to avoid thinking about the big stuff.

Reading a piece from my book that discussed a facet of my mother’s long journey towards death was the big stuff. The book is me. The emotions are mine. The longing and the wistfulness I experienced at the time the incident in the piece happened is still blistering, even though the incident happened over five years ago. As I read the words I wrote, my voice broke, and the terror monsters kicked the inside of my gut with cleated feet. I had difficulty looking up from the page of swimming words. In some ways, I felt like my audience did not exist. I was reading for myself- as if I had not already written and felt the words. In other ways, I was acutely aware of the audience. I knew they were prepared to love my work, but I also knew they might hate it.

A few days later, with Todd’s help, I realized that my panic before the party and the piercing emotions during the party had nothing to do with the food or the flowers or any of that silly stuff. It had to do with my very unsilly fear of rejection. The way I write, the way I feel, and the way I conduct my relationships pretty much defines me. As I offered my words, my love, and my relationship with my mother to this group of people, I was asking them to accept who I am. The people listening could very easily have said no. Intellectually, I realized that it was unlikely that the people in the room listening to me would reject me. After all, I’d stacked the deck. The people who came to the party love me and accepted me long ago. They would not have come otherwise. However, a huge part of the scarred heart I carry around in my chest was sure this was going to be the time when those people did reject me. My brain occupied itself with silly stuff as the party approached out of fear that the party guests and other readers would decide that I was the silly stuff.

Nobody thought I was the silly stuff. I think the people listening were genuinely moved. I think people who came from far and near believed the time they invested in the launch event was time well spent. Even more importantly, I felt it was time well spent. I commemorated my mother with some people who knew her and introduced her to the people who love me but never got to know my mom. I dedicated my book to everyone who loved my mother and everyone who loved me. That would include all the people in the room on Saturday. We commemorated the woman my mother was on Saturday, and we celebrated the woman I am becoming.

Celebrate you today!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go is available on Amazon in kindle and paperback editions. If you would like to purchase a signed copy, please contact me at terriretirement@gmail.com and I will arrange to send you one. The cost would be $15, plus $4 shipping.

Disney By The Decade Part 3

This week, we have the exciting conclusion of my Disney story!

The 2000s

From the time I met Max, I would say, “Someday we are going to go to Disney World in Florida. When I retire, we are going to go on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. We are going to stay at a deluxe hotel, eat at a character meal, and do everything I’ve always wanted to do.” He would smile indulgently and repeat, “Someday.” When he moved in with me in 2002, his tune changed. In a good way. When I started my oft-told tale about my once-in-a-lifetime trip to Disney World, he stopped me and said, “Why are we waiting until you retire? Why don’t we go now?”  Max is the epitome of planned spontaneity and carefully controlled adventure. The fact that he would suggest such an idea was almost blasphemous- but appealing.

Not that we just went all bananacake and packed our bags immediately. We spent a year planning our trip- planned spontaneity and carefully controlled adventure. I produced a spreadsheet, using two different guidebooks to schedule parks, rides, shows, meals, and other “must-dos.” I had a list of level B attractions to fill in time in case we had a moment to spare. We researched the different Disney hotels and initially booked a package that included a room with a view of grazing giraffes and zebras from our balcony. In the year-long planning process, another package became available that was $1200 cheaper, but had us staying at the Yacht Club. This was my sole concession to price for this trip. I mourned the loss a little bit when I made the change, but it turned out that the Yacht Club was the absolute best choice because… location, location, location. We could walk to Epcot, which we did almost daily.

One of the things I learned on that first trip to Disney World is that there really is magic there. I was diagnosed with diabetes in 2001. I was fastidious about watching my diet and testing my blood regularly. I forgot what it felt like to be full. On Christmas, I allowed myself one square of Dove chocolate, which felt like a religious experience. At Disney World, it turned out I could eat anything I wanted. I kept testing my blood and finding it was low, so could just keep eating a pretzel, ice cream, or other food-like substance I had not ingested in two years. Some people would probably argue that my newfound food freedom was more about the miles and miles I walked each day rather than magic, but I’m sticking with the pixie dust story.

I’ve never been very good at “once in a lifetime.” Max and I ended up making three more trips from California to Florida to visit Disney World during the first decade of the new millennium.

The 2010s

In 2012, Max and I began thinking about retirement. We knew we probably wanted to move out of Southern California. We discussed several possible destinations but kept coming back to central Florida. Truthfully, having spent so much of my life in Disneyland’s backyard, I thought my DNA might unravel if I moved too far away from a Disney park. When we looked into the idea more carefully, we found that there were many attractive benefits to moving to Florida. The biggest one is that I could buy a three-bedroom, 2 bathroom detached 1500 square foot detached house with a garage for $50,000 less than what my 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom, 650 square foot condo in California would be worth on the open sales market.  I poked around on the internet and found a central Florida real estate agent who used to live about 90 miles from my home in California. Max and I decided to take a trip to Disney World (he twisted my arm… not) and add on a couple of days to drive 45 miles north of Orlando to Lake County to look at some houses.

Some people go to Disney World and buy a t-shirt. I bought a house.

I retired in October of 2014. We moved to central Florida to live in my pretty little house at the beginning of December. It was quite the whirlwind. By New Year’s Eve, we had annual passes to Disney World and had already created some skid marks on them. We began a flurry of years doing Disney in ways I had only imagined before- seeing the Candlelight Processional at Epcot at Christmastime, wandering a park for just a few hours before getting tired and going home because we knew we could come back any time, resort-hopping at Christmas and Easter to see the special decorations,  taking advantage of special festival opportunities like learning to make paper art with a Disney artist and creating an abstract spin picture by riding a bicycle, buying Disney merchandise for a 20-30% discount. I was sad when we left Disney property in 2012 when we went to look at houses. Max asked me why and I explained that, if we bought a house nearby, we wouldn’t be staying at Disney ever again. He patiently pointed out to me that living 40 miles away did not mean that we could not spend the night at the House of Mouse occasionally. So, we did.

In February of 2015, two months after we moved to Florida, I went back to California to pack up my mother and move her to a mobile home park near our new home. This was a huge transition for all of us. My mother’s health had been deteriorating for some time, but she still led a busy, fulfilling life in California. I was determined to make up for what she was leaving by providing as much fun and amusement as I could. For my mother, that meant two things- endless trips to Walmart and regular excursions to Disney. I pushed her around the parks and pointed out small details that most people would miss, especially people riding in a wheelchair. One of my happiest Disney memories with her was going to the Osborne Family Light Spectacular. It was jaw-dropping. As I inched her through layers and layers of crowds, I did not even mind the lack of personal space. The look on her face was worth every jostle, every recapture of momentum, and every whiff of smoke and body odor. To cap off the evening, we bought t-shirts to proclaim that the Osborne Family Light Spectacular was a wrap, and we were there. We bought popcorn in souvenir buckets in the shape of Mickey Mouse wearing an elf costume. Elf Mickey still stands guard outside my front door every Christmas season. Perfect night.

After my mother died in 2017, Max and I made a trip to Epcot during the Flower and Garden festival. During the festival, Disney erects giant topiaries of favorite characters. I wanted to sprinkle some of her ashes by the Tinker Bell topiary. There is also always a butterfly garden. In 2017, the butterfly habit was called the “Butterfly Garden of Goodness.” I could not think of any place more appropriate to leave a little bit of my beautiful mother- Dorothy Goodness- than with the butterflies in the garden that I decided was named for her. All of this ash-scattering was highly illegal and carried a minimum penalty of Disney shunning, but I did not care. Some things are just worth the risk.

The 2020s

Disney in the time of COVID was certainly a new take on things. It was a microcosm of the rest of the world. For someone who did not know life without Disney parks in it, I could not conceive that Disney actually closed the gates even after reading it several times. It just seemed so shocking. I do not overstate when I say it felt like the world might actually come to an end. Churches could close and live stream services. Children could stay home from school and learn remotely. Employees could begin a whole new era of telecommuting. Disney, however, is just such a visceral, here experience. On one day-  March 16, 2020- the world got quieter, sadder, and lonelier.

In September, Max and I attended a special preview reopening for annual passholders. Despite the possible risk, I really wanted to go. I wanted to see the creativity with which the Disney cooperation devised distancing and other safety protocols. I wanted to see what activities were still operational. I wanted to feel something normal again. I just wanted to see my happy place. When we arrived, there was a weird quiet in the air- there were so many fewer people even in the parking lot. There was almost no hustle and bustle. The brave souls who did venture into the park that day seemed to be navigating cautiously and tentatively- almost as if they were trying not to breathe. The paths to the entrance were lined, at appropriate social distances, with masked cast members waving their Mickey-gloved hands at us. They were beaming and shouting “welcome back.” It had something of the flavor of those old movies where the grateful townspeople cheer the returning heroic soldiers who have saved their village from invasion.

The eerie quietness we noticed in the parking lot did follow us throughout the day. Never in my life have I been to Disney with so few people around me. We could walk on nearly all the rides. The queue areas were designed with social distancing in mind. That sounds easy enough, but it was actually a pretty complicated feat with the way Disney lines wrap around. It was a fun game to see if we could figure out the reasons for seemingly random stretches of empty space clearly exceeding six feet.

We attended this quasi-reopening knowing that certain elements, like parades and character meet-and-greets, would not be available. That did not stop Disney from throwing in a few surprises. As we came out of Starbuck’s, Tinker Bell was riding down the road on a huge treasure chest!  She sat atop the treasure chest, clearly socially distant from everyone, waving her wand and laughing. Because there were so few people in the park, it was easy to see her, and it was easy for her to see individuals. She pointed down at me and giggled. I was wearing a t-shirt depicting a huge Tinker Bell wearing a mask with the word QUARANTINED! brazened across it. She called down to me and made a heart with her hands. She spoke directly to me, and I trailed along next to the float like some sort of Neverland stalker. I did not need for her to stand next to me or hug me. I was a member of her posse.

During that first year of the pandemic, I was able to reach a milestone. In the days of Disney desolation, I was able to go on every ride I wanted to experience that I had not been able to because of crowds pre-COVID.

When restrictions loosened and people began feeling more comfortable navigating the outside world during the pandemic, crowds returned to Disney. Did they ever. I swear that everyone who stayed locked in their homes for 12-18 months decided all at once to go back to the World. It is rare to find six inches of personal space much less six feet.

Recently, in 2022, my brother died. He had always said he wanted his ashes scattered in the river at the jungle cruise ride. Always a little bitter that I moved away from California and took our mother with me, he stipulated “and not in fuckin’ Florida, either… I want to be scattered on the jungle cruise ride at DISNEYLAND.” I made a quick trip back to California and spent about $400 on admission and parking so my sister-in-law, step niece, and I could go into Disneyland to do this one activity. We were successful in our mission and my brother is now relishing his view of the back side of water.

Everyone has various frameworks for their lives. We see the events of our lives from different angles, with different cropping.  I will not say that Disney is the only framework of my life, but it is certainly one of them. It is not that Disney reflects my life. It is more that my life, over the decades, reflects how I view Disney.

I offer these musings to those who scoff at people like me and say that Disney is not “real life.” I beg to differ. Disney might not always be a fairy tale, but I am human evidence that Disney life is most certainly real life.

Have a pixie-dusted day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

REMINDER: The launch party for my new book, Puppies, Guppies and Letting Go, is THIS Saturday! The party is scheduled from 3-5pm on 10/22/22. If you are local to Leesburg, Florida (or even if you are not and feel like exerting a huge effort- I’m looking at you Bob and Judy!) and can attend in person, we will be getting together at the St. James Episcopal Church parish hall at 204 N. Lee Street in Leesburg. If you want to join by Zoom, you can click this link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/87133150656

If you are not able to attend, you will be able to purchase the book in paperback and/or kindle edition on Amazon starting Saturday.

Disney By The Decade- Part 2

Let’s pick up where we left off last week…

The 1970s

A lot of kids start outgrowing their Disney affinity when they turn ten or eleven. Not so for me… but then I continued to believe in Santa Claus until I was twelve by sheer force of will.

I remember waiting in line to ride the Matterhorn with my father. Neither my mother nor my brother was ever interested in schussing down a fake mountain in a toboggan-on-a-track. My father certainly wanted to schuss with the best of them but would not take the time to go on his own unless someone else in the family wanted to go. I am not sure if I could say I really wanted to go on the ride, but I did want to please my father. The idea of doing it intrigued me and I usually did have a good time when I took the plunge. It was the waiting in line that was the killer. As I stood in the long line with my daddy, the anxiety would start to mount in my belly. The trick was to see if I could get to the front of the line before the mounting anxiety rose beyond my vocal cords. Usually, I managed to hang on and make it to the toboggan. Sometimes, when the line was a little too long, the anxiety beat me to the finish line. It transformed itself into a protest and leaked out of my mouth. My father was never very happy to have waited in line, only to take his fraidy-cat daughter back to her mother.

In 1976, Disney was reimagining their parade to embrace a bicentennial theme. There would be special dancers, new floats, and people with huge bobble-heads of revolutionary characters roaming down the route. We learned at school that Disney was holding open auditions for parade cast members one Saturday. This seemed like the Holy Grail of summer jobs for 16-year-old me. I went to audition. Somehow, it never occurred to me that I was not exactly physically suited to a job as a dancer. I was short, stocky and would certainly never fit into any costumes Disney manufactured. In those days, companies- including and maybe especially Disney- only hired girls who were a size 12 or smaller. I did not even make the first cut.

It was just as well because I ended up spending most of that bicentennial summer with the first boy to break my heart. I had been writing to a pen pal in Scotland for several years. We had a plan. He was going to spend the summer of 1976 with my family.  Then, I would spend the summer after my high school graduation in 1977 visiting him in Scotland and touring Europe with him. We, of course, went to Disneyland when he was here. He understood the magic right away. He could not stop exclaiming about how wonderful it all was. The only thing that put him off was the screaming children. He said to me, “Children in Scotland would never behave like this. They would be so happy to be here, they would never dream of crying or screaming or throwing a tantrum.” I told him that I doubted very much that the children in Scotland were much different from the children in the United States. A napless three-year-old child standing through shimmering heat in one line after another is liable to cry and scream and tantrum, regardless of their nationality. Hungry, thirsty, tired, overstimulated children are hungry, thirsty, tired, overstimulate children everywhere. We agreed to disagree. After my pen pal went home, I never heard from him again. I do not blame Disney, however.

My school participated in Grad Night at Disneyland in June of 1977. I had a date for the event, which was huge news. The grad night date was my third date ever, not counting the Summer of Pen Pal, which was not so much dating as providing free touring service. The problem was I did not want a date for the event. I had recently met the man that I would end up marrying. I had been on exactly one date with him, but I did not have the social skills or maturity of perspective to understand how to navigate the process. My grad night date was relentless in trying to get me to agree to go with him to the event. I finally said yes, but I spent the entire lead up to the evening and the evening itself feeling intrinsically uncomfortable because it felt like I was betraying this other fellow who barely knew I was alive at the time. I ended up asking the bus driver to drop me off at my house, which was right on the way back to the school from Disneyland. I told my date that I could save him the trouble of taking me home. In retrospect, I was awful. I wish I had been much nicer to my grad night date. I wish I had opened the door of my heart to him rather than my eventual husband. He would have been a much more satisfactory partner.

The 1980s

The 1980s were my years of poverty, so my Disney experiences were limited in that decade. I graduated from college in 1981 and nearly immediately married my brand-new husband who needed brand-new food every brand-new day. My husband was a full-time graduate student and I worked at an entry level government job. Disneyland was not in the budget for most of the decade.  However, in that first year of the decade and the last year of the decade, Disneyland created some light in my life.

My mother purchased Disneyland New Year’s Eve party tickets for my fiancé and me the December that 1980 gave way to 1981. She said she wanted to know I was safe. I think she meant that she wanted to know that I wasn’t drinking, driving on the streets with the drunks, or getting pregnant.

My husband suddenly decided to leave me one day in February of 1988.  He moved out of our apartment to “think about things” and never came back except to pick up his things when my mother served him with divorce papers. He gave me no reason for leaving beyond cruel, hurtful indictments of my physical appearance and general lack of appeal.

Thus entered a crucible season of my life. It took me a long time to heal from the abandonment, but it took even longer to heal from the marriage. It took me awhile to realize the best thing the man ever did for me was to leave me. While I was in the process of figuring all this out, I found a financial windfall in an emotionally bankrupt time in my life. My small salary no longer had to stretch to feed another mouth, maintain a second car, or in any way support anyone but myself. I bought myself an annual pass to Disneyland. I spent many, many mournful but satisfying evenings walking around the park. I went on rides sometimes, but, basically, I just walked and enjoyed public anonymity. Living by myself, the silence at home was sometimes too much even for the hermit I was then. If I went to Disneyland, I could hear noise, laughter, and conversation but did not have to be responsible for any of it.

The 1990s

In the 1990s, I began to grow into the adult version of myself. I began to move away from the demolition of my divorce. I began trying to create something new out of the rubble. The “something new” was not what I ever wanted or imagined it would be, but I could certainly create something more elegant than that sad, ghost sort of a person roaming the sidewalks of Disneyland alone. I adopted a dog. I bought a condominium. I invested in my career. The 90s were my own personal “me” generation.

About halfway through the decade, I met the love of my life. Max and I met in November of 1995. Very soon after we met, we spent a day at Disneyland. We both had some Disneyland nostalgia stored away in our brains. I don’t think our memories exactly meshed, but there was enough emotional fabric for us to knit a bond out of our Disney perceptions. Max had two weeks of vacation each year- one week in April and one week in October. Our tradition was to spend a day at Disneyland during his October vacation every year. He enjoyed Disney, but he enjoyed me enjoying Disney even more. One day he said to me, “How many other 50-year-old boyfriends would spend 45 minutes waiting in line to hang out with Tinker Bell?” Disneyland showed me that I am lovable and loved.

Do you have a magical Disney moment? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a magical day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Disney By The Decade- Part One

Today begins a three-part series on my life reflected in Disney park experiences. It is a little experiment in navel-gazing that I hope you will enjoy!

The 1950s

I was born in New York City on September 30, 1959, to Ernest and Dorothy Goodness. Although my arrival just barely missed cusping the new decade, my family found a way to kick start a Disney obsession that was to span at least part of eight decades.

My mother called me Tinker Bell from the time I was born. Disney released the movie Peter Pan in1953. Disney movies were about the only films that good, responsible parents allowed their children to view in those days.  Disneyland Park opened in 1955. I guess the whole world was a little Disney-obsessed at that time.    

When I was very little, I just thought it was a cute, girly nickname. On some level, I liked the idea of being a flittery, glittery little pixie. When I grew older and delved into the J. M. Barrie source material, I realized that Tinker Bell was not all sweetness and light. In fact, the original Tinker Bell had a dark, jealous, almost murderous side. I often wonder what my parents were thinking. On the other hand, I never asked. Maybe I did not really want to know.

The 1960s

In 1965, the Department of Defense closed the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where my father worked. The federal government offered him the choice of transferring anywhere there was an open shipyard, with full moving expenses provided. After much consideration, my parents decided to move to Southern California and my father took a position at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard. My father moved to California while my mother stayed in New York to sell the house and organize everything necessary for the Goodness invasion of the West Coast.

We lived in an apartment in Long Beach when we first moved to California. My parents, having sold their house in New York at a loss, were having trouble finding a suitable house to buy within their budget. As they searched, we began exploring the new activities and sights of California. We went to the beach several days a week. We visited museums. We went to playgrounds and parks. On Saturdays, we all piled into the car and visited the popular tourist attractions.

The family folklore is that we went to Disneyland that particular Saturday because the Watts Riots were raging throughout Los Angeles County. My mother said that she could hear gunfire, so they decided to head south for the day. I do not know if that is a true story. I certainly do not remember hearing any gunfire, but I was not quite six years old. There were uprisings all over Los Angeles County in August of 1965, including Long Beach, so perhaps it is true. At any rate, the point is that my first “in person” taste of Disney was sort of a fluke.

I have a picture of our first trip to Disneyland. My father is standing, one hand on my shoulder and one hand on my little brother’s shoulder, in front of a gigantic cement whale. The picture shows my father’s smile, his lifted chest, and an air of pride. This detail hits me hard because I have only a  few memories of my father looking proud. My memories are mostly of him being frustrated and fractious. At Disneyland, though, flanked by his children, he was proud. In the picture, a white shift dress is encasing my squat little body. There is a huge zipper printed down the front of the dress. The picture is black-and-white, but I remember that the zipper was bright gold and green. It was definitely the 60s.

I have many memories of Disneyland in the 1960s. My parents ended up buying a house about three miles from the Happiest Place on Earth. We could see the fireworks on weekend nights during the summer months. I remember my family cooking hot dogs over an open fire in the backyard and watching the colorful explosions in the sky.

Going to Disneyland was an extremely special thing to do during my growing-up years. We did not go often because it was expensive. We usually managed a visit every two years or so. A Disney visit was an event. Most outings meant shorts and a shirt. Going to Disneyland meant a dress or a skirt. I think my mother curled my hair. For some reason, when I think of Disneyland as a child, I think of white gloves and patent leather. I am sure I never wore white gloves or patent leather shoes to Disneyland, but I cannot get over the idea that it always felt like an elegant, white glove and patent leather shoe kind of occasion.

One time, we were at Disneyland near Christmas. Santa Claus came down Main Street in is sleigh. High atop the huge float, he bellowed “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!” He tossed candy and small toys. A small rendition of either Chip or Dale, stuffed with fairly heavy sawdust, bonked me on the head.  I kept that toy for many, many, many years until the seams split and sawdust oozed out of it.

Another time, when I was about eight, my father and I rode the whirling Mad Hatter ride together. When the ride stopped, we exited the teacup. I reeled my way to an exit. My sense of direction was clearly still on the ride. In my dizziness and disorientation, I apparently headed in the opposite direction from my father. When I found my way out the exit and noticed my father was nowhere to be seen, I began to panic. I sobbed until a nice lady took my hand and brought me to a cast member, telling the cast member that “this little girl’s daddy is missing.” My father came barreling towards the cast member, yelling that I needed to stay with him and not go wandering around on my own. I am sure he was simply scared and frustrated, but to my little girl mind, he was very angry at me.

Do you have Disney experiences from the 1950s through the 1970s? Tell us about them! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can send me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a Delightful Disney Day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂