Puzzle Struggle

Some things just cause a gut-reaction. This is so wrong.

As if that isn't bad enough, some people enjoy pressure so much they think something like this is a good idea.Conversely, there are some things which are definitely a "must have" (still in original wrapping).

Bob, here, has figured out how to double his fun.


The 8000 piece puzzle can attractively substitute for flooring.

The 24,000 piecer is obviously suitable for home construction.

Who wouldn't want to accessorize your furnishings a la jigsaw?

School teachers probably buy these.

And these.
This is a creeper puzzle:


When a hobby becomes an obsession:

When a hobby is drug-induced:
When your hobby supersedes your persona:

Finally, the ultimate.

As the youngest in a family mostly married and gone, 14 year old Rachel finds herself sans puzzling assistance most of the time. James was our champion puzzler. His patience and focus was beautiful. He motivated the rest of us to join in. Now Rachel lives in a house with people who fail her communal puzzling ambitions more often than not. She embarked on a solo project that required super-natural tolerance, grit and ironwoman-like determination. It survived multiple catastrophic injuries when we forgot it was on the floor. It survived Baby Jack assuming puzzle pieces are edible, and kickable. It survived a number of hurried transports a top a wobbly board to temporary locations in the house. It was an epic struggle for artistic survival, and triumph.

True, various family members did contribute from time to time ~ but the bulk of the labor was all Rachel. It had become personal.

Froggie understood this, and welcomed the association.

Our amphibian/reptilian puzzling princess.

Anthropological Motherhood ~ Reading Baptism

Part Five

Offspring number five of five had not fully embraced the joy of reading.

This variance in familial expectations arrived as a companion realization to what offspring number three experienced, or failed to experience - many years earlier. Child number four enjoyed reading only to a point somewhere around the 8th grade. How three of the five did not grow up thrilled to the core to open a book is a somber mystery.

Books were given elevated status within the domicile from the beginning. Both parents brought to the union high school and college texts, as well as favorite childhood books that followed us year after year in our moves from place to place. Public library discards were considered treasure, and the infrequent opportunity to purchase books at a used book store or sidewalk sale had a spiritual quality to the moment of choice and purchase. Children were taught to handle books with care. As indisputable evidence of this fact, we still have pop-up books that retain their namesake feature.

Consanguinal kinsmen on the Tanner side also reverenced the written word by keeping prodigious personal libraries. Both Robin and James shared in passionate detail what they had read at school and enthusiastically recommended books which became my favorites as well. Because of Robin, I fell in love with Africa's "Cry, the Beloved Country" and "When Things Fall Apart". Knowing my love for Civil War history, she recommended "The Killer Angels" before it was popular. James had a great handle on Greek Mythology, historical and science fiction. He was deeply effected by "Number the Stars" and "Maniac Magee" in 4th grade. Robin's personal library (now combined with a husband's compatible love of books) is practically at a Thomas Jefferson level of acquiring and adding-to.

The diffusion of our cultural ideal with regard to reading prescribed modification as pertaining to 3 of the 5. They would not whole-heartedly welcome a book as a birthday or Christmas gift. As a result, I ended up reading those gifts again myself...great classics like "Watership Down", "Little Women" and "The Giver". Thankfully, there is an Evolution underway.

Since Leiland's mission, he is on fire with books and maintains a rigorous

reading schedule balancing ASU assignments with personal study. Asia recently purchased her own collector's copy of "Alice in Wonderland" ~ unabridged, the real deal. And then, there is Rachel.

A bubbly beauty to whom Angelina Jolie trivia, Disney's Cheetah Girls! and pop radio is life-blood, she has not enjoyed reading. Ever. It hurt my heart. In vain I tried to encourage, to inspire, to lead her to 'water' - always promising magical results if she would but give it a chance! Eventually I compromised standards. I agreed to help her read school assignments. We would take turns reading aloud whatever she felt was the insurmountable Kilimanjaro of student literature. Suddenly, it happened.

Last week it was "To Build A Fire" by Jack London. She asked me with a dead voice, "Is this one any good, mom?" I gushed. I clapped my hands. "Oh, are you kidding?" I squealed. "Be careful now, pay attention to the beginning. It's going to get scary pretty quick!" And we dived into the gold-rush Yukon on a fateful 75 below zero arctic day. The relationship between the man and the dog was easily grasped by Rachel, who knows the love for a dog - she understood the man's failure on this point.

But last night, it was different. "The Scarlet Ibis" the assignment,

the student declined my assistance. She only asked, "How about this one, mom? Is this any good?" Before I could correct myself I said, "Yes, but I hate it." She disappeared into her room. Much later, appearing suddenly at my side like a sodden ghost ~ a crumpled Rachel stood before me with a tortured little face, hot tears falling off her chin.

"Why did he do it? Why did he run away from Doodle, mom?!" she wailed, heart-broken.

I had forgotten all about her assignment. Rachel does not come to me for comfort. She does not allow touching or hugs. Yet here she was, almost destroyed by what she had read and needing an explanation. Pained, I grabbed my little girl and held her close. I begged her to try and understand that the older brother was still a child himself, and could not be wholly to blame . . . it was after all, just a story - it wasn't real. But softly I added, "This is the beauty of good writing, Ray - when the author can make you feel something simply because of the words he put on a page." Later, we would talk about the foreshadowing and clues in the family relationships.

It was magical, just as I had promised; she had been completely swallowed up in the story. She was responding emotionally to what was intended to evoke. It was finally, a great reading success for her.

But oh, how bitter-sweet. How terribly bitter-sweet.

CHANGE

I was born the year of Sputnik.

My name was going to be 'Christina' until the world's first sex-change operation made his/her preparations public.

1957 was also the infamous year of the Little Rock Nine. "West Side Story" opened on Broadway, The Everly Brothers hit #1 with "Wake Up Little Susie", and some very classic t.v. shows made their long-running debut: Perry Mason, Maverick and Leave it to Beaver. (Cindi & Danny 1959)

Growing up in the historic '60's was almost idyllic; we were too young to be afraid of the Cold War and having way too much fun with the explosion of rock

music and pop fashions to be aware of the cultural whirl-wind we were all carried away in. I was a child of the white suburbs; riding a bicycle to the Van Nuys Airport just to watch the single prop planes come in, building back yard forts, making mud pies and longing for braces for good reason. (I could fit a nickle between those front teeth-1964)

Change was happening, and it was exciting; but some things were still etched in stone. It didn't matter how fast I could run, how dead-eye my dirt clod aim - when the neighborhood boys played "Army" I was ALWAYS the nurse. They had the power. I hated the automatic relegation.

At school, we learned what we could be when we grew up. The boy's list of possibilities was always much longer than ours. We were never encouraged to be strong. A girl voicing ideas was often negatively labeled "independent", or "aggressive". Social boundaries were clearly defined 24/7. We girls had to stick-up for one another. I had a pink bedroom and a picture of a ballerina on the wall, but I was not interested in girly things. Our playground buzz about the space-race against communist Russia was thrilling to the core - but little girls could not dream of becoming an astronaut; so we quietly dreamed about being boys.

I begged to go hunting with my dad, or - just to learn how to shoot - but he said, "Nah. You're a girl." I watched exhaustive preparations for wilderness 50 mile, week long Boy Scout hikes my brother would go on with my dad. I knew they would be washing in streams and cooking trout over an open fire, pitching tents and telling stories under the stars. I wanted to go!

The now mythical bra-burning feminist movement frightened me with rapid-fire images of really angry women. I did, after all, want to be a wife and mother some day. I looked forward to it as a natural and magical part of my future self. Their message was not for me.

As a young married, I was not prepared for job interviews in the '70's where predominately LDS employers asked me how soon I was planning on getting pregnant. So-called psychological profiles popularly accompanied the application, asking literally pages of personal questions such as, "what is your relationship with your father?" and "if you came into a lot of money, would you a) pay your tithing b) go on a cruise or c) put it in savings." One office told me I would have to answer to a different name, since they already had a Cindy working there. It was insulting.

The workplace was filled with either arrogant, sexist employers or catty female co-workers who didn't want me to forget how my family of 5 mormon kids was robbing the planet of valuable resources. They, mothers of an only child or 2 at the most - frequently sought opportunity to comment on my poor "planning". It didn't matter that my kids could cook, wash their own laundry, excel at school, teach younger siblings music lessons and complete long chore lists while I was at work. Enlightened career women of the 90's explained to me how I had cheated my first two children out of an inheritance, since they would have to share it now with 3 other siblings. It had never occurred to me that anyone would have a child based on the assumed disbursement of what a projected inheritance might be.

These women were quite vocal about my "harsh" parenting methods

especially when I brought the Nintendo controllers to work with me during the Summer. I noted, however, that at the company Christmas party, only my 5 children had the social skills to properly greet adults, converse with them, and take their plates to the kitchen.

The world was still predominantly sexist, but now my opponents were more often other women than they were men.

I have been accused of being "aggressive" by some women. Case in point: I worked part-time once as a teacher's aide at the local elementary school. I was disgusted to hear over the classroom intercom one day that the annual school carnival would be canceled because "...your parents have not volunteered to help us with the cake walk...", among other crimes. Fed-up with an aloof administration that was more concerned about federal funding than real children, I got on the phone.

The school carnival was poorly attended because they required 2 hour time slots for parents to man booths too expensive for families to visit. Nothing was ever FREE at school. Maybe they didn't need a cake walk. Maybe they needed a boost in planning more creatively. In a few minutes, I found a grocery store manager who offered to fill a shopping cart to the brim with whatever the school wanted to choose from their toy isle - for free. He just wanted a receipt on the school letterhead for tax credit. When I called the president of the PTA and let her know she could send someone to go pick up their lucky cart-load of goodies with the receipt the school secretary had waiting for her, she hit the roof.

"Who are you?! I don't recall seeing you at any of our meetings!" she screamed. Next she called the Principal and railed against my butting-in on their fine-tuned organization. I had to call her back and apologize (for -?), but I also asked her if this meant she wasn't interested in the square dance caller I had found who would come and call dances for free with his own sound equipment? I couldn't bring myself to tell her about the folklorico dance troupe that was willing to come, too. They never did go get that cart load of free stuff. In a very small pond was this little fish who felt so self-important that unconventional assets could only be perceived as a personal threat. I had just bumped into one of many "strong" women in various positions of "power" who happen to also be stupid.

Suddenly, unbelievably, at long last ~ is a smart woman who is also really pretty! AND she has long hair. Not the Cindy McHeiress-do long hair, but real woman long hair.

I wanted her to wear it in a pony-tail for her debut speech, as the ultimate "one of us" signatures a busy woman with long hair does first thing. Half my wish came true.

I know it shouldn't matter, but I love her feminine skirts and suits! Finally, a woman who will wear a DRESS just as easily as most women wear pants. (Michelle Obama's dresses at the DNC were absolutely stunning, btw!)

She has a hottie sports champion, working-man husband who is part Eskimo; a big plus with me any day.

Her sense of humor is welcomely wry. She has a recognizable speech pattern of one who is simply speaking instead of carefully pontificating. She is outrageously cheerful. She is gracious to reporters dogging her heels while she shops with her family. She has affectionate exchanges with an original husband she seems to like a lot.

Finally, a woman in power who doesn't move as if that power must be constantly acknowledged. Unconventionality obviously doesn't make her feel threatened.

Her dad took her hiking AND hunting.

She has FIVE kids.

Her little Piper giving baby brother a hair-lick-slicking was pure magic.

Change sneaked up on us, after all! While we recognize this wonderfully historic time in American election history for successes on both sides of the isle, this is the first time I feel like my time has come. And, similar to some of my experiences in the world, Sarah Palin has more critics that are sexist women than anyone else. And ~

. . . she wears super cute shoes without apology.

So there.

Bat Jack

Walking benignly among us ~ the common ones, is he who is Prince of Batness. Gifted, physically coordinated, articulate and dedicated to an emerging 6th sense reserved only for those who know the mysterious call of Greatness. Observing the refining process is our pleasure, and privilege.

Even the Dark Knight has an inner-child . . .And an itchy ear.

He has a love of picture books.

A fondness for hide-n-seek in the laundry room.Every Super Hero struggles with an inner-rage; it is what compels him to heights of daring and extreme limits of physical performance. A picture of stealth and cunning, the be-stockinged Dark Knightlet calculates his next heroic move.While the trials and foibles of the apprentice Super Hero are exhausting, rewards are very sweet indeed.

In fact, the Bat Jack easily elicits shock and astonishment from those who witness his amazing feats first hand.

Others, knowingly recognize a little of themselves bundled in new, smaller packaging. They envy the cape. Wisely, they speak their longing to no one.

Giggling like little girls, playing photo-booth is always a refreshing break from the pressure of extended family gatherings, even if the Batling is present and willing to perform.

Beautiful boys have beautiful mothers. They carefully follow the exploits of super-offspring. They worry. They encourage. They inspire with a soft, musical voice. They clean-up. They scold ever so gently only when Bat Powers are at their lowest ebb . . .

Bat Dads have strong arms always open to a little batling in need of comfort.

It is not weakness on the part of the young Knight, but a temporary release of energy his delightful metamorphosis requires.

The future of a hapless city anxiously awaits . . .

* The Inner-child Dark Knight, The Batling, Bat Jack
aka Jackson Gabriel Tanner age 27 mo.  Bat years = 6 weeks, 2 days

Derailed

Oh, I think I can

I surely think I will!

the handsome little Johnny train

cried out.

But he's just a man

stopped by the Rielle hill,

and a crippling case of self-respect drought.

It should now be O.K.

that he saved the day

by admitting it all to his wife

way back then.

What she can't explain,

is how totally insane

he was to be at that hotel

at 2 AM.

Rocker Dude

We felt pretty important to go downtown last night to the fancy Dodge Theatre, by-pass the regular ticket lines and walk up to the 'Will Call' window for our FREE tickets. David gave his name, and there was a little packet of 3 tickets waiting for us, just like that. 

Why, you may ask? Because the drummer for Flock of Seagulls is our close, personal friend. Actually, he's David's buddy and one time band-mate. I've only met him once. He is an exceptionally polite guy with a gentle spirit and a soft speaking voice. He smiles easily with a mouth that hosts brilliant white, perfect teeth. His language was clean in my presence, and he did not fit the stereotype of what I presumed a career touring Rock band guy would be like. (Very talented Mr. Michael Brahm is 2nd from the R)

It was the Phoenix stop of a nostalgia tour, featuring a line-up of 80's acts. The opener was Belinda Carlisle from The Go-Go's fame. Their spot was the guinea pig for the sound system, unfortunately. She had long blond hair extensions and wore a goofy hat. She sang badly about 4 or 5 songs that all sounded the same. It was not the voice I had remembered. Rachel and I were laughing so much we had to take a break. The show was even piped into the ladies' room eliminating any chance of escape.

Finally, after a $6 "jumbo" hot dog the size of a shrunken pickle sliver, and a delightfully stale batch of equally expensive nachos, the head-liner was on! We watched Michael gesture to the stage hands a lot as he inspected his drum set. Once he was satisfied with whatever the issue was - maybe the monitor - the show began. 

The sound was great, the little light show kind of annoying but the smoke machine really kicked butt - and of course the band was amazing. I had only seen Michael perform in a small club out in Scottsdale. It was exciting to see him in all his showmanship glory on the big stage, with the lights streaming dramatically through billowing clouds of towering smoke and his drum sticks flying like crazy! He was masterful. He threw them up high, catching them again without missing the beat and stood to point like, "DUDE!" at the lead guitar at the end of the song.  I thought the only thing missing from this picture was black leather pants. He was truly in his element. He was a classic, dynamo Rocker. 

Panic

Confusion and fear

followed the ghastly news from Kent.

Was this war?

It was not clear

who the enemy was

as bullets were spent,

and what the shooting was for.

A season of unrest;

a looting of peace in the homeland

as conflict abroad obsessed ~

and youthful innocence lost

(how could we have known?)

at such a cost

in Ohio.

* An historical companion to the Vietnam War, anti-war protests across the country escalated during the hot Spring of 1970. Emotions were raw on both sides of the issue. The killings at Kent State, Ohio, presented an unsettling pall of unspoken hurt I felt barely 3 months before I turned 13. Still too preoccupied with thinking about boys and horses, I had few resources from which to gain understanding about the tragedy. The Pulitzer-prize winning photograph by John Filo on the cover of Life magazine conveyed volumes in understanding one thing; it had to be wrong.

Fully ripe in an era of Beaver Cleaver white suburban values, I had been taught to trust authority. The National Guard, like the Police, were supposed to protect and serve. But suddenly, this rock-solid support system had crossed the line into something far too sinister and far too complicated to even think about. I buried my new, alien feelings of betrayal and said nothing to anyone about those 4 college students gunned down in broad daylight on a University campus in America.

I listened carefully whenever I heard my dad ranting about the "damn hippies" and communist-inspired "peace-niks". I looked at my brother, with his John Lennon wire frame glasses, long hair and knee-high fringed moccasins and his contra-band collection of rock records. He looked kind of like a "hippy", but he was only my brother. The kids lying dead at Kent State didn't look like hippies. Some of them were carrying their books to their next class.

The Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song on the radio seemed haunting in its beautiful vocal harmonies, even though I was uncomfortable with the line, "Tin soldiers and Nixon's coming...". This didn't sound right. It didn't sound fair to disrespect our President. But then, there were those pictures - anyone could see they were just kids at school. The whole thing was a tiny-voiced nagging that gently and gradually slipped away from my young sub-conscious until it was gone completely.

I stayed outside with my beloved pet chickens, caught horny toads, fretted about the braces on my teeth, rode my brother's hand-me-down banana seat bike underneath the elm tree shade of Jellico Ave, or holed-up at my girlfriend Kathy's house reading horse stories or Nancy Drew mysteries. I did not want to think about what had happened and what it might mean. Sure enough, my idyllic life in Northridge, California did not change at all.

38 years later I am struck by the chilling irony; the National Guardsmen, ill-prepared for domestic crowd control, were the same exact age as the students. They were all so incredibly young. The knee-jerk over reaction by the Governor to declare martial law and send in the Guard only speaks for the general panic of the time. Some felt the country was losing its youth to the dark side of free-love and flag-burning. But like generations before, it really wasn't as much about social anarchy as it was about self-expression. At Kent State that fateful day, the vast majority of her students were still in class and minding their own business. The vocal minority demonstrating had a right to do so up to a point. The two professors who talked them down from retaliatory violence after the imprudent shootings are true heroes nearly lost to obscurity now.

The Kent State shootings or the May 4th massacre happened at Kent State University in Kent, Ohio in 1970. Four students were killed by the Ohio National Guard, nine others were wounded, one of whom suffered permanent paralysis.

Some of the students who were shot had been protesting against the American invasion of Cambodia. Other victims had merely been walking nearby or observing the protest from a distance.

There was a significant national response to the shootings: hundreds of universities and high schools closed throughout the United States as eight million students went on strike. The incident served to further divide the country politically and inspire cultural germination through music and media.

* from 'Station Wagon Wars ~ growing up in the 60's' by cTanner

Anthropological Motherhood ~ the Beginning

Part Four

The development and sustainability of all societies is dependent upon successful reproduction. Our society of 2 was on the brink of consanguinal expansion. Our descent reckoning systems being fairly clear-cut, we felt sufficiently prepared to continue patterns of authority within our own socially stable union after about 18 months of marriage.

Gestation presented itself at a time when ultra-sounds were so wholly unreliable a witch doctor swirling turkey feathers in New Guiena could have done better. We were still enveloped in the ageless, happy mystery of not knowing who exactly would be introduced to us somewhere around the 40^th week. There was no anxiety about shopping for pink or blue as young couples do now. My mother had given us a white and yellow bassinette from Sears. It was waiting, ready, with a neutral blanket. We placed a duckling-print doll-sized t-shirt (pre-“onesies”) and yellow booties inside, and instantly the waiting seemed more tolerable.

Years behind more patrilineal-tolerant Europe, America was at the very beginning of allowing fathers into the delivery room. They would be trusted to do so only after passing a mandatory 6 week birthing class sponsored by the hospital. The material presented by an unmarried 23 year old RN was dismissive of the more objectionable aspects of birthing. There was a lot of emphasis on the new Lamaze breathing and stretching techniques using gentle words like ‘support’, ‘relax’ and ‘visualize’. I thankfully concluded the bloody horror stories my mother-in-law detailed to me during my entire pregnancy must be gross exaggerations of an otherwise very routine, well-rehearsed human experience.

Labor began on February 6^th 1978 with text book perfect symptoms. I timed contractions for an hour while our little clock radio with the flipping cards clicked away the early morning minutes. Beginning labor was a gentle, prodding sensation that gave me a marvelous and thrilling sense of knowing; knowing that today my long and difficult wait would finally be over. I felt other-worldly, like a lovely, ripe Supreme Being who – with an omniscient gift of revelation, generously bequeathed that knowledge on the one I loved as if it were my exquisite gift to him alone. I opened my mouth, and the sacred words issued forth; “the baby is coming today,” I said.

By the time we were driving to the hospital in our Ford Torino station wagon with the wood paneling on the sides, feelings had changed. David stopped at a 7/11 that no longer exists on the corner of 12^th Street and McDowell and raced inside to buy film for his camera. Omniscience long gone; sheer panic replaced it with a roar. I had been cruelly betrayed by that waste-of-time prenatal class.

A wheelchair and a labor room later, I solemnly realized I would not live to see my child. I thought about my funeral and how tragic it would be that this young mother was lost. I could see David (the grieving husband) shaking hands with people too stricken to speak. I would fail my life’s purpose at the very moment I might have obtained it! Too utterly terrified to express my fear, I wrestled with the pain like a trout thrashing on the end of a line. A screaming trout.

David attempted massage techniques from our prenatal class, but I could not tolerate it. I yelled at him not to touch me. I could hear other women screaming from either side of the long, linoleum tiled hall. These echoed cries could not have been more frightening. Promised pain-relief never arrived as our stupid class assured us it would. Labor was progressing too fast; I was past the point of safely receiving medication and must face the monster of hard labor a natural. It arrived with primal ferocity.

At one point I felt a hand holding mine. My eyes squeezed tightly shut, I gripped that hand so hard I could feel my fingernails cutting into it. The contraction over, I opened my eyes to thank David for holding my hand. But a thin, grey-haired nurse was smiling at me in spite of the abuse. She brought her wrinkled face closer to mine and said with gentle finality, “your baby will be here before noon. You will be all right. It’s almost time, dear.” I glanced at the clock. I could go a little while longer. This was the first time I began to believe I might survive after all.

The delivery room was a whirlwind of motion, cold air and brilliant florescent light. David whispered encouragement in my ear and snapped pictures. A young nurse was urging me with crisp instructions. A couple more waited nearby. A young intern was poised and ready. Being the center of attention was rather meaningless. In fact, nothing mattered except the task at hand. I had never worked so hard in my life. Labor had removed every other sensory perception; the whole world was focused on my debut as a mother.

At 11:29 AM the doctor pronounced, “It’s a little girl!” I said, “Robin Marie...”, the name David had picked from the Nantucket Sleighride song by Mountain ever since he was in High School. The immortal Lesley West sings: ‘Don’t cry, little Robin Marie...’ And she didn’t. After a brief towel rub, she was placed in my arms swaddled tightly in the warm, stiff hospital-issue receiving blanket. Her eyes were open, and she was sucking her teeny, angel-like fingers. She was breath-taking.

The old nurse had been a Prophetess. I had crossed ‘the valley of the shadow’ just as millions and hundreds of millions of other women had done before me in an ancient and deeply exquisite super-natural rite of passage. There would be no funeral. The yellow and white bassinette waiting at home would have a tiny, lovely occupant. We who had been two, were now three.