Pick yourself up, dust yourself off . . .

 . . . and start all over again.

Swing Time is one of my favorite Astaire/Rogers movies.  When I was a teenager, I used to stay up late at night to catch them on UHF channels - way before you could collect these things on VHS tapes.  (When my parents were out of town, I also would listen to Edith Piaf torch songs and drink my folks Gallo jug wine until I would cry and imagine myself dying in a Paris gutter with my tragic heroine.) I was an eclectic soul.   In the above scene, Ginger is encouraging Fred not to give up, perseverance will win the day.

One of my children has been going through some pretty serious challenges.  Several failed romances, some serious career setbacks and a genetic predisposition to down one's sorrows in addictive behaviors left her teetering on an edge that was no longer acceptable to her mother.  I blew the whistle, called a time-out and really meant it this time.

Of my three kids, she's the most ambitious.  Her early life was all about ballet until chronic tendonitis ended that trajectory at age 12.  She moved onto music - playing the flute, and then conducting, setting some pretty high goals, and always achieving them.  She's traveled world as the head drum major for some of the biggest parades on this planet.  But all that glory has has all come to an end at the tender age of twenty-one.

Some of this was her own decision, some was out of her hands.  Some was bad luck, but much of it was the glass ceiling that roofed the old boys club.  Life can be pretty cruel.

Now she finds herself back home, under the care of a family doctor, a chiropractor, a therapist, a psychiatrist and her family.  She is fragile and we are keeping her close.

As I hoped, her overriding ambition is coming through. Although she has dropped out of school and is re-evaluating her career goals, she is returning to her former love of dance.  Despite a lingering headache from new medications and a stomach ache that doesn't go away, she's off to a beginning waltz class tonight.  "Mom, I may not be able go professional with ballet anymore, but I bet I can go a long way with ballroom."

That's my girl.  Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.

Stripping yourself of your rights

I escorted a group of 7th grade boys (mine included) to a local park today to run around the rocks and trees and just "be boys" instead of staring at their computer screens.  We got to the closest park only to discover some sort of fire fighting crew clearing trash and underbrush.  They had shovels and picks, one had a chainsaw and another was dragging away a dirty rug we saw there earlier in the week.  They were all wearing orange and staring at us in a rather challenging way, as if daring us not to approach any closer.  Only then did I realize that they were there courtesy of the California Department of Corrections - prison labor if you will.

Sensing this was not a place to linger, we crossed the bridge to the park on the other side of road and I perched myself on a rock as planned to read my book and quietly supervise the the pre-teen revelry.  My gaze lifted to the other park across the 4 lane roadway and saw the prison crew had taken a break and was similarly perched on rocks . . . . watching me, watching them.

They were a good distance away, and I have to assume properly supervised, so I didn't feel threatened but wondered, what choices led them to the other side of the road.  I did some research on Dept. of Corrections Fire Crews and found that the candidates are only chosen if they are non-violent offenders.  (good!) They can earn $1.45 - $3.90 per day, not much when you consider how hard they may work sometimes, but, they are outside on a beautiful day instead of locked in a cell. Perhaps they should pay us for the privilege?

What are their crimes?  My guesses include car theft, robbery, welfare or insurance fraud, drug offenses, or vandalism.  When we lived near the orange groves, I used to marvel at the "industrious" people that sold bags of oranges on the roadside.  We used to call their product "BMO - black market oranges" cause we knew they acquired them illegally - but I figured if I was really desperate for money to feed my family, I would sell BMO too.  What ever it took.  It's a shitty economy and people are desperate.  Who am I to judge?

So I sat there, in my newly purchased orange T-shirt from Target, gazing at the prison labor in their old sweaty orange T-shirts - grateful that my choices have been better than theirs - but all of us appreciating a beautiful day.

There but for the grace of god go I.

My name might not be Roxy, but I am a stripper.

A couple of months ago, I was talking to the manager of my mother's bank and she asked me what I did for a living.  I replied with a sly smile "I'm a stripper".  Enjoying the initial look of shock and then strained polite interest on her face, I hastened to explain that I strip paint -  using heat and chemicals and brute force and tiny dental picks.

Writing about stripping made me want to strip some more, so I did.  Got out the chemicals this morning and started working again on the swinging, five panel door that adjoins my kitchen.  I started stripping it at least a year ago, and am only now getting back to it.  The kitchen has been a work in progress since we moved in 11 years ago.  Twice, we've been close to getting a new counter but held back at the last minute.  I'm pretty close again.  Got the hubby to Home Depot to look at counter top materials.  My heart wants soapstone, but it's very expensive to get on the west coast.  Second choice is carrera marble.  That is probably the more traditional choice for this location, but most contractors try to talk us out of it: "Too soft, stains easily".  But it's great for rolling out pastry.  (Note: I never roll out pastry.)

Regarding Roxy,  I started searching for her again.  I think I found her burial place:

It's a cemetery in Fairfield Illinois.

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=67945016

No surprises there, I knew the date and city of her death.  The odd thing is that there are no obvious family members listed at the cemetery.  No children who have died in infancy.  Not her parents. The rest of the family is buried at a different cemetery. Why is Roxy alone at 39?

Who is Roxy Turner?

No, my name is not Roxy Turner, but sometimes, I wish it was.  Roxy Turner was my paternal great-grandmother and from the moment I heard her name, I thought she sounded like a stripper.  I wondered what her existence was like to have turned to a life of revealing her body to make ends meet.  Did she enjoy it?

Of course,  as far as I know, she was never a stripper.  In fact, I know very little about her.  My monthly payment to ancestry.com has turned up very little on Roxy Turner.  She married John Shaffer at an early age, had several children with him and died in her thirties.  He remarried and nothing more has been noted about her.  Who was she?  An enigma.  Much like the inside of my mind.  To be revealed.  Slowly, layer by layer.