The Pit Then. The Pit Now.

We've all felt it.  The awkwardness of walking past the cool kids.  I came from a progressive high school where we had a "pit", an orange carpeted area, a few steps down from the hall way, where you could sit between classes.  It, more or less, kept the crowds at bay.  It worked for the most part.  Some of us felt comfortable tumbling down into the steps of the pit, with our friends either behind us, or some in front of us, already hanging out.  We lounged, amongst the supervising eyes of the school aides, between periods to socialize, study, or just be.  The high school drama continued in the "pit".  Actually, truth be told, the "pit" probably made the drama worse because it allowed a viewing point for those passing the rest of us, relaxing, going to class.  Often the ones in the pit were kids that were cutting classes, or the ones that didn't have the heavy class load of some of the other kids.  Yet everyone who passed was scrutinized by those who sat in the "pit".

The funny or odd thing was that anyone, really anyone, could sit in the pit.  There were no boundaries in the pit.  I never felt them, and I definitely was not cool.  But once you were in the pit, you were the Judge and Jury and a pickle too.

I remember hanging out there once in a while.  It was in front of the Earth Science class and it was convenient to the girls restroom.   I could get to choir, band, math and science in the same amount of time and so it was natural for me to find someone who could or would meet me in the pit.  I never thought the pit was a social enigma.  I thought it was where you met your friends.

Then years and years later I found a friend who hated walking by the pit.  Who hated walking down the high school halls.  She remembers the angle of her head as she carried her books to her side.  I remember how funny she was when we hung out together, but when we spoke I do remember how she never did let that guard down at high school. In truth, I sadly now recall how I didn't make more of an effort to include her in my horribly dysfunctional circle at various times throughout our years.  Now, 30 plus years later, we're all at different stages.  Some of us have grown children who have babes of their own, making my comrades grandparents.  Then there are those, like myself, who still have young ones.  We face our reunion with trepidation.  What should we wear?  What we should we say?  Should we say we stayed at home to raise our children or is that not accomplished enough?  Should we try and hide the 50 lbs we've gained since high school  because there is two people in the entire class that didn't gain that weight?

I wonder if those thin people we're so terrified would bring on the same reaction if they were new neighbors that moved in down the street.  Would we turn away because they were thinner than us?  No.  We may be envious.  But most likely, we'd invite them into our homes, our lives and we'd find commonality to laugh about.  They would learn to know us as we are now, at this age, in this stage, and this period of life.  Our kids either driving us nuts, or not, and varying from day to day.  We drive them nuts with the same consistency.  Ultimately, it would be accepting.

Yet walk into a high school reunion and all the insecurities that we had at 16 or 17 come flooding back so strong that we are immobilized.  We fret for months prior to the event.  We shop for dresses that we can't afford, to the Good Will with the great deals that not only look fabulous on, are a great price, but we really will wear again.

No.  It's not the same.  My friend who I spoke to tonight about our reunion.  She is brilliant.  She is funnier than hell.  She writes in a way that every teenager would feel truly, and she writes that the middle age woman finding her way around again would feel.  She sees things that others didn't see then.  At the time she felt on the outside, yet now, as I speak to her for hours, I know that she observed so much more than the rest of us did.  The feelings are deeper and more clear.  She can describe a situation in a way that you feel you are truly there in the room.

Tonight we spoke for 2 1/2 hours, and I reluctantly got off because my youngest needed her mama's loving arms, and truly that's what comes first.  My dear friend had her arms around her baby that had fallen asleep on her lap.  So, we both had come to the same point at the same time.  But we view each other so differently.  I see her brilliance.  I see her humor.  I see her ability to view into the soul and dissect and preserve what is truly important and over look what might have been hurtful because at that point, it truly was just about age.  She can remember things for what they were.

She sees her truth.  Now, after hearing her, I see her truth.  But I also see the greatness in the beauty of what she says.  I hear what she says at 48.  I read what she reads, and as the parent of daughters, I know what her writing could bring to the world on their level, and on the level of all those women that are facing the same stages that she struggles with.  She's not alone.  We struggle.  We look to make sure no one sees our tears.  And if we're really lucky someone sees.  A woman sees -- one who knows the secrets.  The secrets that we're not supposed to admit.

We're middle-aged.  We had a miserable high school life, but didn't want to admit it to anyone in case they had a great one.  The reality is we're all in the same  pit.  But this pit isn't about judging people as they pass with the current boyfriend, or clothing.  Or trying to fit in.  Or even trying not to trip into or out of the said pit.  This pit is a gathering of women facing the second, most important, part of their life with their heads held high.

Baby, we've made it!  We're not defined with where we live, or what we do, or when we do it or we where shop.  We're defined by what we do, and how we do it TOGETHER, always.  The message we send to our daughters behind us.

So, fly, my wonderful friend -- fly from the pit, circle it and land again.  Enjoy the trip and enjoy the landing even more.  We've waited a long time to move forward!   Move over, world, we're moving up and onward!

Dear Daddy on your 75th . . . .

All of a sudden I was struck with the reality that tomorrow my father, the young, vibrant, active young dad will turn 75.  He can't be 75 because he travels every where.  Literally.  My girls will often discuss the how many countries Grandpa hasn't' been to.  There aren't that many.

More importantly, when I sat down to write down 75 wonderful things about my dad I was stuck, not because I couldn't come up with them, but because I couldn't stop.  And I couldn't possibly count the people's lives that he's touched throughout his 75 years in a positive manner, whether it just be passing through, or something more permanent.  He's generous to a fault.  He's kind.  I found out many years later that he loaned money to people that we had no clue needed it, not that he had it to lend.  I don't think he ever got it back.  I don't think he wanted it back.  He's just that kind of guy.

Sure, he's an only child -- still at 75 we have to work around schedules because he doesn't quite get the ones that the kids sometimes have days that schedules have to be changed vastly different from the originally planned.  He's not quite sure we're raising his grandchildren the way he would, but he's quick to say that he's going to stay out of it.  And stay out of it he does, until the next time it comes up.  He's diabetic and forgetful.  He adores music of all kinds, and finds wonders in each of his grand children even though he may not always understand their choices.

I remember when Keith Ryan broke up with me in 10th grade.  I'll never forget it.  I was, of course, heart broken because I was convinced we were meant to be together.  I remember it was after dinner and the dishes were done. The light over the kitchen sink was still on.  (It was always practically pitch black in our house.  Once you were out of the room, all the lights went out, except the one over the sink.)  I got off the phone and I began to cry.  I wasn't sure how I truly felt, but I knew crying would always make it better.  My poor father stood there, not sure at all, in deed, if crying was going to solve again.  But before I knew it his arms were around me and I was crying into his shoulder.  He just held me until I could cry no more.  I believe I got over Keith Ryan the next day, and I know it was because I got it all out that night with my Daddy, who is still trying to get me to call him Dad.  As a matter of fact, when I was 14 I wanted to be "different", so I changed the spelling of my name from Kathy to Kathie.  It didn't make me different, it use made it virtual impossible to get anything preprinted with my name on it.  But he still writes my cards to "Kathy" and signs them "Dad".

My sisters and I all have the same first initial -- "K" -- and one year for Valentine's day he bought a old "K" charm with a small diamond chip in it for us to share.  And share we did, because it was thoughtful.  It was silly and my own children now wouldn't get it maybe, but we did.  We laugh about it now because he denies it and so many of our stories when we are together, but he is and always will be my Daddy.

Daddy he will always be, in my mind and in my heart.  He was probably the first person I used an forbidden word to, yet he was the last person I hugged when my mother died and I had to come home to my own family, and had to leave him behind with his grief.  He loved my mother with all his heart and soul and they taught us about love, and forgiveness, and change, and cooperation, and peace.

He's a man who stands up for what he believes, who taught us to do the same.  He can be overbearing, like his daughters at times, but he is generous, and kind, and strong, and endless.  I will never, ever be able to thank my God for all the "extra" years I've had him for so long past when I had my mother.  I'm hoping for at least another fifteen years.  What do you think, Daddy?

Love,
Kathie