Southern Ingenuity

Glenn Allen Minnix was my father. He was a member of the greatest generation - a radio operator and navigator on a B-17 bomber during WWII. But that's a story for another day, one that I will defer to my brother, Jay, because he is the true expert about that time in our father's life. Today I'll tell you a little more about Dad's special, MacGyver-like engineering genius.

I honestly can't remember the year, but one day, probably in the late 60's to early 70's, I came home from doing whatever it is teenagers do to find my dad and several other men working in our basement. They were making a terrible racket. Groaning, creaking, pounding, (and a few curses,) followed by the ear-splitting shriek of a metal saw, emitted up the stairs and rang throughout the house.

Trying to make myself heard above the clamor, I asked my mom what was going on. She explained, loudly, that Dad and his helpers were replacing the broken water pipe feeding our house from the street. I knew that the old, galvanized line coming into our house from the meter had been leaking for a while, so it didn't surprise me that my father was trying to fix it. But what did baffle me was how he was going to manage that from INSIDE the house when logic told me that they should be OUTSIDE digging up the old pipe and replacing it with new. So, taking my ears (and potentially my life) into my hands, I went downstairs to find out what sort of feat of creative engineering my sweet dad was attempting this time.

I found Dad and two other men (apologies for not remembering who) wrestling lengths of muddy galvanized pipe out through a hole in the front wall of the house's foundation. One end of a huge wench was attached by a huge chain to one of the support poles holding up the house. The other end was attached to the pipe. The men ran the wench until a long segment of the pipe emerged through the hole and into the basement, then they used the saw to cut it off and tossed it aside. The process was repeated. slowly and painstakingly. I stayed and watched for awhile, my heart pounding with worry that this crazy, time and energy saving scheme would literally bring the house down on top of us.

After a while, it became obvious how Dad planned to get the old rusted and broken pipe out of the yard, without digging, but what wasn't nearly so clear to me was how he was going to get the new pipe installed. That was until I saw the end of the old pipe come through the wall firmly attached to the new pipe. So, I realized, there was method to his madness after all. Dad had cut loose the old pipe at the meter and coupled it to the new pipe before beginning the wenching process, and so, the new pipe was pulled along into the space vacated by the old without having to disturb the turf in the front yard or move the first shovelful of dirt. Genius.

Broken Down Tractors

My dad loved to tinker. He bought vintage Mustangs and brought them back to life, rebuilt numerous cars and trucks, and fixed just about every mechanical thing in our house at one time or another. He lived by the "If it moves, grease it; If it doesn't move, paint it," adage.

A Greatest Generation MacGyver, Dad really could fix just about anything with a hammer and electrician's tape. I almost wrote that he could fix practically everything with a screwdrive and tape, but Dad wasn't that subtle. A hammer was more his style. In fact, I still have an indelible image of him pounding a screw into some project using a hammer, and then commenting that the threads on a screw were put there for removal purposes only. Dad generally took the most expedicious route to solve any problem or fix any broken down thing. He never wasted effort on things like actually screwing in the screw.

Dad only owned one new car in his life because he saw no reason to shoulder the financial loss of the initial depreciation, when he could make used cars work almost like new. And if that was true for cars, it was even more so for lawn tractors. Not only did he NOT EVER buy a new lawn tractor, he loudly ridiculed anyone (including my husband) who did so.

Buying old tractors and fixing them up was one of Dad's primary post-retirement hobbies. And if the old thing broke down or threw a belt every time he tried to mow with it, so much the better - because the breakdown gave him another reason to tinker - another reason make a run to the junk yard or hardware store. (He actually bought mowing deck and tractor belts by the gross!)

The most notorious of his tractor creations was the one he cobbled together from two, or maybe three, junk-yard finds. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find a photograph of that "monster" tractor, but it ended up looking similar to the one pictured above. Since the engine was from one tractor and the transmission was from another, they weren't exactly compatible, so Dad ended up having to put two gear boxes in the thing to make it run slowly enough to mow. The down side was that the improvised rigging made the tractor a bit too long for the job it was intended to do. It's wide turning radius forced Dad to mow both our yard and the neighbor's if he wanted to get the darn thing turned around and headed back in the opposite direction.

Despite the fact that the monster tractor wasn't particularly well suited for yard mowing, it did make a great vehicle for getting around the neighborhood. When our sons were little, Dad loved to pull them up in his lap for a ride down the street and around the block. The thing made so much noise that all the neighbors were sure to look out to see what was up, which gave Dad a great opportunity to show off his grandsons.

Remember that I told you that Dad made fun of my husband for spending the money to buy a new tractor? Well, here's the rest of that story. After Dad died, my husband took on the responsibility of mowing the yard for my mom, using his new Cub Cadet tractor. The first three times he went down to the house to mow, something on that new tractor broke - a belt snapped, or a mowing deck wheel came off, etc. The first two times it happened, my husband figured it was just a coincidence, normal wear and tear. But when it occurred again on the third attempt to mow, he decided had to be more than that. His thoughts were confirmed when he heard my dad's laughter ringing in his ears.

Dinky and the Duck

I introduced you to my Aunt Vi, AKA "Dinky," in an earlier post - the sore-toed sister and accomplice of the pie-pan, chicken murdering sister. In today's episode, Dinky is getting ready to receive a suitor, a beau, or as my grandmother would have said, "a feller she's sweet on."

If you remember, I also mentioned that my mother's nuclear family included my grandfather and grandmother, nine siblings, and an old bachelor uncle. Uncle George was, for lack of a better description, a character. Well, "a character" is actually an understatement, but it's the best I can do at the moment. Let's just say that Uncle George was a tease, and a prankster, and a bit of a scamp.

Dinky also had four older siblings, three of whom were already married at the time of the duck incident. Kind, hardworking, devoted, Mae, the eldest, married Renford Murphy, an exceedingly sweet-tempered man, after the war and moved to Greenville Alabama with him. (That's a story for another day.) James, the serious oldest son, was married to Lucille, a perky, petite woman, with the tiniest feet I think I ever saw on a grown woman. And then there was my mom, Vaughnie (or Bonnie as she was known by most, because she hated her given name) who was married to Glenn, my notorious, bug-squashing father, whom you met in the "Stiff-neck Chronicles."

Now, just imagine what sort of devious mischief might happen on a lazy, boring Sunday afternoon, when you put that prankster uncle together with my jokester father (especially if you add a snort or two into the mix.) And then imagine that you are Vi - all dressed up in your Sunday-go-to-meetin' finest, ready and anxious to receive your gentleman caller - the perfect, unsuspecting target. Got an image?

So what do you think, happened next? Well, it wasn't fun for Dinky, I can tell you that much for sure.

The expected date arrived, nervously shaking hands all around, and was shuffled into a proffered place on the front porch swing to await his girl. Moments later, Vi came out of the house, smiling brightly at her gentleman caller, her dress perfection and curls bouncing in that flirtatious way curls used to bounce in the 40's. She practically danced across the worn floor boards and took her seat beside her young man on the swing.

Now the treachery begins. With a mischievous grin, Uncle George scooped up one of the baby ducklings that were running around in the yard and handed it to my dad, his partner in crime, gesturing for him to give it to Vi. Which he did of course, with no hesitation, placing the baby duck squarely in the middle of Vi's lap, on the full skirt of her best dress.

I'm sure you can guess what happened next. The duckling did as ducklings do when dropped against their will into the lap of a loudly protesting teenaged girl. It squawked and flapped away, leaving a long streak of duck poo in its wake. Dinky, seeing that her beautiful dress was ruined, and mortified beyond belief, bolted for the house, chased by guffaws of laughter from Uncle George, Brother-in-law Glenn, and all of the other family members who were witness to her embarrassment. Witnesses, I might add who did nothing to forestall her humiliation, even when they knew what was coming.

As if this incident in itself wasn't bad enough, it has been remembered and recounted time and time again by Vi's siblings and in-laws - to her continued dismay. Quite often throughout the years, when it was felt that a reminder was called for, a little yellow duck of some sort would show up at the appropriate time, and the moment would be relived in all it's hilarity. This included a birthday, not too many years ago, when a cake sported a yellow ducky and read, "Happy Birthday, Dinky!"

Guarding Your Tongue - Is "Honesty" the Best Policy?

What has happened to the sage advice, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all?" I grew up hearing that expression, meant to spare feelings and maintain relationships, didn't you? My mother was particularly adamant about it. Well, these days it seems like that wise admonition has been completely disregarded in favor of speaking your mind, no matter who is hurt or what relationships are ruined.

Today we're living in a world that is almost completely lacking in social graces. Manners have gone the way of quiet gentility - thrown out the proverbial window. And in favor of what? Brutal honesty? Which is, to my mind, simply an excuse for expressing any mean-spirited opinion one possesses, with no need to filter or moderate the hatefulness being spouted.

Over and over again, I'm hearing and reading statements such as - "I'm just being brutally honest. If that hurts your feelings, here's a Band-Aid." So, now it's not only okay to attack viciously and without conscience, but to blame the victim for being "too sensitive" if the attack causes them harm? I don't think so. In fact, I agree with Richard Needham who said, "People who are brutally honest get more satisfaction out of the brutality than the honesty."

Frankly, I do not understand the appeal that proclaimed "honesty" has these days. Not only because that honesty tends to be simple brutality specifically aimed at particular targets, but also because that proclaimed "honesty" is actually personal opinion spun to resemble truth, and not truth at all. Just because a person says what he or she thinks and makes a claim of "being honesty" does not guarantee that there is any truth whatsoever in their statements, though many people assume that honesty and truth are synonymous.

Webster defines honesty as frank directness, and bluntness, in addition to integrity, morality, righteousness, goodness, truthfulness, and reliability. I say that there is much, much more of the first two definitions in most statements of honesty than any of the latter. Honesty these days is simply not what I grew up knowing honesty to be. Now its a tool to sway, or browbeat, others to your way of thinking and to belittle those who don't agree with your premise.

So, in this, I long for "The Good Old Days," when people valued thoughtfulness, kindness, and circumspectness in speech, and when they spoke to build bridges between people and not to tear them down. And I wonder just how far this brutal trend will go and how much damage it will ultimately do. It worries me.

Not to preach, but...we are warned, repeatedly, and not only by adages spouted by our elders, but by the Big Guy upstairs, to guard our tongues -

Proverbs 15:1- "A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger."

James 3: 5, 6 - " Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one's life on fire, and is itself on fire by hell." and

Ephesians 4: 29 - " Do not let unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."

So I say, in this, do as your mother told you.

Leading with Your Heart

I'm and ENFJ and I'm here to help!

Over 20 years ago, I was introduced to Myers Briggs Personality Type Theory and I was hooked from the start. All my life I had felt that there was something wrong with me because I was more sensitive and easily wounded than either of my parents and many of my friends. Throughout my childhood and teen years, I was chastised for "wearing my feelings on my sleeve" and for not being able to easily "roll with the punches." I was much relieved when I first took the MBTI and found out that, though my ENFJ type is relatively rare in the population (15% or so), there are still lots and lots of people like me - dominant Extraverted Feelers - outgoing folks who lead with their hearts.

So, I realized, there wasn't something wrong with me after all. I am who God made me to be - and that's all right. Do I need to cultivate my critical thinking skills or to even learn how to put on a Teflon overcoat when called for? Of course. There are definitely times when it's important to know how to remove feelings from the equation and to reason logically - considering only the facts. And there are even times when that nonstick surface is essential for letting the negative (especially unnecessarily harsh criticism) slide off. But still, most of the time it's okay to be me and to lead with my heart.

Understanding my personality type has also helped explain much of my approval-seeking behavior. Wanting to be loved and approved of by others is natural for most folks, but it is in the DNA of ENFJ's like me. We need atta-girl's and encouraging smiles almost as much as we need air and water, which is why we try so hard to get validation from others and why we feel so defeated and hopeless when approval is consistently withheld. When others disapprove of us, or heaven forbid, dislike us, we are demolished - and at least in my case, I find myself back in the downward spiral of self blame - wondering "What's wrong with me? Why don't they like me?"

Being an ENFJ also helps to explain why I have such a difficult time ending relationships or cutting people loose - even when those relationships or people are toxic to me. I just can't seem to give up working toward reconciliation even when it isn't in my best interests. Often, I'm plagued by thoughts like, "If I just try hard enough, he/she will come around," of "I know I can be who he/she wants me to be," thoughts that are not productive and should be quickly short-circuited. Trouble is, people-pleasing is not only a product of my upbringing, it's in my very nature, and learning when to let go is difficult to impossible.

That deep-seated need for approval is why excessive criticism can be completely debilitating for Extraverted Feelers, like me. Want to crush me? That's easy - just keep finding fault with me without ever balancing that by offering any praise. Since my natural tendency is for self-blame, all you have to do is feed into that and you can get the best of me without really trying. But on the flip side, all it takes is a few kind words, a compliment or two, and you'll get the very best me there is. I will work harder, and more joyfully, just to keep the praise coming.

Yes, I'm and ENFJ and I'm here to help.

A Hen, a Toe, and a Pie Pan - A Tale of Murder in Rural Bedford County Virginia

All of the funny stories in my family do not come from my dad's side of the tree. There are anecdotes aplenty in my mother's branches as well. How could there not be with six sisters, three brothers, an old bachelor uncle, and my grandmother and grandfather all living together in the big, white farmhouse?

On the afternoon in question, my Aunt Vi, short for Viola Frances, AKA "Dinky" (a pet name given to her by my grandfather - a name she loathed by the way), was sitting on edge of the back porch, swinging her feet back and forth. The day before, she had stubbed one of her big toes, so it now sported a huge gauze bandage. Vi was never one for understatement, or for doing anything half-way. The enormity of the bandage was definitely overkill for the treatment of a relatively small injury, but it got her out of some of the chores she hated for a day or two, so she was milking it.

As many small family farms did, back in the day, the chickens were given the run of the yard. They milled around beneath Vi's feet, as she sat on the porch, browsing for bugs and leftover grain. One hen in particular was curiously attracted to the big, gauze wrapping on Vi's toe, and before she could be shooed away, she pecked viciously at the bandage, bringing shrieks of pain from Dinky.

The cries brought my Aunt Reva (Reva Belle - no nickname here as Reva was not the nickname sort) running to see what was happening. Now, Reva was the serious, determined, get out of the way, I'm in charge, sister, so when she found Vi crying and clutching her toe, and pointing angrily at the guilty hen, she sprang into action. Picking up an empty pie pan, which had previously held chicken feed, she sailed it, Frisbee-like, toward the offending hen. Though her intention had only been to scare the old girl, sadly, Reva's aim was true. The pie pan hit the poor chicken with a solid "thunk," instantly breaking her neck.

First came the shock of realizing that the hen was dead and then came the dilemma - What to do with the chicken? In his younger years, my grandfather was not the most patient or indulgent father. Who would be, raising ten kids on a hardscrabble farm through the depression? So, the girls were more than a bit nervous about telling Granddaddy that Reva had accidentally killed a chicken. To head off any adverse consequences, Reva decided that they would just have to prepare the chicken as if she had always been the dinner entree. Unfortunately for Vi, executing that plan meant that her strategy to avoid chores because of her injury was necessarily derailed, as she was forced to help behead, clean, scald, pluck, and ready the hen for the evening meal.

Thankfully, for Vi and Reva, their ploy worked. Granddaddy never found out that the chicken he enjoyed for his supper was actually a murder victim - well, second-degree henslaughter victim, anyway. And they had a funny story to tell for years to come.

The Stiff Neck Chronicles

All families have their quirks and quirky members. Many also have humorous anecdotes about particular members that are oft-shared and oft-repeated, until everyone in hearing range can quote them verbatim. My family is no exception. Fact is - We probably have quite a few more anecdotes to share than most families because the majority of our family members have a comic quirk or two or three. More likely than not, whenever two or more are gathered together, either my brother or I will recite one, or two, or three of those funny stories. And of course, I'm going to do so right now.

The first story I'll call, "Stiff Necks and Volkswagen's." Both my grandfather and my father worked for the railroad. Their jobs, as a locomotive mechanic and electrician, required them to crawl into small, tight  spaces and contort their bodies to reach parts and wiring. As a result, both developed deteriorating discs in their necks, which caused them pain whenever they were forced to swivel their heads too far to the left or right. So, their solution to the problem was NOT to turn their heads more than about 45 degrees to either side. Which meant that my dad did not, ever, turn his head to check behind him when driving. He always relied on his mirrors.

As you can imagine, this resulted in numerous fender benders. Anyone who parked their vehicle in the driveway at our house did so at their own risk, as my dad was notorious for backing into any vehicle parked there. In fact, I don't believe we owned a vehicle that hadn't been backed into by my dad at some time. That included my brother's "new" hand-me-down car, which had just been freshly painted - to his utter dismay. And of course, Dad refused to have it fixed, so my brother had to drive that dented car back to the University of Virginia and throughout graduate school.

Now maybe backing into cars isn't a funny thing in your house, but after it happens as often as it did in mine, you get to a point where you may as well laugh. The biggest laugh we ever got over my dad's backing-up antics, was when he backed over a VW Beetle. Oh yes, he did. Really.

Dad was heading home from work in East End Shops one afternoon. Just as he approached the exit, a train appeared down the line and the gates descended. As was typical for dad, he got just a little bit impatient waiting, so he flipped his car into reverse and backed up with only a quick glance in his mirrors. WHAM! BAM! The back end of his old Ford reared up and came to a sudden stop. Dad quickly hopped out of the car to see what had happened and was completely shocked when he found the back bumper of his car firmly planted against the windshield of a little VW Beetle.

Thankfully the driver of the tiny car was not injured, but the bug had definitely been no match for the big, heavy sedan my dad drove. From that day on we called Dad's car the "bug smasher."

This second tale I'll title, "Stiff Necks and Hay!" As I indicated above, both my dad and granddad had an aversion to swiveling their necks to look behind them. I can't remember my granddad ever backing over a tiny German auto, but he did back over my dad. Oh yes, he did. Really.

Granddaddy purchased the farm, where I was born and where my husband and I now live, in 1950. He raised  and sold Hereford beef cattle for additional income and as hedge against another depression. So, of course, hay had to be grown, cut, and baled to feed the cattle during the winter. Dad and his brother, and my brother and our boy cousins were enlisted to help with the hay. One hot summer, Grandaddy was driving his Ford 8N tractor, pulling the hay wagon, while my Dad picked up the square bales and handed them up to another helper on the trailer who stacked them neatly.

No one really knows why Granddaddy decided to back up with the tractor and trailer, but apparently he had his reasons - likely to get into a better position to reach the next row of hay bales. All they know for sure is that he started backing up without looking behind him. Unfortunately, my dad was standing just behind the trailer wheel, handing up a hay bale, when the tire rolled up over his boot and laid him down in the pasture. Of course, that precipitated much screaming and yelling, by my dad and all the other helpers, yelling that Granddaddy couldn't hear for the roar of the tractor. But thankfully, he stopped backing up of his own volition just about the time the tractor tire reached Dad's knee.

Once again, we were blessed that Dad was not seriously injured, as the thick carpet of pasture grass cushioned his leg so that the weight of the partially filled trailer did no major damage. Dad was left with a sore knee, which plagued him from time to time for the rest of his life, and a great story to tell on my Granddad.

Next time I'll tell you the tale of the hen and the pie pan.

Daydream Believer*

Do you ask "What if?" when others around you ask "What is?" Do you love to immerse yourself completely in a novel, contrary the demands of your family to do something productive? Do you long to become a dancer, musician, writer, poet, playwright, storyteller, or actor when everyone around you insists that you choose a career that is more practical? If so, then you, like me, are a dreamer raised by, and perhaps surrounded by, realists. And you understand how I feel.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to write and perform stories that entertain and engage people, bringing them into the worlds I create in my imagination. I used to round up all the neighbor kids and get them to dress up and put on "plays" for the stay-at-home moms who kindly handed over a nickle to see the shows we made for them. Those plays were mostly adlibbed flights of fantasy constructed willy-nilly by the kids as they went along, based on a loose interpretation of an idea we would discuss briefly before the production began.

Usually it was my idea, but not always, and everyone got to choose what character they would portray (often based on what sort of costume they wanted to wear). Clearly, with no structure or dialogue to follow, we never really knew where the play would go or when it would end. So we'd just keep on repeating some action, usually dancing - which primarily consisted of twirling around in long, colorful skirts we'd borrowed from our mother's closets, or random dialogue that may or may not have been connected to the very sketchy story line, until we all wound down and took a much anticipated curtain call.

When I was a young girl, my mother and father indulged me in this fanciful activity, feeling, I'm sure, that it could do no real harm to let me play and stretch my imagination, and likely thinking that it was simply a phase I would outgrow. The trouble was that I was a dreamer who would never outgrow my desire to tell the story of an exciting alternate reality and to want others to join me there. And while the little girl I used to be was encouraged to enjoy her fantasy, and the teenager I too soon became was allowed to participate in drama class and church plays, when it came time to choose a career path, that option was immediately eliminated. There was no question of college if my major were to be drama, or communications, or anything of the impractical sort, which would not result in a safe, secure job after graduation.

Being the "good girl" that I was, I followed the path my parents set out for me and chose a practical major that has served me well in the "safe and secure" department. On several occasions throughout my life, I've made forays into writing or acting, striving to reclaim that dream. And I have done so on a few occasions and for a little while; but for the most part, reality has always intervened and nipped that dream in the bud. Time and family pressures have wiped the shine off the dream and opportunities have been allowed to slip away. Unfinished manuscripts are stuffed into a closet to yellow and fade, and  the role of a lifetime is given up in favor of the role of wife and mother.

* With a wink and a nod to The Monkees, I am still a Daydream Believer, even though I have been unable to reach my dreams. I still keep thinking and hoping that one day...maybe one day...

Should's and Ought's

Writing my first two posts and reading some of your comments brought several of the more quirky "should" or "ought" commandments I heard as a child to mind. I thought you might like reading about a couple of the funnier "should's" my mom insisted upon. So here goes -

1. "You must always wear a girdle when you go out in public. Your bottom should not jiggle when you walk nor should the crack between your buttocks show. That is just vulgar!"

"Vulgar" was a word my mom used often in association with any unladylike behavior, dress, or personal grooming practice. A woman who smoked in public (Mom was a smoker but she never lit up in public), drank a little too much, flirted overtly, talked too loudly, wore clothing that was too short, clingy, or revealing, sported heavy make-up, etc. was classified as vulgar by Mom.

So as soon as I was old enough (eighth grade, I think) to begin wearing stockings, I was fitted with a heavy, nylon, long-line girdle. It smoothed and flattened the tush and never, ever let anything "jiggle." I still groan when I think about how impossible that girdle was to pull back up over my sweaty legs after gym class. (The photo below is NOT me by the way. I gave up on following this commandment as soon as I went away to college!)

2. "The person who makes a call should be the one to end the call. It is rude to say goodbye first to anyone who calls you. You must wait for them to do so."

Now I just cannot tell you how many hours my mother sat with the phone to her ear, listening to some relative or neighbor drone on and on about nothing important, just because she always followed this rule and refused to be rude. To my knowledge, she never told anyone, not even in the politest way possible, that she couldn't talk or that she would have to call them back later. Nope. Despite the fact that their call came at the most inconvenient time possible - like in the middle of dinner - my mother listened patiently until the caller was ready to say goodbye. This particular "should" drove my poor dad crazy. Can't tell you how many times I heard him yell, "Bonnie, just hang up the damned phone!"

3. During a thunderstorm, you should stop whatever you're doing, close all the curtains and draperies, and sit down quietly in an interior room. You ought to avoid the kitchen or bathroom and never stand near a window, take a shower, or answer the phone during a storm."

This one, I believe, was a hold-over from my mom's childhood. My grandfather was afraid of storms, maybe because he was a farmer and had likely been caught outside in them more than once. Or maybe because electric lights were a relatively new addition to his home in rural Bedford County Virginia, and the potentially deadly power of those wires running into the house was well-respected. In either case, whenever a storm came up, he rounded up the kids (however many of his 10 children were living at home at the time), herded them inside, and made them sit quietly - away from any plumbing and wiring on which the lightening might run into the house - until the storm was over. My dad, the railroad electrician, thought this "should" was just plain ridiculous. He would often deliberately defy this rule, encouraging me and my brother to watch the lighting flash outside our picture window, just to upset my mom.

Well, there you have several of the best "should's" and "ought's" at my house. What are some of yours?

Keeping up Appearances

My mother was a private, serious woman who was quite concerned about keeping up appearances. My dad was - not so much. Mom was very reserved, always careful not to say or do anything which might bring unwanted attention down upon her. She lived by her long list of self-imposed should's and ought's, spouting many of the adages I'm sure your mom spouted to you - "Always wear clean underwear just in case you get in an accident," "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," "You don't want people to think badly of you," "Be careful not to hurt anyone else's feelings," etc. Mom's dedication to maintaining propriety served her well, for the most part. She was respected and generally liked, and to my knowledge, no one ever thought badly of her.

On the other hand, my dad was exuberantly extroverted, always ready with a slightly off-color joke, which he told with little provocation and at which he laughed louder than his audience. He sang aloud whenever it pleased him and with no concern for who might be listening. He picked and teased and flirted at will and generally ignored the embarrassment he caused his wife and young daughter. Dad could be boisterous, irreverent, and even occasionally confrontational, though his innate warmth and genuine love for people was always obvious to anyone who ever met him. And, despite the fact that he didn't ever seek the approval of others, that approval was almost always granted to him. I can honestly say that my dad was beloved (or at least well-liked) by just about everyone who ever knew him.

So this comparison begs the question - Who lived a happier life - my mom or my dad? Of course, the answer to that question is relative and difficult to answer correctly. On the surface, it would be natural to think that it was my father, with his "What you see is what you get," devil-may-care attitude, and ability to make himself the life of any party, who took the happiness prize home. But, though she was much less demonstrative, emotionally deeper, and harder to read, Mom definitely took great pleasure and satisfaction in the certainty that she lived her life the "right" way - at least in her personal assessment of what was right. And she took pride in her reputation as a "good" wife, mother, friend, and neighbor. For her, keeping up appearances was a badge of success, and with that successful achievement came the satisfaction of a life well-lived and hopefully - happy.

Which leaves me with a dilemma. In many ways, I'm much more like my dad than my mom. I'm very open, out-going, and generally gregarious, and I thoroughly enjoy being the center of attention. But unfortunately, in one very important way, I'm like my mom. I want, or maybe I should say I need to feel that I am liked and approved of by others. And even though I realize that whether or not others like or appreciate me is sometimes more about them than it is about me, I still find myself devastated by any rejection. Though I grew up witnessing how my dad's carefree approach to life drew people to him, my mother's list of rules by which to live to ensure the approval of others, seemed to speak to my innate, people-pleasing tendencies, sinking deep into my psyche. So, how do I rid myself of this quest for approval and validation by others? That is truly the question, is it not?

Always Aiming to Please

If you are a child of the 50's, a "Baby Boomer," it's quite likely that you grew up hearing the same instructional platitudes I heard for most of my childhood, "Be a good girl, now," "Mind your manners," and "Act like a lady," to quote a few. Quite often a scolding for unseemly behaviors was accompanied by a horrified, "What will the neighbors think?" 

Maybe you were an independent or even rebellious type, who wasn't persuaded to toe the line by those "be good" admonishments, or even by the fear of having your neighbors think badly of you. If so, then I applaud you and this blog is probably not for you. But I'm guessing that there are many, many of you out there, the natural-born people-pleasers, like me, who bought into every word and let those oft-repeated, parent-tape messages sink deep into our psyches, sending us on a never-ending quest to be liked and approved of by others - even, and maybe especially, by strangers.

Despite the many years and accompanying wealth of experience and competence we have behind us, and the certain knowledge and understanding that it is not a necessity or a requirement to be pleasing to others or approved of by them, in our heart or hearts (the tiny crevice deep inside our chests where reason isn't admitted) that is still exactly what we seek. Which begs the question - Why am I still, along with those of you out there like me, always aiming to please? 

So, the primary purpose of this blog will be to examine and critique some of what I believe to be the contributing factors in my life-long drive to please, and my continued quest for the approval of others. Maybe by writing my thoughts and theories down here, I will be able to rid myself of this deep need to please, and to simply be - me. And I hope that some of you out there, who share my quest, will take this journey with me.