Joe Biden said that no one liked busing. I disagree.

It was winter break of my 7th grade year in school so I was in Jr. High. The calendar rolled from 1971 to 1972 while we digested the news that we might be going to a different school due to something called busing. 

We are a white family that moved to Maryland in 1969 and we were living in a privileged neighborhood with relatively good schools. We’d moved there from Washington State and were told by the realtor that this was a white roof neighborhood. When I asked my mom what that meant, she said, it meant that primarily white people will buy these newly built homes. That wasn’t true actually as several professional black people bought homes next door and down the street, but at that time I didn’t really understand that they were the few.

We went to Catholic school, so my life was incredibly sheltered, however, my sister with a developmental disability had a chance to attend a private school in Washington D.C. that was expensive. My parents asked us if we were okay with going to public school to save money. We were all excited to attend public school (wear normal clothes) and be with our friends so the four of us readily agreed.

Shortly thereafter we were all affected by busing. They chose certain grades that had to go out of the district and other grades where children were bused in. My little sister in elementary school and my brothers in high school got to stay in their “home” schools while I was the only one who was bused seven miles away every morning to school, getting up almost an hour earlier than before. My siblings all lost friends who went to their “new” school as the boundary was only a few blocks over from us.

We were very close to Washington DC and clearly had heard a lot about what was going on and while it seemed it would never touch us, when it did I was secretly thrilled to be a part of such a huge social experiment. I’d grown up in the MLK and JFK era and was inspired by their vision of a better world for everyone. I was scared but also happy that I got to be a part of history. It didn’t hurt that one of my best friends and the boy I liked were also being bused. 

I peered out of the bus that first day and was shocked at the neighborhoods we drove through and more surprised that there was a barbed wire fence around our school with a gate that locked behind us when we entered. It was prison like and terrifying. We were later told the barbed wire fence was not to keep us in but to keep others out. I didn’t know who the others were and was afraid to ask. 

I’d been in neighborhoods like this one before, but only to drive through on my way somewhere else. I was to spend the next couple of years in that neighborhood attending Fairmont Jr. High and I would get to know the people of that neighborhood as they followed me to my home High School.

That first week was rough. I had no idea where to go and fumbled around with the few kids I knew from my old school. There were about 40% of students from my school and 60% of students that remained. The first day I went to the bathroom, it was like something from a movie about inner city schools. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and while it would be several months before I too began smoking, I soon realized it was where the girls would bond.

I didn’t understand many of the kids whose home school this was. The students who came from the neighborhood were primarily black with a few white kids. They all spoke with an accent I wasn’t accustomed to. I felt there was a communication barrier almost immediately.

I was super shy, but also almost six feet tall and very skinny so attracted attention just because of my stature. One small white girl from the neighborhood was in what she termed a gang and for some reason wanted to dominate me. She bullied me almost daily and took my lunch money. It was so cliche but also a reality that I couldn’t believe I found myself in. I got good at avoiding her, mostly by going to lunch before going to the bathroom to bond first. I saw her and her family at Disney World during Spring Break and she looked so ashamed and small without her “gang” at school. She never bothered me again after that.

In the first month, a girl who was black talked to me in class and asked me for some help with her work so I helped her. When I later saw her in the hall with her friends, I said “Hi”. She looked me up and down and said, “Why’s that white girl talking to me.” She and her friends walked away laughing. I was humiliated and angry, not understanding why she did that. But later, Edwina and I became friends, first just in class (I never talked to her when she was with her friends again) and eventually in public.

I’d been brought up to believe that we are created equal and to love everyone. I wanted so badly to be a part of helping to create equity and equality for everyone, so while I was nervous, scared, and intimidated, I was also open to doing my part in my most innocent ways. I was woefully unprepared for the experience as were the teachers and students. I’m not sure how we should’ve been prepared, but for an innocent white girl, I was so out of my league. I had no idea what it was like to be a person of color and even though I wanted to understand, of course, I never really can or will.I’m just as certain though that the kids who remained were equally unprepared for us and upset about losing friends to a new school. 

When the semester finished, I got on the bus on the final day and thought to myself, “We made progress”. As the buses with white children pulled out of the school yard I began to hear small pinging noises and girls screaming in alarm in the seats ahead of me. Our bus windows were being peppered with rocks by the children from the neighborhood. In my naivete I somehow believed one semester could make a difference. I went home deflated and wondered if it would all be worth it. 

The following year I learned never to go to the bathroom during class. My bladder betrayed me, as always, and I had to go. Upon trying to return to class, a group of black kids cornered me and a small student up front told me to give her my jacket. It had been hand made by my mom. We were a big family and couldn’t afford new clothes so she made a lot of mine. I refused. I couldn’t believe someone would ask me for a piece of my clothing and I wasn’t giving it up. She got closer as did they all, and she said it again. I again refused. She then pulled out a switchblade and snapped it open and replied, “I said, give me your jacket!” 

I am stubborn. It was made by my mom. For some reason I made eye contact with the only boy in the back and made a silent appeal. I then steeled myself and said “No.” In my mind, I wondered what the hell was the matter with me and promised that if she asked again, I’d take it off. The boy said something (I have no idea what) and they kind of melted away. I don’t recall ever seeing any of them again. I had to return to the bathroom to relieve myself once again.

My brothers stayed at their high school and a young man who was bused to their high school was a boxer. He was creating quite a name for himself and years later came back to talk about his experience at the Olympics. His name is Sugar Ray Leonard. I was friends with his sister at my school. She was delightful and so proud of her brother. She had a little boy while we were in High School and named him Sugar Ray in her brother’s honor. 

My experience is just one of so many. While it had its moments of terror, so do all new situations we find ourselves in. My mantra in life is, to know someone’s story is to love them. We needed time to know each other’s story. We needed time to learn to understand one another and to learn that we were not a threat to each other (with the exception of the few). We needed time to find common ground. To get caught smoking and suspended together. To goof off in art after our teacher fell asleep. To cry together when one of the kids got shot. To be allowed to say “Hi” in the hallway and to weave our stories together through it all.

Busing is hard on kids, but kids are resilient. I learned that we all want the same thing no matter the color of our skin. I learned that we all want to be loved for who we are. I learned that there is so much inequity in the world and that I can be a part of tearing down barriers one friend at a time, one hello at a time, one story at a time. 

I went west to go to college and when I heard that they had reversed busing I was saddened. I wrote to my congressperson about it and begged them to understand how important it was since access to housing dictates where someone goes to school. Inferior or superior. Every child is worthy of a wonderful life, and I was disappointed that what I thought of as a successful social experiment was now ending. I worried for the future of our world and the cultural divide that would continue to separate children who are black and white. 

Joe Biden said that no one liked busing. I disagree. There were many of us kids, both black and white who learned from one another, who eventually embraced each other and who lifted each other up. Without busing that never would have happened and I like to believe that the little slice of history that I was privy to was important. I know it was for me. 

There were so many wonderful moments at Fairmont Jr. High that I haven’t revealed. But the best one was when we drove away from that school the following May. Instead of kids throwing rocks at our bus, they waved goodbye. Progress was made. Lives intertwined and my hope for a new generation of people who would bury racism once and for all was revived. 

My Dad

I had a charmed childhood.  I was the middle child, first born daughter and my mom used to say I was just a twinkle in my daddy's eye until I appeared, then I was the apple of his eye.

I loved my dad so much and wanted him to approve of me.  He was an engineer for the Army Corp of Engineers for the US Government and inspected dams.  He called himself a "damn Engineer".  He also had the nickname of tricky Dick especially during the Nixon era.  He was funny, he was kind, he was so incredibly smart and he loved technology.  He would talk about what the future would bring and I know he'd LOVE everything that's come on the scene since 1975, much of which he predicted would happen.

I'll never forget the first time he brought home a calculator and told us it would cost $500 to purchase. The very item that you can now pick up at a dollar store.  He also brought home a newfangled machine that he inserted our corded phone into and he told me about how it connected to a "computer" that was as big as our house via our phone line and held a bunch of information.  He also told me someday we'd have one in our home and it wouldn't take an entire room. He was right.  He was often right.

He valued education and when we drove to our cabin from Maryland to Idaho each year we would travel via Moscow and he and my mom would announce "This is where you kids will go to college."  3 out of five of us attend the U of I and of those 3, two graduated from there.  Thanks Dad.

When he looked at my grades, he would ask me, "Are you proud of your grades, did you do your best?" And if I answered yes, he blessed my effort.  If I said no, we had a talk about working harder and he'd ask where I needed help.  I hated when he helped me with math because I just wanted him to tell me the answer and that never happened.  He made me think.  It was tedious and hard and when I got it I felt really good, but I still wished he'd just tell me.

We traveled from Maryland to Idaho every summer in a car with 5 kids, two parents and two dogs. It took us a week one way there and one way back.  That left us 3 weeks at the cabin in Coeur d' Alene, our families favorite place on earth. These trips were trying for my dad sometimes.  He would occasionally announce, "Do I have to stop the car?" or worse, "Do I have to take off my belt?"  And sometimes both things would happen and we'd be subdued into silence for an hour or so.  The instigators were normally my sister Sue or my brother Dave...

On these trips my favorite place to sit was in the middle between my mom and dad and I would pour him coffee from his thermos to keep him awake and driving for hours on end.  I loved that job.

I only remember one time that he got truly mad at me and it was when I was about 15 and I was so frustrated with my mom that I called her a bitch.  He stormed down the hallway that I had stomped down and got in my face and said, "Don't you ever, ever call your mother that word!!"  I never did again.  It scared me because he wasn't an angry person (unless locked in a car with 5 kids for 5 days) and I think that last year he was alive he didn't feel good.

My mom would make him breakfast every morning because her mother told her that's what a wife does. It was truly the only time they had together each day.  He carpooled to downtown Washington D.C. which meant getting up early to make it in time and even earlier if it was his week to drive.  My mom never complained because I think she really treasured this time with just him.  It was long before we all got up to go to school.

When he arrived home, shortly after my mother had finished her piano lessons, she would meet him at the top of the stairs wearing her apron she used while cooking, often in either a dress or bell bottoms that she'd sewed, and she'd have a 7 and 7 in her hand on the rocks for both of them.  My dad would kiss her, then ask where we were, and walk around and hug each of us...then he'd sit with my mom and have that drink before dinner.

He finally quit smoking long after we'd used markers to write "smoking kills" and "smoking is bad for your health" all over his Lucky Strikes.  He was so mad about that because he had to run out and buy more, but not long after his doctor told him to start smoking filtered, light cigarettes.  He tried to quit, but alas, never did.  He also was told to stop eating eggs so the eggbeaters appeared on the scene as a staple in our fridge.  He never ate a regular egg again.

I turned 16, I liked boys, but I would never have taken one home because I was afraid of what my dad would say. When I was little he would sit me on his lap and say, "Someday I'll have to cut a hole in the floor so your legs can dangle down."  He meant that no matter how old I was I would always be his little girl and sit on his lap.  He also said he'd need to get the shotgun out because all the boys would be knocking down our doors.  I had mixed feelings about moving from little girl to growing up girl.  I never had to really face that piece which was a silver lining in this whole story.

He marveled at how tall I was getting and made me feel good about it by telling me that I could be a Rockette someday because they all had to be six feet tall and hopefully I'd make it.

I remember someone telling me years ago that our bodies have muscle memory and that days we experience trauma we will possibly feel forever in ways we don't wish to.  That day might be a day of surgery, or the day you signed your divorce agreement, or as for me, the day my dad died.

I was only 16.  In high school and I thought I was so grown up.  I was beginning to separate from my parents and had a carefree existence.  On October 28, 1975 I woke up to sounds that resembled laughs, but as I got more awake, I realized it was quiet sobs.  I heard my brothers' voices and they were also quietly choking out words I couldn't hear.

I steeled myself to go into the kitchen, took one look at my moms face and I knew.  I knew he was gone. He was supposed to come home that day.  He had a mild heart attack and had spent a week in the hospital and I had only visited him 12 short hours before.

Our last conversation was in the hospital.  I went after church with my mom to visit him and told him the battery on the Karman Ghia had died and I needed him to come home and fix it.  He explained how to do it and I barely listened and reiterated that he could just do it tomorrow when he came home.  He looked at me very seriously and said, "I won't always be there to help you charge your battery so you should learn how."  I was angry.  I denied that he wouldn't always be there.  I tried to not listen to his words, but I heard him.  I hugged and kissed him goodbye and he told me how much he loved me and I told him how much I loved him and how I couldn't wait until he got home.

After finding out my father had died in the early morning I went back to bed, my mom tucked me back in with tears in her eyes and I sobbed aloud for several minutes.  I recall thinking, "whew, I'm glad I got that out of my system, that's the last time that'll happen."  I was wrong.  I was horribly wrong.  It would happen that day at least a dozen more times.  And every day after for at least a year, several times. But as I started to fall asleep again, I felt his presence. My dad was in the room.  As a parent I know he was sick about what had happened.  I know he must have been so worried about my mom and all of us and I don't think he wanted to leave.

I changed.  I wouldn't wear makeup, I tied my hair in a pony tail each day and I scoffed at the frivolous nature of my peers.  I wrote for my creative writing class and made my teacher cry continuously as I poured out my aching heart.  I met a boy in art class who sidled over to me one day and sat next to me. One day he quietly said, "My dad died six months ago."  Enough said, we were inseparable for the next 2 years.

Grief is a tough taskmaster.  People would be talking and I would just want to scream, "Why are you talking about such inane things when my heart is literally broken?"  I felt 100 years old. My life was irrevocably shattered in a moment.  I didn't know how to put the pieces back together.  I began having dreams that our house was on fire and that I was responsible for getting everyone out.  I took on much more than any 16 year old should.  My brothers moved west in the first year and I became my moms confidant which led to my launch into adulthood in a jarring and painful way.

My family changed.  That's the hardest part.  There are chapters of our lives that are hard to revisit and the ways we changed as a former group of happy people was and is often heartbreaking to examine.

There was this brief time the day he died, about one hour early in the morning, when my two brothers, my two sisters and my mom and myself all were awake and we were the only ones who knew my dad was gone.  We sat huddled in the living room, laughing, crying, hugging, hoping for the best.

My dad was there too, we could all feel him.  From that moment on our lives changed forever as the world and reality crashed in.  Sometimes I wish I could go back to that one brief hour filled with so much hope for a future that hadn't yet unfolded.

Today is the anniversary of that day.  Every year I head into October thinking this is the last time I will feel the horror of that day in the core of my being....and every year I still do.

On October 28th every year I am 16 again. I am that little girl that wishes she could sit on her dad's lap one more time, that wasn't grown up even though she was trying to be, that wishes he'd walked me down the aisle when I got married (both times), that wishes he'd held his grandchildren and that wishes our family had never changed.

I once told my best friend that I'd rather have had my dad for 16 years than a crappy dad for a lifetime, but that's probably not true.

If you're a dad, take care of yourself for your kids sake.

If you have a dad, hug him, no matter what he's like and let him know you love him.

If you have a husband, support him as a father.

If you've lost someone you love, I'm sorry.  I promise it gets better.  Maybe not easier, but better, and if it's just for that one day that you long for the clock to rewind itself, then it's progress.

I love you dad, and you'll be happy to know I learned how to charge my own battery on that old Karman Ghia but I think you would be proud of me now for a million other reasons....

See you in my dreams Daddy.

My mom and dad a few months before his heart attack.

My mom made us do a family picture before "anyone else died."  This was about two months after and Rick showed up with a horrible hangover, hence the special word bubble in my scrapbook for him.  I think he felt like he was going to die that day!
Left to right top row:  Dave 18, Me 16 (still no makeup but I didn't do the ponytail to make my mom happy), Sue 14,
Left to right bottom row: Rick who turned 20 just 4 days after my dad died, my mom 45 and Jeanine who turned 13 a few weeks after his death.

Conversating with Susie

I'm a firm believer in conversations.  I think it brings us together and is the glue of our relationships.  In the words of Sam to Diane on Cheers, "I like to conversate."

Every day I have opportunities to conversate with many people very important to me. Today was no different. I talked with my husband and luckily all three of my kids, two of them in person!  It was a stellar day for conversations with my immediate family.

I also was able to talk with my mom and my youngest sister which while pretty standard is always a fulfilling part of my conversations each day.  My mom is 83, so how many more of these conversations will we have?  One never really knows.  Having lost my dad at the tender age of 16, I know not to take these conversations for granted.

I talked with my staff and teachers today on several fronts, on several topics and in several different ways.  How they delight me with their intelligence and passion for our mission.  I talked with parents served by our program and felt the passion rise in me as I heard their needs expressed so vividly.

I talked with one of our preschoolers about his art project and how he was going to give his painstaking gift to his grandma and why and to my two year old friend who got her first potty sticker.

I talked with my career coach and my mentor who guided me beyond myself and my worries and my fears and led me to places I know I need to go and need to grow.

I talked with my passionate board members who dismay me every day with their love for what we do and their willingness to seek better ways of doing it.

I talked with the internet guy about repairing our slow internet and while it wasn't my favorite conversation he promised to help me, so he's my new best friend.

I had a deep, abiding, conversation with one of my closest friends about life, love and happiness which ended in hugs and prayers for each others intentions.

But my final conversation of the day, the one that was the time best spent, was with my sister only two years younger than me.  You see, this conversation is different from all the others.  When I call Susie it is a return call because she has tried to call me twice already about this.  Once last night, and once today and has been put off too often and needs to tell me about the movie she watched last night.

When we first get on the phone she initially informs me about the weather report for the next seven days.  All of which she lists, then gives me the details...followed by her recommendations for the children, i.e., "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday the weather will be sunny and nice, so tell the teachers the little kids can go outside, but Friday, Saturday, Sunday the weather will be cold and rainy so let the teachers know the kids need to play inside."

I am then asked for a full report every few days about what the teachers said when I told them what the kids could do.

You see even though my sister is only two years younger than me she is eternally about the age of six. This means that sometimes I am short on time or patience and I find myself doing several other things besides listening to her report when she calls. But tonight was different.  I was alone in my car and I was so glad I called.

Susie told me about a movie she watched.  A home movie...one where many of our family members who once were alive and are now gone, were in the movie.  She told me everything they said and everything that happened in the movie and before I knew it I was transported back into time and could see us all at the lake, perched on the edge of the dock, playing "King of the Dock" pretending to be knocked in by her and the incredible joy that brought her and us!

Before I knew it we were giggling like little girls again and I was suddenly eight years old and she, her eternal six, and we were just sisters having fun laughing at our combined family antics that were the mainstay of our childhood.  I was a little girl again and the time travel was genuine.

How many of us are lucky enough to have someone who reminds us so clearly of who we were when we were young?  I've known Susie all of my life and don't remember a time that she hasn't represented our childhood.  This is different from our siblings or childhood friends, this is truly someone who still sees the world through the eyes of a six year old and always will.

I had a lot of really wonderful, life changing conversations today with people I love, people I admire, people I adore and people I treasure.

But the best conversation I had today was with Susie, who reminded me of where I came from, who I was and what's really important in life....good weather and conversating with those we love.

Little Women

Little Women was always one of my favorite stories. 

This week I was fortunate to attend an event that honored 50 women in my community that have impacted our world in awe and inspiring ways.  I'm guessing they had wonderful female role models in their lives.

As a young woman I was encouraged to be anything I wanted to be.  My Dad was an engineer and my mom graduated from a University in Music education and thought that all women could not only perform but also work while raising children,  She "worked" from home on her piano from 3-6 with kids after school teaching piano (her favorite instrument) while we played and got into mounds of trouble.

So my first lady impression was of a mom that not only had 5 kids, but also played the organ at church every Sunday (which none of the other moms did) wore fabulous dresses and hats, laughed a lot and made me laugh, played with us while caring for our sister with special needs and made my dad the happiest man on earth all while teaching every kid or adult that sook her out how to play the piano.

 I remember being jealous sometimes when they would show up because that meant I had to somehow fade into the back ground and disappear and literally not need anything.  After watching a few commercials about a new chewing gum that could cover up the smell of a woman eating a raw onion I asked my mom during a piano lesson if I could eat an onion.

She dismissed the question with a quick, "Sure, now go to the basement to play" answer which I took as a complete sign of support for this clever idea.  I then grabbed a Walla Walla onion and took it downstairs and proceeded to eat as much of it as I could manage at the ripe old age of 4. 

When my mom finished her piano lesson she summoned us and I appeared happily claiming that I had eaten an onion and asked if she had the "magic gum" that would make my breath smell better.

My brothers were nearby as always and made sure I understood how bad my breath was which to my surprise my mom was equally dismayed by.  She asked why I'd eaten the onion and when I told her it was just like the gum commercial she looked at me quizzically and ushered me to the bathroom to use my toothbrush before it was in her words, "too late!!!"

That balance of children and career was probably made harder by the antics of five kids doing whatever they wanted while she was painstakingly teaching people a skill that doesn't come natural to most.  The onion eating is only the tip of the iceberg!  I could go on and on and on but this is a great example of the type of thing we'd do while we knew that mom's eyes were focused elsewhere and  no one was truly responsible for our actions.

Was my mom a true career person or was she just a poser-stay-at-home-pretending-to-work-mom?

My mom was a career person within the boundaries of her family life raising five kids with a husband who made enough that she didn't really have to work, but enjoyed working enough that she didn't give up what she loved, which was teaching people (people other than just her children) how to love and appreciate music by learning to play it, create it and share it with others.

She should've been honored among those 50 ladies at some point in time but they didn't do things like that 50 years ago.  50 years ago women weren't expected to accomplish a lot outside of their homes.  They were expected to make a husband happy, keep their mouths shut and to raise a passel of kids that would do their spouse proud.

I think my mom did all those things and more.  I am glad for her example of a woman who can have it all and how that's impacted my life.  She was forced into "having it all" when my dad died suddenly when I was only 16 and she was in her early 40's.  Her ability to earn money to support a family of six meant she struggled...a lot.  However she wasn't nearly as lost as others we knew who had lost their primary bread winner because she had confidence in who she was and that she could do anything it took.

She also knew she didn't have a choice.  She had 5 other faces counting on her to make it better so she did.

She deserves a woman of the year award again, and again and again.  But mostly she just deserves a thanks for not only giving us plenty of fun memories of what we'd get into during piano lessons, but for teaching so many people to play piano, supporting a family of six alone and for showing us that women can have it all and even when they make mistakes they can do it all.

She taught her little women and her little men that women are special....and for that I am grateful.

but most of all I am proud to say....she taught me I could have it all and because of that I was able to have it all.

Love: Choice or Ability?

"Love is not a choice, it's an ability."  Name that movie. 

It's one of my favorite lines but it's also a bunch of malarky.  I believe that we are all born with the capacity to love beyond belief but that things can go haywire and we're left broken and confused about how to love or what love really is.

It's a big club we belong to.  I'm not sure I know anyone that truly knows what love is all about other than Mother Teresa. I think some people are a little bit better at it than others, perhaps because they had good examples but even people from the same family seem to have different abilities (okay, there it is again.)

People, namely children, can't even see beyond themselves because they are the center of the universe until they are about 3 or 4. They have to be taught to think of others and to consider their actions in the world. 

My first real act of love that I can remember is when my mom was in the hospital and my dad found himself alone at home with 5 kids.  My brothers went to school and my sisters were taking a nap so I had much coveted alone time with my charming father.  He suggested we eat lunch and included me in the process.

I stood almost at eye level with the cupboard he opened full of canned goods (lower cupboard mind you) and he asked me which soup I wanted.  I wonder if he thought I could read or he just thought I'd recognize the can??  When I pointed to one, he said are you sure?  I wasn't sure at all I was just drawn to the label for some reason. 

He let me stand on a chair watching the pot boil next to him while he prepared our lunch.  Then he lovingly poured it out into a bowl and as an afterthought included some saltines to the mix.  The look of anticipation on his face was so endearing as I took my first sip. 

My first bowl of cream of mushroom soup as a pre 4 year old was an act of love.  Like any little kid I hated it.  It was the first time I had my dad all to myself that I can recall and I was not going to reveal that this meal was a failure....so I plodded away, soaking it up with the tastier saltines and pretended I liked it beause what I really liked was him and having this special time together.

I was priveleged enough to see this same phenomenon when my son, Alex who was an avid brussel sprouts lover, so much so that he helped me plant and grow them in our very first garden, eat our first harvest.  After several weeks of watching them grow the long awaited moment came.  To this point we'd only ever had frozen brussel sprouts slathered in butter, grown by farmers that evidently knew what they were doing.

He was barely 4 years old.  I cooked them up and slathered them in butter and salt and we excitedly sat down and took our first bite.  His look of anticipation had to have matched mine as we prepared to be wowed!

Slowly savoring that first mouthful with joyful noises we both were horrified to discover that they were incredibly bitter and tough and not at all like the ones we were used to.  His face crumbled in disappointment while his mouth puckered up and he shuddered. I said, "They're not very good are they?"

He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, "They're okay mom, dont' worry, I'm just not very hungry."  A little tear escaped his eye.  And there it was.  That same moment.  That same act of love. 

Wanting so badly to share a special moment with our parent and having that moment flop. He knew I would be sad that he didn't like the brussel sprouts we'd painstakingly grown together, so he tried to mask his extreme dislike.

Was he born with an ability to love greater than anyone elses, was I?  Or did we learn somehwere along the way that we can make choices that show we love others.  We can put ourselves in someone elses shoes and have compassion for them.  We can show our love through sacrifice because maybe that's how love was demonstrated to us. 

Have you ever read the book, The 5 Love Languages?  If not, you might take a look.  What I've learned about it is that I want Acts of Love.  I want people to show me they love me, not tell me.  I trust actions more than words.  As a result I've been speaking that language all of my life, from my first memory of love forward. 

Is love a choice or an ability?  Perhaps it's both.  Growing up truly feeling loved has got to be key to being able to not only learn to receive it but to give it.  I was lucky.  I knew I was loved.  My parents were demonstrative and told me often and if they didn't they told me through their actions enough that I was secure in that knowledge.

I now know that my dad knew I didn't like the soup.  Not because he's around to tell me that anymore but because I am a parent and I know he knew every expression of my barely 4 year old face that hadn't learned to mask feelings yet and must have been able to read my thoughts in a way only a daddy can.

I wonder if he was as delighted by my denial that it was okay as I was by Alex's.  My guess is yes.  I'm guessing he knew I loved him.

The quote from the movie:???..... Dan in Real Life  I'll let you decide if love is a choice or an ability and in the meantime I hope your Valentines Day is filled with people you love speaking your "love language" and that you choose to be able to love them in return.