Identifying My Leprechaun

Sometimes I’ve been lucky. Most times my successes are directly attributable to my efforts. Interestingly enough, today, St. Patrick’s Day, marks the 24^th anniversary of my relocating from Chesapeake, Virginia to Wilmington, Delaware. It was March 17, 1989, and I had accepted a General Manager’s position with Capes Shipping Agencies, Inc. which was the steamship agency representing Chiquita Brands. Chiquita had very favorably negotiated the move of their vessel operations from Newport News, Virginia to the Port of Wilmington.  At the time, I saw the move as merely a stepping stone (in the right geographical direction) to advancing my career in a manner that would ultimately lead me to working in Manhattan in connection with moving freight via ocean liners through Port Elizabeth, New Jersey.

Within a couple of years and after being recognized as influential in creating increased efficiency and an additional profit center through the development of a successful European imports business, I was offered a position with Chiquita as Operations Manager. In this role, 60% of my time was to be spent in Costa Rica with the remaining 40% in Cincinnati, Ohio at Chiquita’s global headquarters. This sound career proposition prompted a full review of my options considering that I had been a dual-career woman since age 22 when I had obtained a real estate sales agent’s license primarily for the purpose of investing.  I had been sure to get my Delaware license to practice almost immediately upon my relocation, and I had been listing and selling a property here and there with plans to continue with investing after I became more knowledgeable of my new marketplace. 

In assessing my options it became clear to me that if I took the position with Chiquita I would not have the time to practice real estate. I also knew that the potential for the greatest income receipts was through real estate so at age 28 I made the calculated decision to become a one-career woman and chose my real estate career over the maritime industry. It was a very difficult decision because there was never even one day over my eight-year history working in ocean transportation that I did not absolutely love my work. Particularly gratifying was the fact that I had worked my way all the up to my current role from the lowliest position in the business, manifest clerk. I knew the business. I loved the business!

It was an interesting time when my ultimate decision came down to the final question of which option would yield the greater income. I loved both careers and was willing to work long and hard in either occupation.  My speculation that real estate sales and marketing would produce greater revenue proved to be grounded in truth. During that first year, wholly devoted to my real estate business, I proceeded to gross more than twice the income that I was offered to join Chiquita as Operations Manager. I suppose it could be considered luck, and if it was, I guarantee you that I was the leprechaun who produced that pot of gold!

Now, did someone say corned beef and cabbage? Well, here's my version of a St. Patrick's Day meal.

I cooked the corn beef in a crockpot and shredded it. The sauce for the sandwich is a blend of mayonnaise, ketchup, white vinegar, sugar, relish and onion. Delicious with a little coleslaw and potatoes on the side.

Irish Blessing

May the road rise to meet you,

may the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and the rain fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

may God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

Matters of the Heart

It is said that all human actions are motivated by either fear or love. I make a concerted effort much of the time to be conscious of my actions and where they are rooted. When I notice that I'm coming from fear, I stop and reassess my intentions to modify my course, and get back on track because fear-based decisions typically produce negative results.  Last week I couldn't help noting that this year mid-February brings an even tighter than usual focus on the most powerful and life-defining emotion I experience, love. While there's no escaping the flurry of activity around February 14th, Valentine's Day, and its significance as a day to celebrate relationships, this year February 13th marked Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent that begins the 40-day annual ritual wherein Christians repent, fast, pray, and reflect upon the love of God for humankind as demonstrated by the ultimate sacrifice of His only Son, Jesus Christ so that we may have life everlasting. 

This week my daughter, Abigail and I began a discussion about the Lenten season that branched into two subsequent conversations; one around the question: "Is God subjective," followed by: "How the Study of Physics Highlights Our Lack of Understanding." I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday morning than exploring such matters of the head and heart with my daughter who brings a keen, open mind, her knowledge and experiences as well as her uncertainties and opinions to such discussions. I always leave these conversations with something new to ponder and with a deeper understanding of who my child is which is probably of even greater interest to me than the intriguing subjects we discuss.

With love and the heart occupying my subconscious mind all week, today I created one of the best new fish dishes I've come up with in a while. Fish, in general, is heart-healthy. While Tilapia actually carries less Omega-3 (anti-inflammatory) and more Omega-6 (pro-inflammatory) than some other fish, it is still nutrient-dense, loaded with essential vitamins and minerals such as B12 and potassium, high in protein, and virtually free of saturated fat, thereby; supporting cardiovascular health. Here it is!

Tasty and loaded up with nutrients!

Tilapia with Zucchini & Orzo

5 pieces Tilapia

S & F Lemon Dill Marinade (all natural)

4 Cloves Garlic

1 Zucchini (chopped)

1/2 Sweet Onion (chopped)

1 c. white mushrooms (chopped)

1/2 c. Sundried Tomatoes in Olive Oil (chopped)

3 tbsp. Olive Oil & Spices from Tomatoes

Whole Wheat Orzo (cooked)

Directions: Brush each side of fish with marinade, place in a baking dish, cover, and refrigerate until ready to bake. Pre-heat oven to 375. Chop the garlic, zucchini, onion, sundried tomatoes, and mushrooms. Put 3 tbsp of oil infused with spices (from the jar of sundried tomatoes) in a sauce pan over medium-low heat, add garlic and onion followed by mushrooms, zucchini, and tomatoes. Cover and simmer to retain moisture. Cook the orzo according to the package. Bake fish for 10 minutes, turn and bake another 10 minutes. Plate the orzo, add the fish and finish with the veggies. It's delicious!

What I'm Giving Up for Lent

A Criminal, Two Teens, and a Beagle

I arrived home from work at 5:00 on Friday evening to find that Abi wasn't home from school which is unusual, however; she had mentioned that she was planning to catch up with some friends and spend the night away from home so I wasn't particularly concerned, but I figured I'd better hunt her down anyhow so I called her, and she answered, "Hello?"

"Hey, Boo, where are you? Are you spending the night at Sam's?"

"I'm on my way home, and, yes, but that's not why I'm late getting home today.  I'm late because I've been at a crime scene."

"A crime scene?  Where?  What happened?"

"You know the Charter parking lot where there is a fence between the residential homes and school lot?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Sam and I were sitting in my car there talking after school, like we usually do, when this guy in an ill-fitted black suit carrying a knapsack came running past the tennis courts through the parking lot. He stopped directly in front of my vehicle and looked from side to side before throwing his bag over the fence into someone's yard. He then jumped on the fence and began climbing. A barking beagle immediately darts past the bag, and rushes the fence making a huge ruckus which startles the guy on the fence. The guy crashes to the ground with fence and all!  At this point Sam and I are laughing hysterically watching this guy trying to get out from under this broken fence and regain his composure. By now he has seen us, we've all made direct eye contact, and I'm sure he could even hear us laughing. He runs to another section of fence, and this time, he makes it over, but his bag is still in the beagle's yard, and the beagle is systematically and diligently marking and re-marking everything in the yard including the bag."

Well, by this time I am in stitches at the vision of this story. Abi interrupts my laughter, "I have to go. I think one of the police officers is calling me."

I make a mental note to confirm that Abi is using an earpiece or speaker function to talk on the phone while driving because we have a "no handheld devices while driving" law here in Delaware which I wholly support. I knew she was on her way home so I decided to wait to hear the rest of the story. Sure enough about 15 minutes later, Abi is safely home, and I meet her her in the foyer. She follows me to the kitchen.

"So why did the police call you?"

"Oh, he wanted to thank me for sticking around to provide the details of what I witnessed. He also asked for your contact information, and once again took my detailed physical description of the guy, before telling me that they had apprehended the suspect and had him in custody."

"Did you call the police when you saw the man?"

"No, a minute or so after the man got over the fence a barrage of patrol cars stormed the lot. There were no less than a dozen city, county, and state cop cars-- even canine units. They barreled right passed us, got out of their vehicles; dogs and all, and assembled approaching the fence and looking around."

"Did they approach you?"

"No, I thought the guy was going to come back for his bag, but I guess he saw the cops and decided to try to save himself.  I drove down to where the cops were assembled, got out of the car, and told them that the guy had left his bag behind. They followed us back down and retrieved it in spite of the barking beagle."

"What was in it?"

"I don't know. They unzipped the bag and pulled out a gray plastic grocery bag. They untied that and pulled out a cellophane package that was probably drugs, but I didn't see them. I was only sticking around at that point because when the beagle continued to bark as the officers tried to get the bag, one of the officers pulled out a taser, and I wanted to make sure that no one hurt that beagle."

Again, I was laughing, and not surprised at what Abigail would deem to be of most importance in this situation. We talked a bit more about her day and the description she was able to provide of the suspect including the event that she witnessed. Then she was off to get ready to visit with her friends and spend the night with Sam.

This morning we have the full story. The suspect was charged with reckless endangering in the first degree, assault in the second degree, felony resisting, possession of a deadly weapon during the commission of a felony, possession of marijuana (tier 1 quantity) and related traffic offenses.

If I had known about that whole "possession of a deadly weapon during the commission of a felony" part yesterday, I doubt I would've been laughing as hard when Abi gave her account of the scene. I'm proud of my daughter. This is the third time she has gone with her intuition that something isn't right and proactively provided information to authorities. She's a good citizen and much less fearful than her mother.

Berry's Biscuits for the Blue

I've been called competitive, and I suppose I am on some level, although; I assure you that I'm neither mean-spirited, nor dishonest in my gaming pursuits. In fact, I've always believed that a cheater never wins. Why? Well, how in the heck can one who is not even playing the game actually win the game? Most competitions involve rules by which a win can be obtained. Cheaters can, at best, only create the illusion of a win. I have never had any interest whatsoever in that. Good grief, I figure about anyone ought to be able to accomplish a false win (otherwise known as a loss.) What a waste of time to practice honing the skill of deception when few things require less thinking or ability. These days, more often than not, I find myself competing against my personal best with little regard for what my counterparts may be up to. In fact, I hope that they, too, are winning! I do, however; recall a time in the 4th grade when I definitely was fine with everyone else having a red or yellow ribbon, or even no ribbon at all. 

It was March of 1973, and I was 11 years old when I entered a baking contest while participating in the Henry County 4-H Club. From the first mention of the competition there was no doubt in my mind that I would bake and enter Berry’s biscuits for a sure win! Now, my mama and sisters cautioned against my choice suggesting that I might do better with something more widely appreciated and less risky like a dessert-- maybe a good ole fashioned apple pie or a buttery pound cake. I would have no part of their ideas.  My decision was firm, and, as far as I was concerned, an unequivocal winner.

Being from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and by the fourth grade, relocated to the foothills, I knew I had a wealth of biscuit-eating experience, and I figured that all of the judges had also enjoyed many a biscuit in their days. I was also no less than 100% certain that none they had ever tasted could begin to approach the pure goodness of the light, golden delicious hunks of heaven that were Berry’s biscuits. I got her on the phone, and to her utter delight, I carefully took down her recipe and explicit instructions. I ended that call knowing that I had the 1973 annual 4-H baking contest all wrapped up, and that the coveted, first place, blue ribbon would surely be mine!

No sooner said than done! Feast your eyes on this well-documented accomplishment.

I bet you wish I'd share the recipe! Oh, it's just a handful of this, a pinch of that, a dollop here, and a smidgen there mixed, worked, and kneaded then rolled, cut, and baked into the best biscuits I've had to this very day.

Room to Make Her Big Mistakes

A new year brings anticipation and excitement about all of the growth in store for me. That anticipation provokes reflection, and I ponder where I've come from and where I'm headed next. Having achieved my fifty year milestone in the final weeks of 2012, this year's self-assessment has been a bit more profound, prompting a full review of my adult life including major decisions and the outcomes of those decisions. So what's on my agenda moving forward?

Improvement. Personal improvement -- physical, mental, emotional, spiritual improvement.  That’s the goal of the next 30 years. What was the goal of the last 30? Personal Improvement--physical, mental, emotional, spiritual improvement. Okay, so on a scale of one to ten with ten being the greatest how would I rate myself on my goal over the last 30 years?  Why, a TEN, of course!

Thirty years ago I was an ambitious, 20-year-old who had moved away from my home in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to the Tidewater region which includes the three largest cities in the state--Virginia Beach, Norfolk, and Chesapeake--and is home to over a million people. This area is literally about as far away from Collinsville (population of maybe 7000) as one can be while remaining within the state of Virginia. I remember making my decision to relocate as though it was twenty minutes ago.

Collinsville rarely makes the map, but it's a little town located about 60 miles south of Roanoke.

It was 1983, and I was enrolled at Patrick Henry Community College -- a Dean’s List student with aspirations to become an English Professor. I had just begun the second semester of my sophomore year, and I was living at home with my mother and younger sister. I had taken a part-time job at a knitting mill where I pressed, folded, and stored sweatshirts. I loved the new knowledge derived from a variety of college courses, and didn’t love the monotony of second shift factory work.

It was a Friday evening in February when, while lying in bed listening to the old clock/radio my dad had given me, I heard the radio announcer stating that Roanoke, the largest city in the Piedmont region where I lived, was experiencing the highest unemployment rate in the state at over 8% with the lowest unemployment rate in the Tidewater area. I envisioned happy, bustling folks over at the coast having employment options while I was limited to a mundane factory position. I've always preferred room to maneuver. I need options. Sure, I did love school, but I needed employment to survive, and I figured if I could continue my education in Collinsville, I could do it in Norfolk just as well. It was becoming fairly clear to me that I should probably relocate myself. Over the weekend, my thoughts were around this potential move, and on Sunday evening, I told my mother that I would be moving to the coast on the coming Wednesday.

On Wednesday, February 9, 1983, I rose at about 5AM to find that my mother had “slept,” apparently, in an upright position, with her light on all night. She got up with me. We chatted a bit. I got showered and dressed in a wool suit, grabbed my bag and clock/radio before heading to my car, a 1974 gray Ford Granada. I had loaded up my only other belongings the day before-- clothes, shoes, my journal, a blanket, pillow, and a few toiletries. I had $12. in my pocket, food and water, a full tank of gas, and another $34. in my checking account. 

One might wonder why I had chosen to wear a wool suit on the five-hour road trip to my new life. Well, with a grand total of $46., I would be interviewing for employment immediately upon my arrival. I had no appointments, and with my resume in-hand, was prepared to solicit walk-in interviews within the retail industry. My pastor had given me verbal directions to Norfolk. Raising his arm and bringing his hand back to his shoulder, he said, "Get on 58 east." Then casting his arm forward to full extension, "Stay on it...all the way.” With that in mind, I kissed and hugged my mother and told her that I would not be back to visit for at least six months, but that I would let her know as soon as I was settled and had found work. I was off to begin my new life!  It was, in a word, exhilarating!

"Wide Open Space" written by Susan Gibson and recorded by The Dixie Chicks. Photography by Lea Michelle

Infant Imposes Paradigm Shift

I've been a professional salesperson for about 28 years now. Overall, it's been a satisfying career that has yielded income sufficient to meet my needs and a good many of my wants including my deep desire and intention to maximize my time with my, now, 17-year-old daughter, Abigail, and to fully participate in her life. Remaining engaged in my child's day-to-day growth is the very foundation of my brand of  a mother's love. Fortunately, like many sales folk, I'm also entrepreneurial. My real estate career afforded me the opportunity to work a flexible schedule that enabled me to drive my daughter to and from school, attend her in-school activities and celebrations, volunteer with her schools, church, and clubs, and to have two meals a day with her for most of her life. Those are the things that are most important to me -- what I consider hands-on parenting.  I've never regretted a single moment spent with my child.

"The best thing you can spend on your children is your time." ~Louise Hart

Still, with all of the perks of being in sales, it can be stressful. I had worked myself ragged in preparation to be at home with my baby for the first year and a half of her life. Over time, I learned to reduce stress levels by anticipating and effectively negotiating the inevitable ebbs and flows of an ever-dynamic marketplace--the feast or famine aspect, if you will... and by changing my approach to my business operations. In fact, it was the year that I delivered my daughter that I made the very calculated and firm decision that I would, from that point forward, be running my business rather than allowing my business to run me.

One might suspect that this sort of paradigm shift would create uncertainty and insecurity on a personal level, not to mention professionally. One may certainly question the timing of such a major life change with a new baby depending upon my financial resources derived from a thriving sales career. I'm sure I had many a question and reservation myself. Had my business practices to date not worked well from a profit perspective? Had my business not yielded the means for me to essentially take off to provide primary care for my new baby for the first 18 months of her life? Sure, my mode of operation had exacted a toll, but wasn't that to be chalked up to merely the cost for success?

"Motherhood is near to divinity. It is the highest, holiest service to be assumed by mankind. ~Howard W. Hunter

Before I became a mother, my business was my top priority--the focal point of my life. There were rarely even a few moments of the day that were truly away from work with ringing phones in the office, at home, in the car, and strapped to my waist. There were many times when I had a handset to one ear and a cell phone to the other if you can imagine that sort of insanity. It was rare to get through a meal uninterrupted let alone a vacation. Everything in my life revolved around serving my clients and customers, and, interestingly enough, that had been acceptable to me right up until the day my daughter was born. You know what they say...having a child changes you.

So what about this shift?  What was the end result for my business and for my life when an 8 pound, 3 ounce infant came along and with one powerful push redefined my list of priorities, placing the business that I had nurtured and coddled, beneath her tiny feet? Curiously, this dramatic shift of priorities allowed me to take my business to a much higher level. Peculiar? Not really. When I decided that my business would not run me, I was forced to get outside of the box in which I had contained myself. This mental and emotional shift required that I develop systems that would give me control of my personal life. Designing, implementing, and executing on those systems contributed to my ability to manage a higher volume of business that resulted in, not only increased revenue, but increased profits, accompanied by what I wanted most, maximized quality time with my child.

"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." ~Rajneesh

Suppertime

I was born in 1962, and spent the first seven years of my life, in the small south-western Virginia town of Hillsville set atop the Blue Ridge Mountains. Both of my parents came from farmers, and my early childhood was largely around gardening, preserving, and cooking. Berry, the woman who raised my mother, vigorously worked her half-acre garden from the time she could get a hoe in the ground until the first frost. No matter how early ole man winter set in or how long he tarried, come suppertime Berry would tap into her bounty of preservation to produce a hearty, hot supper for whoever was around between five o'clock and five-thirty.

Berry planted, nurtured, and harvested her crops over three seasons. She put up corn, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, kale, collards, spinach, mustard greens, peas, lima and green beans, beets, pickles, strawberries, peaches, apples, raspberries, blackberries, rhubarb, relish, applesauce, apple butter, and jam of every sort. She was quite disciplined, and her rigid work schedule was critical to her success. 

During the high gardening season, Berry was up before the rooster, had finished breakfast by six, and after a trip down the road to fetch a couple of pails of water, was in her garden just as her morning glories were awakening. She took a mid-morning break at about 9:30 a.m. when she might put on a pot of beans for supper before taking to her glider for a spell--usually with an apple and a paring knife. Then she was back at it--hoeing, weeding, sowing, gathering, washing, snapping, peeling, chopping, canning, freezing, storing. This woman, at age 65 was nearly single-handedly producing and stockpiling enough food to carry three families through the winter and into the next spring with some to spare.

Berry paused for dinner at midday. Dinner was a lighter meal, maybe a tomato sandwich and apple sauce, or cornbread and buttermilk. After dinner Berry was back to her work. Sometimes she took an afternoon break depending upon heat, her workload, and rain predictions. If she had a little time to spare, she might spend a few minutes bringing in clothes from the line or dust mopping her floors, but these tasks would have to take a backseat to Berry's garden. Come what may, by four o'clock, or thereabout, most days Berry was in for the evening to be found in her kitchen where she would spend the next hour fixing the biggest meal of a southern farmer's day, supper.

Berry at age 74, still gardening, still gliding, still stringing and snapping her beans for supper.