Category Archives: Life in General

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Day Seven – The Larger Life Lesson In Teaching My Daughter How To Spit

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Elizabeth & Miranda - 1993

Life lessons from spitting … if you’re someone who actually reads my blog titles, you’re likely thinking, ” What in the world could she mean by that! ” Let me begin by saying that I am afraid I have not been the most conventional of mothers over the last (almost) 23 years that I’ve had the good fortune to mother my daughter Miranda.

Teaching my six-year old daughter how to spit might look like page from a ” Bad Mothers R Us ” book unless you consider as Paul Harvey used to say,  ” … the rest of the story.”

Joining the army at eighteen opened my eyes to many things. Despite having lived in different states on the east and west coasts of the US while growing up, I was shockingly naive to the differences in cultures and habits in the mix of people I worked and served with in the military community.

As enlisted soldiers we all had our different reasons for swearing to protect and defend, some of which were very personal and not easily shared. I quickly became known for asking what some considered to be too many questions as I was always more interested in the part of the story that people were less likely to want to reveal. I knew my own reasons for joining were more complex than the snappy answer I would toss out when asked what made me want to become a soldier and I wanted to know their real motivation as well.

Adjusting to a world dominated by men and too much testosterone was difficult for me right from the beginning. Being the sixth female in a unit that had only recently begun to allow women a place in its ranks, I found myself challenged on a daily basis by the men in my platoon as to my worthiness and my ability to compete beside them as a soldier. When you are part of a team that might be called on to protect each other in battle, the expectations can become a bit more fiercely defined. Things you would not have considered important can be magnified and your performance evaluated in even the smallest areas.

Although I was good at many things in the military, some of my obvious deficiencies were cracks in the carefully constructed armor I tried to create in order to keep the jokes and disrespectful comments to a minimum. I did not want to be one of the boys, but neither did I want to be considered one of the girls. Being female in the military in the late 70s and early 80s was a burden for most of the women I knew who served then and one way to keep harassment at bay was to stand out only in the best ways.

While I excelled in most areas, my physical readiness was clearly a weakness. Lacking in the ability to run as far or as fast as I should have during our morning PT runs, I was usually at the back of the platoon and frequently would end up by the side of the road with a tubby guy who never could complete a run without falling out of formation either.

After taking a lot of grief for my ” wussiness,” I set a goal to get past the barriers that were mostly in my head when it came to running and within six months went from struggling over morning runs with my unit to completing my first marathon, a race of 26 miles that taught me that I really could do what I had once considered impossible.

What I did not do well during all of my training runs was something that embarrassed me despite my achievements as I piled on the miles leading up to my big race. What special skill did I lack you say … you know what’s coming here don’t you? I was miserable at spitting. I’m sure many of you are thinking … spitting, really Elizabeth!

That said, I need to paint a picture for you. Imagine you are running in formation moving along at a fast clip, you are singing whatever awful cadence is being sung by the folks you are running with and you are hanging tough, not falling to the back, but right there with the men who’ve previously made fun of your weakness. So you’re singing and running and looking strong and suddenly, a bug flies inside your mouth hitting the back of your throat so hard you cough instinctively and move to spit it out.

Having been taught that spitting is nasty and ill-mannered, you are totally lacking in practice so you end up spitting so poorly that you either spit in a way that it slides down your own chin or worse, you spit directly on the guy running next to you.

In one motion you undo months of hard-earned respect in less time then it takes to clear your throat. Suddenly, all the things you were taught that ” ladies do not do ” begins to look more like holes in your education rather than lessons for living in the real world.

In an ideal world, women wouldn’t have to be one of the boys to be valued nor would we need to be perfect ” ladies ” to be respected. In an ideal world we could be ourselves and spit when necessary instead of swallowing that bug or choking back something we really wanted to say.

Growing up as I did set my feet on a less conventional path, but I recognized fairly early the balance needed to live within the rules of polite society and how and when to break those same rules.

In the photograph above you can see a mother and daughter acting silly putting on our best monster faces for the camera. We had just finished our lesson in spitting … a sort of how to, where to, and where not to spit primer that was really more of life lesson than she could have known at six.

I remember explaining to her that spitting was a skill that required a mix of precision, timing, and discretion and thought then as I do now that some of the best things we can teach our children are the lessons that deal with self-care rather than group acceptance. I mean after all if the guy next you wouldn’t swallow the bug, why should you?

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Day Nine – My Friends Can Call Me E

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Elizabeth Harper - Times Square - December 31, 1994


December 31,1994, it’s New Year’s Eve and I am in Times Square waiting for midnight to arrive so Mayor Giuliani can drop the big crystal ball on the city that never sleeps. In 1994 no one ever called me E. I was always very adamant when asked, ” My name is Elizabeth and no, I don’t shorten it thank you very much! ” Well, I was actually more polite than that, but underneath I always thought if I wanted people to call me something else, I would have told them in my introduction.

For reasons unknown to me, some people would feel obliged to come up with nicknames for me as if Elizabeth was too much of a mouthful and I was usually okay with that as long it was not a generally recognized nickname for Elizabeth such as Liz, Beth, or Betty. I have always liked my name, but have been willing at times to accept a nickname that was more of a term of endearment and specific to me.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve mellowed a good bit in some parts of my life and what I’m willing to answer to is one of those areas. I am not quite sure when I began to feel as if E was an acceptable nickname, but my friend Patrice has called me E  for as long as I as I can remember and at some point in the eight years that I’ve known her, it’s become okay with me for my other friends to call me E as well.

Of course if you’d prefer to call me Elizabeth, I’ll always be happy with that. John doesn’t have a nickname for me and I love hearing him say my name with his darling English accent so I’m pleased that he prefers Elizabeth.

In the photograph above I am perched at the junction of two barricades that actually say, ” Police Line Do Not Cross.” When I look at this picture from 1994, it makes me think of several things, one being how easily I seem to be balanced on the barricade (I’m not sure I could pull that off now) and two, the message underneath me. I tend to read it as, there’s a line with E (me) that one does not cross … which translates in my mind to boundaries.

I can be a bit rigid with some of those boundaries and a barricade of sorts can easily come up if someone pushes too hard or crosses a line with me. For years my name was one of those areas. I was polite but firm in my corrections and pretty much insisted people address me by my proper name.

As 50 approaches, I have to admit that I may be beginning to mellow because Gary (the man who owns our village pub) keeps calling me Lizzie and I am really not bovvered by it at all. I choose to see it as a term of endearment and acceptance into my new community.

Let me add here, while I prefer Elizabeth to anything else it does make me smile when my friends call me E.

If you are late to the party and have no idea what Day Nine means … you can catch up by going here for a quick read.

PS. I just found this photograph from the same night and had to add it to show you a bit more of the city getting ready for the ball to drop. My mouth is hanging open … we’ll say in amazement, but who knows really. Sorry it’s a bit blurry, but it was a pretty big party night.

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Is Life Really A Cabaret – Dreaming Of Joel Grey

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This morning I woke up suddenly, startled out of sleep after seeing Joel Grey walking along a Paris street near a flower shop like the one above. Before this morning, the only two things I knew about Joel Grey had to do with his career as a stage and screen actor and that he was the father of Jennifer Grey of Dirty Dancing fame.

Although he’s played many characters in his lifetime, he is most well-known for his role in Cabaret and is also as I just discovered, a fine photographer who based on his work, might find my photography a bit tame. As someone who dreams in color and almost always sees a deeper meaning in most of my dreams, there is far more to this dream than I can share. I try very hard to be careful when sharing stories that involve other people especially when their story is not even remotely a part of mine.

So while I wish I could reveal more, I am going to practice a bit of restraint and keep the deeper meaning of Joel Grey’s dreamy visit to myself. How about you … do you struggle with how much is too much to share either in a blog or your everyday interactions with others?

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When Drowning – Remember – Hope Floats

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He had a head full of hair bleached almost white from his days lifeguarding in the sun and long tanned legs covered with tiny hairs so blond they shimmered like a million curly threads of gold. You might not think this would be my overriding memory of the day I almost drowned, but it remains a strong image almost 38 years later.

I don’t remember names easily and have a variety of mnemonic devices I use when meeting new people, but I remember his name, the golden boy who was almost a man that summer who quietly saved me from drowning in a lake at summer camp. Other children splashed and played barely noticing as he dove into the water and made his way to me.

In the moment I saw him coming, I realized how badly I was struggling to keep my head above water having worn myself out trying to swim to a raft anchored in the center of the lake. There were older and bigger kids playing and resting around it and I wanted to join them and set off without thinking too much about the distance.

Due to lack of experience, I was not as strong a swimmer as the others and all my desire and belief in my ability couldn’t save me, but Gordon did. Gordie, as the other campers called him when giggling about his good looks came across the lake in a flash and gently flipped me over onto my back talking softly to me as I floated my way back to shore.

I remember feeling ashamed and slightly babyish worried about what the other kids might think, but no one really noticed. Another key thing I remember is that I never made a sound. No cries for help, no waving for someone’s attention … I just struggled in the water while life went on around me.

I read a post this morning about how easy it is to miss the signs of drowning and it occurred to me how often in life we may feel as if we are going under for the last time even when there is no water involved.

Sometimes it’s life that pulls us under and it can happen in sight of the shore surrounded by people we know. It can be difficult to determine when someone needs just a bit of assistance like the gentle guidance of Gordon that day or someone requiring full on resuscitation.

If I had only remembered what I already knew, I would have flipped over on my back and floated until I was rested enough to go on. Fear took over when I became overtired and I lost all sense of reason. Looking back now, I can see the larger lesson of that day.

Years later I saw a movie where Sandra Bullock’s character Birdie tells her daughter,

“Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome. That’s what momma always says. She says that beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will … “

I thought the poem below might be good for Penelope Trunk who writes her own poetry here and for anyone else struggling today.

Lie back daughter, let your head

be tipped back in the cup of my hand.

Gently, and I will hold you. Spread

your arms wide, lie out on the stream

and look high at the gulls. A dead-man’s

float is face down. You will dive

and swim soon enough where this tidewater

ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe me,

when you tire on the long thrash

to your island, lie up, and survive.

As you float now, where I held you

and let go, remember when fear

cramps your heart and what I told you:

lie gently and wide to the light-year

starts, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

– Philip Booth

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Welcoming Rita – From Evansville Indiana

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If you have been following the last two posts then you know I was hoping to hear from someone unknown to me from Evansville, Indiana. I wrote about my reasons, sharing it in a story that after almost 40 years was still painful to tell and then followed it a few days later with an update and a thank you to all the kind folks who left me such sweet messages of support in my comment section.

I thought I must have scared my Evansville reader off, but to my great surprise when I woke this morning I found the message below in the comment section of the first post. To say I was delighted would be mild and I would like to offer a big thank you to Rita from Evansville who took the time to say hello and add to the story that has been changing over the last few days.

Welcoming Rita from Evansville:


“ I may be your Evansville reader, I have been out of town and just read your post. I found your blog a long time ago and so enjoy reading your adventures and seeing your photography. I love all things English, Irish and Scottish so I have gotten a lot of pleasure out of reading your blog. So sorry for the bad memories the name Evansville evokes for you. This is generally a caring, friendly area in southern In. I guess we all have good and bad memories we associate with places, events and people. My 3 best friends are sisters who grew up in an unstable home. The oldest has only bad memories of that time, the middle sister only good memories and the youngest very few memories at all. I suppose their individual personalities and coping mechanisms come in to play. I am happy that you are a strong woman who has had a journey that has taken you to a wonderful place in your life and a wonderful family to share it with. I do hope you now will think that this area, like all areas, has it’s share of the good, the bad and the ugly, but I think we could sit and talk and share some laughter and hike to some beautiful areas here and take pictures and replace more of those bad memories! “


It is not always easy to ask for what we want. Most of us have a negative voice in our heads that can seem as if it’s on auto-replay at times as it spins out the same old messages that keep us from living the life we dream of. Everyone has a different soundtrack, but for those of us who tune into that particular radio station too frequently, the impact can be staggering. Asking for what you want can be the first step towards change for some. It’s a lesson that took me a long time to learn, but once mastered has returned great rewards.

Is there something like that in your life … some dream of a thing you want to share with us … something that you need to hear or know that might require an answer or effort from someone else. You can practice on us if you wish … share it in a comment below and let us give back to you. I’m here and I am listening.

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Vibram’s FiveFingers For My Aging Ten Toes

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Vibram's FiveFingers For My Ten Toes

I always come back from my visits to the US with things I think I cannot live without such as my favorite peanut butter, hair gel, and protein bars, but this time I added a new pair of shoes that my friend Jules told me about recently. You may remember that I have been experiencing some fairly major aches and pains that I had  been attributing to my aging baby boomer body and years of long distance running.

As much as I haven’t want to admit it, my low back and knees hurt most days and even more when I run a lot or do the five or six-hour coast path walks that John and I love so much. Usually, I just suck it up and drive on as we used to say when I was in the army and eat a couple more Tylenol than I would regularly, but after hearing about these shoes and how they might make a difference, I thought I would give Vibram’s FiveFingers a try.

Yesterday, I slept more in one day than I normally do over a three-day period as I had a wicked and unusual case of jet lag but I did manage to make it to the supermarket with John and wore my new shoes out for the first time. While you can buy these in the UK, I have not seen any on feet around here and from some of the looks I received I don’t think they’ve made the Cornwall scene in any great numbers yet.

I am giving myself one more day to settle in before I hit the ground running (literally) with my running buddy Tina on Saturday. If these new shoes can help slow down my aches and pains while speeding up my feet, I’m sure Tina will appreciate my increased mobility.

I’ll get back you on my transition from Nike’s to FiveFingers in a few weeks along with any comments worth repeating. So far the prevailing one from several people who know me has been, ” So you got those in America, did you? ” John however, has been quite supportive of my new footwear finding the different looking shoes an interesting idea for improving my mood and mobility, but remains slightly amused at being seen with a woman wearing as he puts it, “Shoes that look like black monkey feet.”

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Oh Atlanta – An English Rock Band Sings Me Home

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Georgia State Capital

In March of 1979, the English rock band Bad Company released their fifth album, Desolation Angels which contained a song that many Atlantans may recognize called, ” Oh Atlanta.” For those born too late to have caught the Bad Company version, Allison Krauss included it on a CD of hers in 1995 along with covers of some of her other favorites.

By April of 1979 I was on my way to basic training leaving home at eighteen after joining the US Army right around the time ” Oh Atlanta ” hit the southern airwaves. The irony now is not lost on me that a song I fell in love with 31 years ago was written about my hometown by an English band that I loved as a teenager. While I dreamed a lot of dreams growing up, the one I am living now was never one I considered back then.

As my flight leaves my home in England for my old one in Atlanta, there’s at least one song I know I’ll be listening to once we are airborne. I’ve been humming it for days now and if you’d like to have a listen you can click on the link below.

” Oh, Atlanta, hear me calling, I’m coming back to you one fine day. “

~ Mick Ralphs

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Power Shots & Love Lines

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Earlier this year while John was driving us to Tenby Wales, I spotted this sight and I shouted something like, ” Stop, please … I want to take a picture! ” Being the patient and accommodating man that he is, John pulled the car over so I could take a couple of shots that would probably not appeal to many.

I pulled these two photographs today because they reminded me of how often John puts my needs first even when he’d rather be doing something else. He’s been busy lately helping me get ready for my upcoming trip to my home in Atlanta, Georgia where I’ll soon be for the next few weeks.

He’s been patient and calming even when travel worries have left me a bit stroppy. I love some of the new words I discovered after moving here. Stroppy is a perfect description for my mood lately and I think it’s because I’m really going to miss him. As an independent, space loving woman, this represents a big shift for me.

Even though we’ve only been together for about two and half years I’ve come to love sharing my time with him. I still need of lot of time to myself, but there’s something really easy about the way we move in each other’s lives and space and if we were dancing, I’d say we had definitely mastered the steps.

Of course I’ll have fun on my trip home to the US and it’s going to be good to spend time with Miranda and Cullene and the rest of my family and friends, but now while any family gathering is still sweet, not having him there to share it makes it feel a bit incomplete.

I’m not gone yet, but soon I’ll be writing from the other side of the Atlantic where the high temperatures and humidity may be just enough to distract me from missing him too much.

I’ve already scheduled a run/walk/hike with a blogger friend, Jules who John and I met on the TMB a couple of years ago along with her husband. If you’re reading me from Georgia and want to meet up to say hello, you can leave me a message here and I’ll get in touch with you. We don’t have to brave the heat like Jules and I will be doing … I am content to sit in a cool air-conditioned space and drink iced coffee with you instead.

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Amber Waves Of Grain

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American children grow up learning the words to the song, ” America the Beautiful ” and if you’re not familiar with it, this version by Jon Bon Jovi is well worth a listen.

“Amber waves of grain …” is one of the lines in the song and walking up on the fields of gold this weekend immediately brought it to mind. As much as I love living here in Cornwall with John, scenes like this can make me feel a bit homesick for the US. I’ve only seen wheat fields like this while passing through Kansas so it was not the wheat fields that made me homesick, but rather the song of America that came to mind.

I’ve been knackered since our company left Tuesday morning, worthless in terms of writing, but I still have some photographs from our July 4th celebration that I’d like to share tomorrow.

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Dancing For Your Life

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You may remember this post the other day where I wrote about chewing on an idea, what I didn’t mention at the time was how difficult it was to get a macro shot of the caterpillar I used for that post. Every time I came in close to snap a photograph, the caterpillars would suddenly lift their back ends up and hold them aloft moving them up and down slightly in a waving motion.

This morning I did some research as I was curious to see what they might look like as butterflies. I was having no luck searching through Google for websites until I stumbled across a link that mentioned dancing caterpillars. It turns out they will never be butterflies as this type of larvae are known as Sawfly larvae which look more wasp-like than anything else after it goes through its final changes.

As for the dancing movement, that is commonly said to only be seen in this particular type and is a survival technique that is supposed to protect them from harm. They only do it if you get too close, but when they went into defensive dance mode with me it seemed kind of slow if the goal was to protect them from birds and other fast-moving predators. A few days later I went back to the bush to see what had become of them and to see if anything remained of the plant they had been munching their way through only to discover the branches empty and bare.

While they had eaten quite a lot of the leaves, more remained than were missing which made me wonder if perhaps those little caterpillars had not danced fast enough to avoid becoming a dinner snack for some of the birds in our back garden.

Of course nothing is ever only an educational experience on one level for me, not content with just an impromptu science lesson, I spent some time thinking about these dancing caterpillars and considered all the protective dance moves I’ve used in my own life. I considered the effectiveness of what nature had taught these little future flyers as I thought about the ways I’ve used denial and avoidance in the past to sidestep important issues and I wondered whether that had hurt or saved me in my transformative years.

Can you tell I’m working on something a bit deeper in my daily writing than just happy pleasant things? What about you, are you doing any dancing lately and is it working? Maybe you can teach the rest of us a few new steps … in case we need them sometime. Regarding dancing, I should tell you that I am notorious for trying to lead but I’ll try not to step on your toes.