"N" is for Nancy

I'm never quite sure what I actually remember from my early childhood as opposed to words and images that disguise themselves as memories, or stories I've been told that then become stories I think I remember on my own.

I know for a fact, though, that I remember Nancy Sinatra. I was 3 or 4 the first time I saw her, and I do recall being mesmerized.

I was in our little ranch house on the outskirts of West Des Moines, and she was on a variety show of some kind -- "Laugh In," maybe?  And she was singing "These Boots are Made for Walkin'".

I was a little, little child, so I hadn't yet formed an idea of what beauty was. But I recall her shiny blond hair, and I recall those boots. Considering that I've spent much of my life wanting to be stylish and blond and succeeding at neither, though, I do wonder what sort of ideal may have been cemented in my psyche that day.

My infatuation with Nancy didn't last; as I grew, I discovered the Osmonds, the Jackson 5, and, of course, Tony DeFranco, and poor Nancy was left at the bottom of the little suitcase in which I carried my 45-rpm records. But she didn't leave me altogether; Kevin and I were watching "The Voice" last night, and one of the singers was wearing high, patent-leather boots, and I found myself saying that I needed some of those.

"What boots?" he asked, confused.

"The Nancy Sinatra ones," I replied.

He wasn't sure what I meant, but it didn't matter.  In my mind, high boots -- go-go boots, if you will -- will always be Nancy Sinatra boots. And once I finish losing weight and my calves are small enough for them, I am going to indulge a 46-year-old fantasy and buy a pair. And I may even wear them in public.

The "Boots" song itself is kind of dumb; I read that it was written as if being sung by a 16-year-old who was giving a 40-year-old man the brush-off. Gross. And it's also filled with words that aren't really words, like "truthin'."

But even to a 4-year-old, it was clearly cool.  And Nancy -- she was coolness personified.  Frank Sinatra's daughter, and a blond Italian to boot!  How often does that really happen to my people? I didn't understand artificial hair color back then, but although she had dark roots, even those looked good.

Nancy is probably in her 70s now, but I imagine she's still cool.  And I'll bet she can still rock a pair of go-go boots.  We'll see if I, too, can pull it off.

Are you ready, boots? 

Start walkin'.

"M" is for memories

Two years ago on Mother’s Day, Caroline gave me a bracelet.  Oddly enough at my advanced age, it was my first charm bracelet.

I’d collected memories in other ways; in junior high, for example, I went through autograph books like nobody’s business. (I didn’t have autographs of famous people, but of my classmates; we all seemed to be “2 good 2 be 4 gotten.”)

Later on, I collected Wedgwood china, and I tried for a while to collect memorabilia from different political campaigns and movies. But nothing stuck … until this bracelet.

Even though I don’t remember having owned a charm bracelet when I was young, I doubt the available charms would have been as specific as the ones that decorate my bracelet today, and that’s what attracts me to the idea of collecting them. The company that makes these charms really seems to have one for every imaginable location, pastime or scenario.

Caroline started me out with a pearl “mother” charm; from there, I’ve purchased, or been gifted, charms to commemorate not only my trip to the UK but also my alma mater, my good friend and my dog.

I can look on my left wrist and see the Union Jack, a scroll and a doghouse. The memories are instant, and are far more portable than carrying around one of those old autograph books.

What’s more, after I’m gone one day, this hopefully will fall into one of those “treasured possession” categories for my daughter … who started the whole thing to begin with.

I’ve always been somewhat nostalgic, but as we age, memories take on a whole different significance. How wonderful to have so many of them bound, tangibly, where I can see them, and in such a nice package.

"L" is for longitude and latitude; who knows where life will take these kids?

"L" is for latitude and longitude. Years ago, the coordinates of a town in South Africa wouldn't have mattered to me a whole lot. Now, I find myself looking them up.

When he was a sophomore at Iowa State, my son Scott met a girl named Katleho -- "Kat," for short. I noticed he was talking about her a great deal, and although he claimed they were "just friends," I knew it was just a matter of time.

I met her not long after, and I found out a few things -- her parents had passed away.  She was from South Africa but was living in Ames with her aunt and uncle while attending Iowa State. She was planning to major in finance, but also wanted to be a musician.

Life hadn't dealt her a great hand, but she was strong.  And she and my son seemed to be very fond of one another.

Flash-forward a few years. Scott has graduated and is working; Kat will graduate soon. She leaves tomorrow for South Africa, where she'll work for a few months before coming back to start her senior year. And then she'll come back, and then the two of them likely will talk about making their lives together.

Speaking of latitudes and longitudes -- far-away ones -- I'm not sure where they'll choose to make a home. They may settle in the U.S. They may spend some time in South Africa. Or they might compromise and live in the U.K. To them, it really doesn't matter; the world is small enough, via FaceTime and Skype and all the other methods now available, to keep loved ones close.

When it comes to the two of them, I do a lot of sitting back and watching. Their story is already unusual enough; who would have thought these two would find one another?  But the fact that they are so good at meshing their lives and their beliefs and their cultures is a thing to behold.

When I asked Scott just today if the interracial aspect of their relationship ever poses any challenges, he said it does not, nor does he expect it to. Keep in mind we're only decades removed from a time when they could have been thrown in jail because of their association with one another.

As the world truly does become smaller, we'll likely see more and more stories like Scott's and Kat's. It makes me proud indeed that they're helping to make this planet a more color-blind one, one with respect for all beliefs and cultures. It won't happen overnight, but they serve as a reminder that we're on the right track.

Learning as we go ... "K" is for Kevin

Sometimes marriage is just this side of perfection; other times, it's so, so hard. But if you're lucky enough to continually learn from the person you are married to ... well, you are pretty lucky.

Like most people, I think, I'm married to someone who's not a whole lot like me.  He's good with numbers; I'm not. He doesn't like sugar; I wonder how that's even possible.  He doesn't have to have the kitchen clean before he can relax enough to enjoy dinner; I do. He does tend to be a little moody now and again, but by and large, he's a pretty easy-going guy.

I'd be lying if I were to say I'm a quick study, but I know enough to realize that the whole easy-going thing is where I'm lacking. So I'm lucky, because on the days I'm willing to sit back and be quiet, Kevin is a pretty good teacher.

One thing I really don't like is unfairness, and suffice it to say Kevin has had to put up with quite a bit of that. This is my blog post and not his, so I won't go into detail, but a situation in his life causes him a lot of hurt, and the way it looks now, the situation seems as if it will persist for the foreseeable future.

If I were in his position, people would feel my wrath on a regular basis. But somehow, he manages to not simply ignore the situation, but turn the other cheek. He seems to feel that if he can just be patient, the wrongs will right themselves.

I have to admit they might ... but my nature would be to simply help them along by trying to force those who need to accept responsibility to accept it. But, says Kevin, "You can't do that. You can't make anyone accept responsibility for anything."  And he's right.

When I'm angry about something, I feel that anger physically. My cheeks flush. My heart pounds. I'm sure my blood pressure rises. Kevin seems to experience none of those reactions. He may become quiet and sad, but nothing unhealthy happens to him. That's a behavior I'd definitely like to emulate.

During my formative years, I often heard the Bible passage that promises the meek will inherit the Earth. People who could be defined as "meek" have never appealed to me, to be honest; my inclination is to help "meek" people build some backbone, lash out, talk back.

I'm not sure I'd describe my husband as "meek," but he'd fit that description a whole lot more closely than I would. And if we both were to die this second, I have no doubt he'd be invited into Heaven with open arms, while God would likely tell me, "You -- not so fast. You have some things to work on."

There have been times I've reacted less than patiently when he's chosen not to address the situation that's causing him pain. But I wonder sometimes if my frustration is actually borne of the fact that I wish I could let things go. And that I know I really should strive to be a better person.

Kevin is not perfect, but he's really, truly good. I know myself well enough not to expect miracles, but if that osmosis thing really works, I guess I could be in better standing simply by virtue of proximity.

An unsung hero of a dad -- "J" is for Jon

Jon Gyldenvand with two daughters -- baby Kelli and me, looking cheery -- in 1967

(Note: This first appeared in the Des Moines Register in June 2011.)

Imagine this: You're 22 and newly married. You and your wife are working hard at your first jobs and trying to make enough money to cover your expenses. Times are tough, but you're in love and you have your whole lives ahead of you, so even on rough days, your optimism tends to trump everything else.

Then one day, you learn that your wife's mother is very ill; so ill, in fact, that she doesn't have long to live. If that weren't sad enough, she'll be leaving behind a 2-year-old daughter -- your wife's little sister. For the next two years, you're juggling working and serving in the Iowa National Guard with helping to care for your mother-in-law and a toddler.

When your wife's little sister is barely 4, your mother-in-law dies. Your father-in-law, in his late 40s, must keep working full-time, so the question arises: Who is going to help raise this little girl?

You and your wife step up, of course. Your father-in-law and the little girl move in with you and your wife in your tiny house. You're 24 -- 24! -- and your life changes forever.

Although you would never admit this, you become the unsung hero. You and your wife go on to have two kids of your own, but for all intents and purposes, you have three. It's you who takes the little girl to Indian Princesses and teaches her to ride a horse. You give her a giant set of professional markers to foster her love of art. To encourage her love of reading and writing, you buy her Big Chief tablets and all the books her shelf can hold.

She's a complicated little girl -- very smart, but also very emotional and socially unsure of herself, and you're the one who hangs in there with her. Her sister -- more of a mother to her now -- and her father become frustrated with her at times, but you see only the positives. You keep your cool during the bad times; you refocus her, teaching her to drive a boat and love the water. School comes easily to her, and her self-esteem grows.

By the time she's a teenager, things are looking up. Your business is thriving, and you build a big house. You're working long hours, but still, your family comes first. You coach ball teams and buy a place at the lake so the kids will be encouraged to value family time as much as you do. You teach the girl about tying sailors' knots; you provide her with books from your own library to challenge her. You teach her to drive.

But still, she has a father. You're relegated to an undefined place. You refer to the little girl as your daughter sometimes in social circles, just to avoid explaining the whole situation.

But what are you, really? "Brother-in-law" doesn't work. The girl goes on family vacations with you, your wife and your kids. She has been brought up as a sibling to your son and daughter. Your parents are her grandparents. But things are what they are, so you sit back and try not to sweat the details.

Fast-forward. Your father-in-law begins working for you; he remarries and leaves your home after 15 years. The girl graduates from college, marries, has kids, divorces, and marries again. During rough times, you're there with open arms and words of wisdom.

The years continue to pass and your father-in-law becomes very ill. Your wife and the girl help his wife care for him. On a Thursday in March, he passes away. The road has been a tough one, and the girl is a little shell-shocked, a little sad, and a little lost.

But she turns around and you're still there, as you've always been.

You're all the father she has left now, but she can let you know this now: You're not the default dad. You're the Indian Princess/horseback-riding dad, the one who had paid the dues and never been rewarded.

I don't know how much of a reward this is, but I'm the girl and it's Father's Day, and its time to thank you, Jon Gyldenvand, for the drying of tears and the reassurances and the refusal to see anyone in anything but the best possible light. Thank you for your generosity and your warmth of spirit and for turning the boat around and around until I finally was brave enough to get up on skis.

Thank you, most of all, from accepting a challenge that would have felled many another man. Thanks in large part to you, the sad, scared little girl -- the one you wouldn't back down from -- has turned out all right.

"I" is for Isis, my nurse and protector

I'm on Day Four of a mystery illness that's really starting to tick me off, and I'm reminded of just how much 20 pounds of noisy rat terrier have changed our lives.

"I" is for Isis.  She's many things, but lately, she's been my protector.

This respiratory thing has rendered me unable to do much more than wander around the house as if I'm walking through soup. Mainly, I sleep.  And when I sleep, Isis is there, guarding me.

Sometimes at night, she'll sleep, too, curled around my legs. But in the daytime, if I'm in bed, she'll stand sentry, growling at anyone who enters the room.

I've always loved our dogs, but Isis is different. She came along shortly after both my kids had left the nest; in fact, Scott picked her out for me, from the animal shelter in Ames, and Caroline and her friend Kelsey made the trip north to meet her and bring her home.

Apparently the part of my personality that needed to nurture someone or something came to the forefront, and this noisy little girl terrier jumped in to fill a void.

Kevin is crazy about her, too, but make no mistake -- she's my dog.  And right now, she's especially my dog. She can tell something is not quite right, and she's trying her darnedest to make it so. A while ago, she brought one of her rawhides and dropped it on my stomach. When I cough, she cocks her head at me, then gives me messy dog kisses. She gives what she can.

I read a saying not long ago about the fact that although our dogs are only a part of our lives, we're 100 percent of theirs. But as I look into the kind brown eyes of this little pup, I think she knows that in all actuality, she is, as they say, the one who rescued us.

"F is for fusion, "G" is for grammar, and all rolled up, they make up my comfort zone. Bazinga.

Jim Parsons, the actor who plays Sheldon  Cooper, rolling his tongue. I cannot do this. It's genetic.

"F" is for fusion, and "G" is for grammar. But this post really isn't about either.

It's about The Big Bang Theory. If you watch the show, you know it's about scientists. So while it's a stretch, "fusion" makes sense. As does "grammar," as it's around this area of my life that I tend to resemble one of the main characters.

When it comes to The Big Bang Theory, I came late to the party, beginning to watch only a few months ago. During the height of my freelancing, I was gone most evenings, so TV wasn't a huge part of my life. But when things became a little calmer and I started spending more time at home, I found myself flipping channels every now and again.

"You HAVE to watch this show," my husband said. And my stepson added, "There's this character, Sheldon, and you're just like him."

I wouldn't say I'm JUST like Sheldon Cooper,  but there are similarities. People who have spent any time with me could tell you I like to be right, and I've even been told that I'm -- ahem -- a little obnoxious about areas in which I have a little expertise, grammar being one of them.  I make my living partly on knowing how to use grammar, and although I love social media, I mourn what it's done to the King's English.

But I digress.

The Big Bang Theory appeals to me for other reasons, with most of those revolving around Sheldon Cooper as well. As the only girl in my entire Catholic grade school who didn't have a mom, I felt different, and as a result, I isolated myself to some degree.  I had friends, but truth be told, I preferred my books and my tablets and my own thoughts. I was taller and wore glasses and had a stammer that came to the forefront when I had to speak in front of the class.  I had a touch of OCD that manifested itself in terms of repetitive "checking" -- door locks. Stove knobs. Faucets. (Still have that one. Yep, I'm a ball of fun.)

Needless to say, in those days, I didn't feel pretty or funny or ever quite "good" enough socially. Ah, but I was smart, and I say that not to boast but to tell you that my formative years were not all Sylvia Plath-meets-Mean-Girls.

I was this girl: I earned perfect scores on my ITBS every year. If someone organized a spelling bee, I won it. Yes, I was a tad obnoxious, a la Sheldon, but some good things were forming in my character: I escaped into some great books and was bolstered by a few good teachers who saw my potential. I started keeping journals, some of which evolved into my first work on my high-school newspaper.

I was not a genius, but I was most comfortable in the space made possible by a good, strong brain. And when the glasses gave way to contacts and the braces came off and I stopped growing so everyone else could pass me up, the brain was still there. And it never forgot those challenging years, so I like to think perhaps it allowed my empathy to evolve to make up for the times I was so hard on myself.

The guys on Big Bang Theory are the male versions of the person I remember being. They're much smarter, but they're flummoxed by Halloween parties and malls and anything requiring a clear understanding of the nuances of emotional interaction. They have their white boards.  I had my books and my notebooks.

Just as I evolved, those characters are evolving, too. But every time they eschew a night out for a Halo marathon, I see myself.  As I watch from the outside in, I wish I could have regarded my brain for all the great things it gave me instead of wishing I could have traded it for Olivia Newton-John's bangs and Marcia Brady's cute cheerleading outfits.

As crazy as this sounds, Big Bang Theory is my comfort zone, and it allows me to laugh at myself.  Some could say it makes nerds cool; I'm not sure I agree.  But it humanizes them and makes them relatable to the cool kids, and from time to time, it also redefines the memories of an awkward girl, taking her strangeness and making it perhaps not so strange in the eyes of the sitcom-watching universe.