A Tale of Two Athletes

I know I'll take heat from some friends, but if I can get just one person to stop and THINK, then it'll be worth it.

At the beginning of the Olympics, there was a lot of buzz about Ryan Lochte's new hair color -- light blue, according to Ryan -- and though he took some ribbing about it looking prematurely gray, it was understood that it was all in fun. Even when his hair started to turn green -- Ryan, didn’t you know that bleached hair and pool chemicals are not a good combo? -- any commentary was of the good-natured sort.

And then came the commentary on Gabby Douglas’s hair. And the commentary was decidedly NOT of the good-natured sort. She was relentlessly mocked, by a bunch of people who apparently have never broken a sweat doing anything their entire lives, let alone sweating while earning gold for gymnastics team and country. Gabby tearfully admitted that the criticism -- of not only her ‘do, but of her standing at attention without her hand over her heart at the playing of the National Anthem and of her failure to outwardly show what others deemed the “proper” amount of enthusiasm for teammates competing in the individual events -- had hurt her deeply. I read one columnist’s appeal for folks to lighten up, saying, “She’s just a kid, after all,” and what followed was a hailstorm of comments pointing out that, at 20 years old, she was no longer a kid, and that when a person chooses to live their life in the spotlight, occasionally getting bullied just comes with the territory.

But then came the revelation that Ryan Lochte’s horrifying account of having been held up at gunpoint was a total fabrication, a lie he’d told his mother to conceal having to pay for an act of vandalism after a night of clubbing and drinking. The US Olympic Committee has issued an apology to Brazil; Ryan Lochte himself has issued something of an apology, and there’s been a lot of debate as to how we’re supposed to be thinking of the whole incident, with a whole bunch of very vocal people asserting that Lochte’s “... just a kid ...” who came “to have fun” and deserves “a break.” I’ve heard this over and over again.

Ryan Lochte just turned 32 this month.

Just mull that over for a few seconds. There are so many inconsistencies I can’t possibly name them all. A 20-year-old who’s supposed to suck it up and ignore harsh criticisms of how she looks in competition and while sitting in the stands, vs. a 32-year-old who’s supposed to be given a break for a lie that brought embarrassment to an entire nation, and then, when the lie was discovered, brought embarrassment to an entirely different nation. Just mull that over.

Is it any wonder that women complain of being subjected to a greater level of criticism and scrutiny than men?

Look at this whole thing another way: Though there was talk about Ryan Lochte’s hair, how much of it constituted criticism? What would you have said about Ryan Lochte not putting his hand over his heart during the National Anthem? (Would you have jumped on him for clowning around during the Anthem at the awards ceremony?) Would you have even paid any attention to the look on Ryan Lochte’s face during a teammate’s swim? And perhaps most telling of all, how would you have reacted if Gabby Douglas and a couple of her gymnastics teammates had been out clubbing and drinking until 5:30am, period? Let alone vandalizing private property afterward. Let alone telling a whopper of a lie that got police and the IOC involved! How do you feel -- truly, how do you feel -- when the contexts of these two athletes’ stories are completely reversed?

Postscript:

I’m not judging Ryan Lochte for lying to his mom. Heck, I lied to mine a few times! None of my lies ever had the potential to get blown up to Lochte proportions, so there’s really no telling what I would have done in his shoes. Would I have told the lie to a major network’s news anchor? Would I have doggedly stuck to my story even though it was causing an international incident? Hey, maybe; I was a little scared of my parents, too. (For the record: I’m not a very good liar, and learned this early on in my relationship with my mom, so my lies to her were indeed few. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, my parents would likely have led the parade of angry critics if I’d ever been caught in a lie of such epic proportions.)

I’m certainly not judging Gabby Douglas for any of her “transgressions,” either. I’ve gone out in public with my hair looking completely unkempt, and unlike her have absolutely no excuse except pure-out laziness. I always stand at attention, though not always with my hand over my heart, at the National Anthem; I didn’t even realize that was a big deal, until someone thought it was a big enough deal to criticize Gabby Douglas for it. And hey, Gabby: smiling is not my default facial expression, either. I’ve been criticized for that one hundreds of times, though never, ever, nevereverever to the degree to which you’ve been criticized.

Goodbye to the Great Big White Cargo Van

Yesterday marked something of an “end of an era” in the life of Celtic Heritage: I said goodbye to the great big white Ford E-350 Super Duty diesel van.

The great big white cargo van that towed an Airstream trailer and transported two road warriors and one faithful canine to venues from Bangor, Maine to Waukesha, Wisconsin, from Marathon, Florida to Houston, Texas, and hundreds of other stops within that oddly-shaped quadrilateral that frames the eastern half of the United States.

It was a bittersweet parting. Emptying it out in preparation for a trade was like taking a trip down memory lane. The five-gallon bucket that held miscellaneous necessaries including a hammer, a rubber mallet, two different types of screwdrivers, 50-gallon trash bags, large clips and even larger clips, a pair of heavy-duty leather gloves, a can of WD-40, and duct tape -- several rolls of duct tape, in a couple of different colors and widths. Because you can’t say “necessary” and forget WD-40 and duct tape, the two most necessary items in the world: 1. if it doesn’t move and it should, then WD-40; and 2. if it moves and it shouldn’t, then duct tape.

Tucked away in other storage areas and odd nooks and crannies were the yards and yards of bright yellow caution tape that marked off a safety perimeter for Highland athletics ... the neon pink twine that roped off an area for the sheepherding demonstration ... the massively heavy bin containing hundreds of feet of heavy-duty extension cord -- I used to say we could run power to the Moon, with all the extension cords! The indestructably sturdy dolly (that I used to move the extension cord bin into the storage shed) ... the push pins, kept handy just in case there were a few posters that needed to be put up ... the yellow firemen’s rain slickers that sure came in handy when the weird storm hit one of our festivals. The security strap for the guitar stand -- I found it, Don! After -- how many years? -- I found it!

So many, many memories came flooding back as I emptied and then swept. Swept up dirt and dog hair. Some dirt and lots and lots of dog hair.

As I made the final climb into the big white van,

 
and took the driver’s seat for the last time,

 
then turned the key to make an unhurried drive down to Brandon (FL), I did actually feel a pang of regret. This van was purchased in 2005, after Greg and I had made the decision that, as much time as we were spending away from home and on the road, our tiny little 19-foot travel trailer just wasn’t going to cut it. We’d picked out a larger, 28-foot, Airstream, but needed a pull vehicle with enough power to haul hundreds of pounds of equipment and merchandise plus thousands of pounds of trailer, and concluded that only a diesel engine could do the work. Knowing that diesels, properly maintained, can be good for a million miles or more, Greg remarked, “This will be the last vehicle we ever have to buy.”

And that turned out to be true. Though certainly not in the way we expected.

And I was sad.

But that van took us to lots of happy adventures! To Highland Games and Renaissance Faires and State/County Fairs. Through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. To the French Quarter in New Orleans. Through Old Order Amish country and through Washington, D.C. Along the Blue Ridge Parkway and up the New York State Thruway. To Lakes Erie and Huron and Michigan and Superior. Through the Seneca Nation. To Key West and Stone Mountain and Banner Elk and Fredericksburg and the New River Gorge and Cape Cod.  To lots of Celtic Heritage festivals -- individually, about 50 of them, all told -- and to hundreds of concerts and other performances by Marcille Wallis / Marcille Wallis & Friends. Almost 200,000 miles of adventures.

So I’ll focus on the happy.

Things have shifted, slightly, for Celtic Heritage. The Airstream no longer needs to be hauled into New England or along the Great Lakes or across the mighty Mississippi. The great big white cargo van has been, for a couple of years now, “vehicular overkill,” and I’ll welcome actually being able to execute a u-turn or enter a parking garage. I’ve replaced the great big white cargo van with a smaller SUV -- still white, of course! -- that has the same basic range between fueling stops, but at a fraction of the cost to refuel. It’s a new chapter for me -- a Step Forward.

As I left the Ford dealership in my brand-spankin’-new vehicle, I paused for a few moments, to take one last long look at the great big white cargo van.

 
Step Forward.  

What Is Meant By "I'm Not Ready"

I dearly wish to know how to make people understand what is meant by "I'm not really ready for that."

It doesn't mean "I want to wallow in grief."

It doesn't mean "I want to live in the past."

It doesn't mean "I'm in denial."

It doesn't mean "I don't want to."

It doesn't mean "I'm afraid."

It isn't an invitation for you to give me a nudge, or a stern talking-to, or gentle advice. It isn't a plea for help.

It is exactly what it is: "I'm not really ready ... "

I think I'll know when I am ready, so feel free, periodically, to keep asking/suggesting. Just don't push if I say, "I'm not really ready for that." I perfectly well know that there are opportunities that may pass me by. That’s something I’m prepared to deal with.

I’ve gotten pretty good at “dealing with” stuff over the past few years.

But honestly, I’d a whole lot rather deal with the consequences of passing up on what seems -- to you -- to be a good opportunity for me, than to deal with the consequences of doing something that ran counter to my own instincts; i.e. something that I didn’t feel “ready” for.

You’ll tell me: Have I done an OK job of explaining what is meant by "I'm not really ready for that."?

Now if you could only tell me how to get the point across in 25 words or fewer ... :-)

I Can't Even Come Up With A Good Title ...

Opening Disclaimer:
I am not fishing for invitations.

Secondary Disclaimer:
I didn’t spend a lot of time organizing my thoughts. (Remember: I couldn’t even come up with a good title.) Please bear with me, and if you can’t bear to read the random musings, my feelings won’t be hurt.

In the months since Greg passed, I’ve had to deal with a few dates that were significant to our shared life: first St. Patrick’s Day without Greg, for example, or Greg’s birthday, or our wedding anniversary. They were difficult, each in its own way, and only time will tell if those observances will get easier for me as the years go on. But today, the thought hit: Thanksgiving is only a little more than a week away!

And I started to cry.

I realized something very, very important, that makes Thanksgiving different for me, and perhaps for others in a similar situation. When St. Patrick’s Day came along, I was surrounded by not only my band-mates but thousands of revelers, and we had a connection. When Greg’s birthday came along, all I needed to do was to run a few errands and I would see busy people all around me, also doing errands, and I was connected to the world. When our wedding anniversary came along, a phone call from a friend helped to make me feel connected again. But on Thanksgiving, people tend to pull in toward their nuclear families and close friends, and the newly-alone person can’t easily find the connection. They’re not going to be able to simply step outside their door into the world and feel normal, because Thanksgiving Day isn’t a normal day. For anyone.

Your grieving friend is not going to call you, for fear they might interrupt your dinner preparations or your dinner, or your family ritual of watching the Detroit Lions game. They have no clue, in fact, what you may be up to that day ... because after all, for the previous years, they’d been absorbed in their own family rituals. And now that family is substantially and irrevocably changed. So please, please reach out to them if you possibly can.

A blanket, open invitation to “stop by the house,” made to several hundred Facebook friends is not going to do it. They’ll likely feel a little awkward. A vague, “You know you’re always welcome,” is better, but how about asking them if they have any plans for Thanksgiving, followed by “We’d like to have you join us this year.” The specific invitation gives them a sense of “belonging” again, of feeling connected.

I’m blessed to have a family with whom to spend this Thanksgiving. We’re not going to spend hours roasting a turkey, and I’ll miss making my mother’s dressing, and “everybody’s” favorite -- the Green Bean Casserole. We’ll be going out to some restaurant; it’s the way they’ve celebrated Thanksgiving for the last several years, and while it may not seem “normal” to me, I am grateful to be connected.

Maybe next year I’ll feel like hosting my “own” Thanksgiving again. And if I do, I promise to think about who, among my friends, may need me to reach out and help them feel connected on Thanksgiving.

Thinking Outside the Big Box

Every year around this time, I start hearing the same complaints: 

"I've got people on my list who are so hard to shop for!"

"I'm sick of having only imported stuff to choose from. Nothing's made in America any more!"

This holiday season, I'm suggesting artists -- all friends of mine -- who offer unique items handmade/recorded/written by themselves ... in America. Everyone on this list has an online presence and an online ordering process that's simple and pretty painless.

In compiling this list, I've discovered that a lot of my friends sell their wares only at festivals/shows, so they're not listed here ... but I'll encourage you to shop your local holiday bazaar or street art fair. In either case -- whether you order online or shop the weekend street fair -- your recipient is almost guaranteed to be delighted with something unique. And I guarantee that my hard-working friends in the arts will be thrilled!

Here's my "starter" list, subject to change:

Brendan Nolan
Celtic Soul Craft
Cutthroat Shamrock
Groovy Marie
Infamous Welsh Cookie Company
Just Mine Creations
Key West Soap Co.
Lavender Sky Music
Marci's Chain Designs
Medicine Wind Music
Michael DeLalla
Mindy Simmons
Rathkeltair/Gypsies Ginger/Trevor Tanner
Scooter Muse/Jill Chambless
Sharyn McCrumb
Sleek Soap Studio
Stephan Mikes
Susan Sorrentino
Tamela D'Amico
With My Own Two Hands 

It's not meant to be a definitive list, by any means! And there simply aren't enough days to list all of the deserving folks who could appear on this list. But I hope it'll help you to "think outside the Big Box" this holiday season. Cheers!

And while we're at it ... one more "made in America" candidate ... Marcille Wallis!
www.marcillewallis.com

#ThinkingoutsidetheBigBox

Remembering Jerry Lane

So many of my friends, and friends of Celtic Heritage, know of Jerry Lane through words in the header of the monthly email newsletter, referring to him as "caretaker extraordinaire." Those who were close to us knew him as "Uncle Jerry."

It is with great sadness that I announce the passing of "Uncle" Jerry Lane.

Jerry was born in Michigan City, Indiana on January 30, 1936. He was a lifelong fan of the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame, though whether it's because he was born into a proud Irish-American family or because he grew up fairly close to South Bend, I cannot say. He loved Irish music, and he could definitely carry a tune ... but the only times I ever really heard him sing, he was clowning around, bombastically interpreting "Danny Boy" or the "Mountains of Mourne" or some other song beloved by the Chicago Irish.

Greg and I first met Jerry when we'd go down to a local hangout to play trivia. His "handle" was "Moose" and for a long time we didn't know him by any other name. He was a good player, and seemed to know a lot about a weird variety of things -- well, of course; isn't that what you need, to be a good trivia player? After a while, we began to sit with him, and to converse between games. We learned that he was a salesman at a local used car lot, that he was single, and that he loved animals.

We were just starting to be away from home a lot, traveling to art/craft fairs and so forth, and Greg and I often remarked how wonderful it would be to have someone like Jerry, an independent and responsible individual, living with us, to look after things while we were away. One day, we offhandedly mentioned that to Jerry.

Some weeks, or perhaps months, later, we got a phone call from Jerry, asking us to meet him at his place of business. He was very secretive as to the purpose of the meeting, revealing only that it was a personal matter that he wished to discuss. When Greg and I got to his office, he wasted very little time in getting down to business: Remember the time we talked about him living with us? How serious were we about that? Did we want to explore that further?

Our only hesitation was Maggie, our chow mix, who only liked about six people in the entire world. How would Maggie react to sharing her space and her people with someone else? We invited Jerry to the house, to see how he and Maggie would get along. I don't remember exactly what happened, but I do remember there was blood. 

Jerry reacted with great compassion and understanding for a dog who was still carrying a lot of emotional baggage from her earliest days, and by the end of the visit, she actually let him pet her. But when he left the house, Greg and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and said, "Oh, well, so much for that!"

Eleven years later, Maggie would cross the Rainbow Bridge with Jerry Lane having pretty much gained the title of "Most Favorite Human." Almost two years after that, Jerry Lane would pass on, still bearing a scar from that fateful first meeting. Such is love.

Jerry did come to live with us, and we grew to be a family. He loved to cook, and what joy it was, after days of road food, to come home to a nice pot roast or meatloaf, good ol' comfort food! When it was your birthday, you got to choose your special dish ... mine was Venetian Shrimp and Scallops. When Greg first became ill and was hospitalized, Jerry made me come home from my bedside vigil for some fish 'n chips. He was constantly trying recipes from Rachael Ray or Paula Deen, and was not-so-secretly in love with Giada de Laurentiis.

He supervised the cooking for a number of our band parties, and even provided the hospitality for the first WNC Highlands Celtic Festival. The summer vegetable chili -- with bulgur wheat substituting for meat! -- that he prepared for that event was so yummy, many of the Highland athletes actually chose it over the pulled pork that also was offered. Matt Miller was so fond of Jerry's baked ziti, he wrote a dedication to it in the liner notes of the "Marcille Wallis & Friends Live!" CD.

Jerry loved nature, and enjoyed sitting out on our lanai, watching the activities of the birds and squirrels that visited our backyard. So sensitive had he become to the sounds of our local wildlife, that through him I was able to predict the strike of Hurricane Charley in the summer of 2004. Greg and I were up in Ohio/Pennsylvania at the time, and Jerry had been providing us with updates on the compact but powerful storm out in the Gulf. The morning of August 13, Jerry called to tell me that the storm would strike the Tampa Bay area later that day, so our home would be in the clear. "But you know, it's the darndest thing," he said, "None of my birds were out in the backyard this morning. It's dead silent here." And I knew right then, what the meteorologists did not: That the storm was headed for Charlotte Harbor, well south of Tampa Bay. It took some persuasion to get Jerry to leave the house and go to a friend's home, but he later thanked me for it. "Honey, I did time in the Air Force overseas, and thought I'd seen and heard it all, but I'll tell you, that hour or so as Charley passed over us was the most terrifying event of my entire life!"

Jerry Lane, who though fiercely proud of the work that Greg and I did, was never able to pronounce correctly the name of my instrument: he called it a "dulcenheimer." Jerry Lane, who insisted on calling Italians "Eye-talians." Jerry Lane, old-fashioned in his respect for women. Jerry Lane, who must've felt seasick with the rising and falling of his beloved Cleveland Browns and Cleveland Indians. Jerry Lane, who often masked a moment of sentimentality with "It makes me want to recite poetry!" followed by some over-dramatic rendition of a passage from Shakespeare. Jerry Lane, who though a life-long Republican, liked Barack Obama, often saying in his raspy tone, "The kid's doing a great job." 

Uncle Jerry had comforted me in the passing of my father in 2003 and the passing of my mother in 2006. Though I had other adult relatives still living in other states, Jerry was as close to a parental figure as I had, so when Greg and I married, Jerry's the one who escorted me down the aisle.

Jerry, when speaking directly to Greg, often called him "My Son." He took it pretty hard when Greg passed, as any parent would, since it feels like things aren't working in the natural order. He'd already suffered the emotional blow of us selling our house in 2014, in order to be closer to Tampa General Hospital for the sake of Greg's health. So when he threw himself more deeply into the activities of the Moose Lodge he'd joined, it was only a good thing. In the earlier part of this year, he was elected president of his lodge. What a wonderful achievement for a man who, only a few short years earlier, had lamented being unable to find a job that suited him -- yes, Jerry was that kind of guy. While others look forward to retirement, Jerry despised the very thought of it. 

Although Jerry's death was sudden, and a sudden blow, I am comforted by the fact that he went out on his own terms. He'd always feared a lingering illness, and he was spared that. He'd hated having nothing to fill his days; well, he didn't just have a job that one person had hired him for, he had a position that hundreds of people had elected him to. 

Goodbye Uncle Jerry. Thank you for all the years you lived with us and loved us and took care of us. Your Irish Eyes Are Smiling. "Caretaker Extraordinaire," Rest In Peace. 

Greg Memorialized at South Shore Irish Festival

My heart is full of gratitude this morning, as I've just learned that Greg will be memorialized at the South Shore Irish Festival, September 12-13, in Marshfield, MA.

A while back, South Shore Irish announced that nominations were open for dedication of six tents to honor/remember individuals who had "a love for Irish Culture, Music, and just [an] all around mindset of what it means to be Irish." Friends, especially those who are members of the New World Celts, rallied behind Greg's nomination with emails, letters and Facebook posts.

Although Greg is best-known for his concert and festival production in Florida and North Carolina, he actively promoted the efforts of Shamrock Nation, a Massachusetts-based organization which was founded for the purpose of fostering Irish music and culture. 

The complete list of this year's honorees is as follows:

Edward 'The Tiger" Ahern 
Sean Gannon
Marguerite Maher Hart 
Jack Lee
John Mannion
Greg McGrath