Mia Fall 2011

FALL2011

a journal by for and about women

My GRANDMA’S NAME beyond ordinary My bookshelf cinderella ate my daughter My TASTES The sweet Life

See her story on page 14

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my art Virginia T. Coleman Welding Artist

Su EV bs ER c Se ribe MI S m e pa TO S A ia g D N m e4 A ag o Y. IS az r g It’ SU in o s e E e.n to as y. et

MY cause rebuilding lives at lindsey house

all new. all heart.

matters of the heart.

Dustin & Christin

Similar heart conditions brought Dustin and Christin together. Their remarkable beginning produced a bond made even stronger by each of them undergoing a heart procedure within the first six months of marriage. And now, thanks to Oklahoma Heart Institute, their future is even brighter.

To learn more about Dustin and Christin’s life-changing experiences at Oklahoma Heart Institute, visit OklahomaHeart.com.

Snap the mobile tag to view Dustin and Christin’s full story on YouTube.

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fall2011 Mia Magazine A journal by, for, and about women Publisher The Leslie Group, LLC

My grandmother gave me one of her rings when I was in high school. It was silver with a tiny diamond in the center of a rectangle onyx stone. I wasn’t much of a jewelry gal, but this ring was elegant and chic – like nothing I had ever seen. My grandmother modeled it for me before she handed it over. It was stunning, and she waved her long graceful fingers in front of me, then twisted off the ring and handed it over. “It’s yours now,” she said. I put on the ring and modeled it just as she had done, waving my fingers in front of her.

But it was all wrong. My fingers are short and stubby and a little bulky at the knuckles. The long rectangle stone seemed to swallow my hand and it no longer looked elegant and chic - just misplaced. I put it in my jewelry box and took it out every now and then to admire it, but it really only made me wish for different hands.

My mother also had long graceful fingers, and as a child I would place our hands together – palm to palm – and think that someday my hands would grow into hers. But they haven’t, and they never will. As women, we often look around at other women to see how we’re measuring up.

This is the difference between wanting someone else’s story, or determining that you will tell your own. There was a time when I wanted my grandmother’s story – the rugged farm wife who knew how to live simply off the

land. And there were times when I wanted my mother’s story, a twin who grew up in a large family that forged in her a sense of patience and endurance. But those are not my stories and they never will be.

My life has a story that belongs only to me, just as my hands belong to me – even with their stubby fingers. So instead of wishing for different hands or trying to wear my grandmother’s ring, I have my own rings – one from my husband and one from my mother, purchased for my hands. They are smaller, and they fit me perfectly. I’ve also learned to love my story and to tell it with an equal measure of humility and pride. It belongs only to me, and so I must live within it and continue to write it without comparing it to anyone else’s. We should each tell our own story, as well as the stories of women we know and admire. This issue of Mia is a blend of both. We also have a feature that comes from our readers, telling us the names they chose as grandmothers and for their grandmothers. If you are new to the magazine, welcome to the community. If you have been with us for a while, help us spread the word that storytelling matters.

If you don’t have a subscription, you should! This is the easiest, most convenient way to make sure you are able to read the stories every quarter. And your subscription helps ensure that we can keep bringing you these stories. Visit our website at www.miamagazine.net, or find us on Facebook and Twitter.

Editor Lisa Tresch Graphic Designer Lina Holmes Business & Technical Director Juli Armour intern Jacquelyn Collins Contributing Editor Linda Watanabe McFerrin Writers Virginia T. Coleman Jacquelyn Collins Yona Zeldis McDonough Annie Paige Virginia Reedy Monica Roberts Patty Sisco Valerie Vaughan Jan Weinheimer Photography LSD Photography Lisa Dunham For submission guidelines, visit miamagazine.net Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited. Copyright © 2011 The Leslie Group, LLC. All rights reserved.

Mia Magazine is published quarterly by The Leslie Group, LLC P.O. Box 35665 Tulsa, Oklahoma 74153-0665 918.978.5567 www.miamagazine.net

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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For the past two and a half years, we have brought you stories of inspiration from women all over the world through the pages of Mia. As a “journal by, for, and about women,” we seek to encourage women from all walks of life to share their life experiences with one another through the written word. We are celebrating things we have in common as women in today’s world, rather than focusing on what divides us. Whether it is our travels, our causes, our relationships, or our money, women have shared their stories, and our readers have responded positively.

If you believe in what we are doing to promote literacy, inspire women, and build a storytelling community, then we’re asking you to support our efforts by subscribing to Mia. For $16 a year, you will receive the next four issues in your mailbox to read in the comfort of your own home.

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

Contentsfall 2011

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

MyWORLD

Empowering Women Through Silk Road Solutions

by Valerie Vaughan

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MytasteS

13

Myjourney

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Myart

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Myrelationships

20

MYgrandma’s name

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Mytraditions

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Mycause

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MyHome

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Myreflections

30

Mybookshelf

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MyAfterTHOUGHTS

The Sweet Life

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin The Second Round

by Patty Sisco

Love at First Touch

by Virginia T. Coleman Letter to Erinn

by Virginia Reedy

No Longer Just Plain Grandma

by Our Readers Camp NanaPudge

by Jan Weinheimer

Lilah Lindsey: Helping Mothers Rebuild Their Lives

by Jacquelyn Collins One Young Woman’s Transformation– Step-by-Step

by Lisa Tresch Gray Girl

by Yona Zeldis McDonough Cinderella Ate My Daughter

by Annie Paige Turning Over a New (Lettuce) Leaf

by Monica Roberts

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Myworld

By Valerie Vaughan

Empowering Women Through I have a dream to see other people’s dreams fulfilled.

I write this from halfway across the world in a nation with little hope and with unfulfilled dreams. I live in Afghanistan, and I got here by sitting at a crossroads where I had to decide between two opportunities. One way was comfortable, easy and predictable. The other was flat out crazy.

I had just read The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson, a fable about a guy named Ordinary living in the land of Familiar who began to wish for the unexpected.

Ordinary’s wish soon turned into a big dream. The pursuit of the big dream was filled with difficulties, roadblocks, sacrifices and the possibility that reality might look different than the dream. Eventually he arrived in the land of Anybodies whose needs matched perfectly the big dream in his heart, and he knew it was time to fulfill his dream.

My dream entailed using my talents and professional background to empower women and young leaders also at a crossroads between what they had known and what they dreamed could be possible. In 2007, I moved to Kabul to begin a new business – training professional adults. Family members and dear friends struggled with the unknown of my world, but still encouraged me to pursue my dream. Despite living in a difficult land without the conveniences of Western life, my joy overflows in the growing number of stories of Afghan women achieving their dreams.

Today, that business is part of Silk Road Solutions, a leadership development company based in Kabul. We are a group of about 25 international and Afghan trainers and executive coaches working with Afghan leaders in all sectors. We believe it is Afghans themselves who have the solutions to the future of this beautiful, yet struggling country. We provide tools, support, and encouragement, which unlock and shift paradigms that have been molded by 30 years of war and violence.

Each day I have the privilege of meeting individually with these leaders to discuss how to make their dreams reality in practical ways. They are in Parliament, deputy ministers of government ministries, human resources directors, telecom executives, doctors, and attorneys.

Their dreams are of master’s degrees, professional credentialing, establishing advanced medical clinics, and being known as public officials with integrity. Even my friend, Pashtun, a village woman who was married at age 12 and now has 11 children, is achieving her dream of learning to drive with the support of her caring husband.

I am also privileged to lead a quarterly forum called VOCAL (Voice of Change - Afghan Leaders) for highlevel women leaders. The program builds leadership skills while networking and deepening relationships to promote more collaboration and less competition.

During my first year in Afghanistan I met a beautiful, young marketing manager named Palwasha. Names hold great value here, and it is common to ask the meaning of one’s name while becoming acquainted with someone new. Her mother named her after a famous reporter whose courage she hoped Palwasha would one day reflect. Palwasha means “sunshine,”and she very much radiates the courage her mother wished for her. Palwasha’s story of courage began at age 14 when her mother was diagnosed with cancer and eventually lost her battle six months later.

The Taliban ruled during this period, which brought many more complications to living situations. Palwasha, the only child still at home, gave permission for her father to remarry, and the new family moved to Pakistan. As a refugee, she put her full energy into learning English and studying.

At age 18, Palwasha was engaged to a gold broker and jewelry designer. They married a year later. What she loved most about him was his humility, desire for a healthy relationship, and maturity. What he loved about

photos submitted

opposite page Pashtun

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Above: Palwasha and Valerie. Opposite page top: Leaders in the SRS VOCAL Program. Opposite page below: Pashtun and her daughter. her was her commitment to Afghanistan. After ten years of marriage, he is still accepting and supportive of her life dreams, even going against cultural norms by allowing her to work full-time and be out in public late in the evening to attend university classes.

Palwasha is finding that with freedom comes the struggle to balance work and life. Six days a week she leaves at 7:30 a.m., works full time, then attends university, returning home at 9:00 p.m. She spends time with her three-year-old son, studies, and then falls into bed exhausted.

Inspired by Condoleezza Rice and Hillary Clinton, Palwasha’s dream is to be a diplomat and facilitate the connection of Afghanistan to the world. She has a vision that Afghanistan will one day be a global influence and support other countries, and that vision keeps her going. Today, as a leadership coach for our organization, she is inspiring Afghan leaders to live their dreams.

Through the certification process, her life has been transformed. Before, she saw her vision as just a big dream; now she believes it will be reality.

As a leadership coach, every day Palwasha experiences transformation in others. One female business owner in her training was controlling and not trusting of others. During one of the exercise debriefs, she asked the women, “How does this show up in other areas of your life?” Instantly, the woman recognized how

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her ways were impacting others at work. She was so ashamed that she wanted to quit. Instead, she decided to give her staff the chance to talk about it. One by one they gave her difficult feedback, and in the end they were amazed at her willingness to listen.

There is an Afghan proverb which says, “Drop by drop makes a river.” With one question Palwasha realized her impact on one woman in turn impacted fifty other people who also worked for her. This experience has strengthened her commitment to support Afghan women whom she describes as the most powerful in the world. “Afghan women haven’t lost hope even in the midst of danger, war, and economic crisis,” she said.

“Women can bring a big change in Afghanistan and when you have confidence, nothing can stop you from achieving your goal.” Palwasha is known as the rock star of Silk Road Solutions.

With deep gratitude, both Palwasha and I recognize the people who have made sacrifices in order to enable us to live out these big dreams. Palwasha has many opportunities to live in foreign lands and chooses instead to live out her dream by affecting change from within Afghanistan. I am also privileged to have a generous community at home and incredible Afghan leaders here who help me pour my passion, abilities, and heart into making my dream a reality. Mia

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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Mytastes

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin

The Sweet Life

I once ate an entire box of brown sugar … with a teaspoon … in under thirty minutes.

No, it wasn’t a contest. I had a hankering for something sweet, and back then, before I recognized the error of my ways, that box of sugar was just about the only thing in my cupboard. I should confess that I am the kind of person who likes to have a wee bit of pancake with her syrup, who prefers the frosting to the cake, whose idea of a celebration is a candy-crammed piñata, sweet tea, and a sticky pitcher of margaritas.

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

That’s right, I am a sugar junkie.

Reformed perhaps, but always teetering on the verge of falling off the wagon and directly into the cookie jar. I used to think there were advantages to a diet that consisted largely of refined sugar. I’ve always been thin (in a way only possible for the nutritionally deprived), quick, and famous both for my phenomenal multi-tasking abilities and laser-sharp focus. Yes, I can be a little moody and I have a tendency to crash like a Vespa slamming into a brick wall when the low hits—and it does hit—but in the past I felt these were minor prices to pay for the highs. Far more dangerous are the consequences of long-term sugar abuse—the destruction of healthy metabolic function, the cell and organ damage, the risk of diabetes, obesity, tooth decay, hypertension, stroke, and—researchers now say— various cancers. Some people will tell you that sugar can kill … and those people might be right.

Yet, in spite of the mountain of evidence implicating sugar in a host of disastrous health outcomes, world sugar consumption continues to rise. Americans consume around 22.3 teaspoons or 355 calories of added sugar daily - sugar that does not occur naturally in a balanced whole food diet. The American Heart Association recommends that women keep their added sugar intake to no more than 100 calories a day and men to 150 calories. So the average American is ingesting more than three times the healthy level of added sugar.

Why? Well, one reason is obvious. Sugar is yummy. Our bodies require simple sugar as a primary source of energy. Plants manufacture these simple sugars from the combination of water, carbon dioxide, and sunlight.

It’s no wonder, then, that various forms of sugar, be they natural—glucose, fructose, dextrose, lactose, sucrose—or man-made, have tremendous appeal.

Sugar is necessary for cell vitality and for brain function, and refined sugars deliver the goods in an accelerated way. They can flood our systems in a manner that raises insulin levels in the blood, and endorphin levels in the brain. They produce a chemical high, which brings me to the second reason why we are overdosing on sugar: unnaturally powerful mood altering substances are popular, and if you infuse products with them, those products will sell.

It doesn’t matter where they are from; most people find cakes, cookies, candy, soft drinks, alcohol—just about anything loaded up with edible crystalline carbohydrates—hard to resist. And the more we eat,

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

the more we want. That’s because our bodies are marvelous self-adjusting mechanisms. When we get too much of a good thing, they recalibrate to stabilize the system. Over time the brain’s endorphin production will slow or shut down, insulin levels in the blood will rise to neutralize the excessive sugar, and the adjustment will very likely result in feelings of depression and lethargy. No worries; more sugar can subvert that unwanted downer.

Maybe that’s why some of us may feel we are addicted to sugar—although the notion of sugar addiction is by no means universally accepted. Studies have shown, however, that the way sugar affects opioids and dopamine in the brain suggests a neurochemical response similar to those induced by other addictive substances. Bingeing, withdrawal, craving, and crosssensitization are behaviors that sugar lovers share with drug users. Lab rats supplied sugar-laced diets in one Princeton study experienced teeth chattering, paw tremors, and head shakes when the sugar was turned off. Given the opportunity, they relapsed, hitting the sweet dispenser again and again.

And that’s just what I do, though I know well that the path to perdition smells just like gingerbread and is paved in peppermint patties. I can’t help it. I still find the temptations of a big bag of jellybeans, a Krispy Kreme donut, or a bottle of blackstrap molasses hard to resist. Now, with a host of food allergies very possibly provoked by the sweet life, I have learned to eschew added sugars or, at least, to limit my intake. I have to say, it’s not easy. As I mentioned before, sweet stuff sells, so you’ll find many hidden sugars in places you might not suspect. Label reading reveals that the substance, very often in the form of high fructose corn syrup, finds its way into just about everything from so-called “healthy” foods like flavored yogurt, granola, and low fat salad dressings to ketchup and hamburger buns. It’s hard to avoid it in processed foods, so I’ve come to rely on plenty of lean protein, low fat dairy, fresh fruit and vegetables to keep my system in balance. It helps with the cravings. But every so often when the moon is full, or the stress is high, or I have a huge deadline looming, I will give in, hop on the old sugar roller coaster, hang on tight, and ride it once more to the top. Mia

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

Myjourney

By Patty Sisco

Raising kids has never been my strong suit. I ferociously love my three kids and did everything within my power to see that they had the kind of upbringing that everyone deems best for children: reading every night, regular meals together, involvement in church and all kinds of extracurricular activities. Yet, guiltily, I confess that the few years I spent as a stay-at-home mom were not my favorites. I had simply enjoyed far too many years in the company of other adults to feel the pleasure and fulfillment that many moms experience reading A Visit to the Children’s Zoo for the fiftieth time. My husband and I were not well-prepared for the child-raising gig. We were both only children with childhoods about as far removed from “Leave It to Beaver” as could be. No stay-at-home June Cleaver mothers wearing pearls or Ward Cleaver dads with the patience of Job and wisdom of Solomon. Not even big brother Wally to guide us through life’s ups and downs.

But we set out on our parenting journey confident that we would raise healthy, happy, intelligent, ambitious, and talented youngsters who would emerge from our cocoon as responsible, mature, tax-paying citizens. They, in turn, would be eternally grateful for our gentle tutelage as they followed our lead to raise healthy and happy offspring of their own. It was our dream that these offspring - our grandchildren - would live nearby and visit frequently so we could spoil them as we entered our sunset years.

But of course, like most fairy tales, this one just didn’t come true. And today, unlike most of our peers, we have rarely been alone in our home overnight for the last 35-plus years. We have joined the growing ranks of the 2.4 million other American families in which parents have stepped aside and grandparents have assumed the responsibility of raising their grandchildren. In our case, we first took custody of our three-year-old granddaughter in 1997 because her 21-year-old mother, mentally unstable since childhood, had become so heavily involved in drugs that we insisted she leave our home. She did so with little protest and expressed no regret that she was also leaving behind the precious child who had lived in that home since birth.

I was no stranger to this familial arrangement. As a high school guidance counselor in an at-risk school, I had worked with many teens who lived with their grandparents because of their parents’ incarceration, drug addiction, poverty, outright abandonment, or even death. The saddest cases were those grandparents who were in their 70s or even 80s, and were supporting children from more than one of their offspring. Many of the teens I worked with were deeply troubled, but a few were sparkling gems, the essence of resilience and optimism. But I would never have predicted that we would become a part of this ever-increasing nationwide family dynamic, starting round two when our youngest son was still in middle school – before round one was even over.

At first, the task of raising our granddaughter seemed overwhelming, if not impossible. Her mother was in the deadliest stage of her addiction and we expected every phone call or unexpected visitor to bring us the devastating news that our daughter was dead. It seemed almost impossible to carry on through our grief and loss as our gifted, bright, and stunningly beautiful daughter disintegrated before our eyes; yet we had no choice but to stay strong as we struggled to provide the nurture and support so crucial to the health of her three-year-old. The image of that trembling chin and those huge liquid brown eyes filled with tears bore deep into my soul as she asked the heart-wrenching question: “Why did my mommy go away?”

Yet our journey of raising our grandchildren was barely beginning in 1997. Since that life-altering year, our daughter has weaved in and out of our home in varying states of mental stability and drug abuse, has switched from the deadly street heroin to legal (but still as addictive) methadone, and has borne two more children along the way - boys who are now nine and three. And unlike their sister, the boys were both born addicted to drugs, each entering this world with one huge strike already against them as they fought to rid their tiny bodies of the substance that caused them so much physical pain. Thus, we perch on the edge of the Continued on page 34. See My Journey

photo submitted Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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Myart

by Virginia T. Coleman

Love at First Touch T

he scent of coffee permeated the air and moonlight glimmered through the frosted window as I waited for the alarm to tell me it was time to rise and shine. It was 4:30 a.m.

For me, the first day of any new job is a bit nerveracking. I wonder what the job will involve, if I will like it, and if my skill set will be sufficient to accomplish the tasks given to me. Nerved-racked is an understatement.

I was terrified on the first day of my first welding job.

I arrived at the factory early. I had only been in it once before when I took my second weld test after graduating with a certification as a Master Welder from the Tulsa Welding School. What really went on inside this large factory was a mystery to me. The sea of big “man” trucks was enough to make any woman turn around. I entered the factory with shaking hands and went into the break room to meet my supervisor. As a fit up welder, I would be building enormous wind turbines, but I didn’t realize how large the structures were until the supervisor took me through the factory. I was mesmerized by the large steel pipes, plates, and cranes everywhere. The cacophony of noise was riveting, the dust lingered, and the light from welders lit up the dim factory.

That first day was a surreal experience that I will never forget. As I walked from the front of the factory to the back, I felt as if I was on display. I’m sure the men were wondering, “Who is this tiny woman and why is she here?” I quickly realized that I was one of three women welders in the entire factory - the only woman on the weekend shift, and the first woman ever hired for my position. I stood out.

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I survived the first day at that job and so began another step on my path. Every day of welding is different, but every day is also a long hard 12 hours. And every day I sweat and burn myself, but I leave work with a tremendous sense of physical accomplishment.

Why would a woman in her 30s, who just graduated with her Master’s in Fine Arts, choose to go to welding school and become a professional welder? Simple really: to bring my true love–art–to the next level. It was my last year in graduate school when I took my first metals class, and it was love at first touch. I have been building models, ideas, and three-dimensional paintings out of wood for years, but I had never had the opportunity to play with metal until that metals class. I remember calling my mother to tell her, “This is it!” I had found my voice.

A recent nickname I have acquired is Miss Gypsy, which is fitting. I have moved from East to West, North to South, and across oceans in search of myself. Every critical juncture in my life has veered toward this unrelenting passion to produce visual, tangible art. I work in a multitude of media that include painting, drawing, photography, wood, and metal. It is an

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submitted photos Virginia at work inside a wind turbine.

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metal sculpture

oil painting 16

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amalgamation of a multi-faceted background: architecture, figurative painting, and now welding.

My work continually evolves, but what remains is my curiosity about the nature of the built environment and the human condition. I constantly grapple with how to relay this.

Before I began art school, I recognized that making a living as an artist would be difficult, at least for quite a while. I could have gone back into architecture or begun teaching, but neither of these would have helped me develop a physical ability to create large steel forms.

I had to learn more about the world of welding and the actual mechanics of fabricating large steel structural forms from a physical standpoint. I couldn’t learn this from books or papers, so I packed my bags and left California for Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I knew no one. I wasn’t familiar with the city or the culture, and didn’t have a grasp of what the professional world of welding would entail. Tulsa is a mecca for welding, and I plan on learning from many different welding experiences to broaden and improve myself.

I don’t know if I am crazy or just blindly in love with making something out of my ideas. But I have found a career path that allows me time off to work on my art, the financial stability to buy the equipment necessary to fabricate the work, and the environment to continually learn and grow within my craft. Welding is a valuable skill needed all over the world, so it can take me to places yet unknown. To weld something that is structurally strong takes a great deal of patience, perseverance, physical fortitude, dexterity, and superb hand eye coordination. It’s also important to understand metallography, electricity, and structural blueprint reading.

In the next few years I plan on fabricating a new body of work, larger pieces made directly from steel, using its dynamic characteristic to express myself.

Art is my life; welding is my tool. Mia

metal sculpture Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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Letter to Erinn MyRELATIONSHIPS

by Virginia Reedy

Dear Most Precious Granddaughter, You have asked a challenging question:

“How have you and Granddaddy kept your love vibrant for sixty years?”

To tell you the truth, I have no formula to pass along.

One key to a good marriage is choosing well in the first place—and I’m blessed to be married to a kind, considerate, loving man who is also the world’s biggest tease.

Your granddaddy is my best blessing—and I thank God for him every day.

How did we get to sixty years, still in love, still liking one another, still enjoying one another’s company?

Well, it’s been a journey!

photos submitted 18

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

We haven’t always ridden along in air-conditioned comfort on a four-lane divided freeway. Sometimes we’ve been in a Model A Ford on two-lane bumpy roads—in the heat. Sometimes life has been easy and fun and exciting. But sometimes, honestly, it’s been humdrum. And sometimes it’s been scary and tense and challenging. What has kept us in the same car, going in the same direction? The big C word: Commitment.

Never, ever did we consider not being together, no matter what.

Marriage is work. The minute you think you have it made, that’s the minute the marriage begins to unravel.

Every day requires attention to your relationship with the love of your life.

We married in 1948 in an era very different from today. My mother gave me quite a bit of advice which sounds a little old-fashioned now, but which, believe it or not, still works.

She knew that men are visual creatures, so one of the things she told me was to be sure I stay well-groomed every single day—no hanging around in a nightgown, unwashed and uncombed—not even on Saturday.

My mother believed that having breakfast together and supper together were critically important events. She said, when I protested about the supper requirement, “Virginia, if we don’t eat breakfast together and supper together, when will our family be all together at the same time? When would we see each other?” And she was right. She was asking for less than an hour out of the day, fifteen minutes in the morning,

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

half an hour in the evening. But those two brief times were important in the home where I grew up—and they became important in my own home when I married and had children.

You truly don’t know a person until you marry him. A reasonably long engagement is a good thing, but even that won’t tell you everything you will discover later.

I remember asking your cousin Jenni, when she and Greg were engaged, if they had been engaged long enough to have an argument and then work it out. She laughed and said, “Oh yes!” Because the arguments will come. The woman who says, “Oh, my husband and I never disagree” is either lying or confessing that she has no intimate relationship with her husband. It’s not possible to live in close quarters with someone and not have an occasional argument. How you fight matters. It’s helpful to learn how to disagree, how to apologize, but also how to avoid conflict whenever you can. Communication is huge in a marriage. Talking and listening are important skills to master.

Another bit of wisdom from my mother: cultivate your relationship with your husband, especially during the years when children demand so much of your time and attention. She said, “Think about it. You have your children at home for 18 years—and then they leave. And once the last child has left, it will be just you and your husband again. If you don’t nurture your relationship during the years the children are at home, then you will wake up one morning and find yourself married Continued on page 32. See My relationships

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Mygrandma’s name

By Our Readers

No Longer Just Plain Grandma H E LmeLis O my na

HELL my nam e is

My husband is Pop and I’m called Gram, although my young grandchildren have been known to revise my name. I remember my first grandchild, Emma, singing at the top of her lungs in her Mommy’s car: “Pop and Dam, Pop and Dam.” It still makes me smile. When our second granddaughter was born, my eighty-five-year-old dad and twin sister traveled with us to meet little Harper. We were in the midst of a tea party with Emma when she offered my dad some tea. “Would you like some tea, Dam Daddy?” My twin looked at me and said, “Truer words were never spoken.” We have laughed about that for the last 12 years.

Marti Morris My 3-year-old calls my mom Cuckoo. When he was just learning to talk, he couldn’t say “grandma.” It came out sounding like Cuckoo. My mom is admittedly a little batty, so we all thought the name was both hilarious and fitting and started calling her Cuckoo as well. Now, he still calls her that, even though he can say “grandma.” I think she spells it “coo coo,” even though she knows better.

Holly Wall I called my grandmother Mimi. She always said I named her Mimi because she would say to me, “Come to me, come to me.” My granddaughter hasn’t named me yet.

Every time she sees me, she says something like “Aheeee-yah!” I hope that’s not the final name!

Laura Schaub

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O

O LL HE is e my nam

When we took our kids skiing back in the 80s, I enjoyed the less dangerous sport of shopping. A store called Grammy’s Attic had handmade dolls, quilts and mountain antiques and that made me want to be a Grammy someday. Then in 1991, stage four breast cancer gave us concern that I might not even be here to see our grandchildren. I had great doctors and five years later our son and daughter-in-law made me a Grammy for the first time, and then again four years later. I’ve since had twenty more birthdays and two more grandchildren.

I love hearing Grammy spoken, yelled, and even sometimes whined. I am loved and needed. God saved the best for last.

Cheryllynn Emmer My father’s mother was always Grandmother and I do not remember shortening it to anything else. She was petite, gentle, loving, very much a lady and the name fit her perfectly. She lived close by and we saw her often.

My other grandmother was called Mama Gip short for Gibson. She and my grandfather Daddy Gip lived farther away and we saw them only once or twice a year. Mama Gip’s name fit her, too, as she was a country woman raising seven children. Although she was my mother’s stepmother, I never felt we were slighted in the least.

She embraced us fully as her grandchildren and we were always excited to make the long trip to see her.

Deniese Dillon

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

H Ey naLmeLis O m

HELL my nam e is

O

Artwork by Ava Grieco, at age 5 I am quite happily grandmother to three with another grandchild on the way. When our first grandson, Henry, was born, my husband and I started a tradition of having the in-town grandchildren stay with us on Fridays. In those days, it was just the three of us around the house all day. Henry seemed to have settled on a name for most everyone and I was a little disappointed when he didn’t have a name for me. I was encouraging “Mimi” but Henry wouldn’t buy it. One Friday afternoon, he and his Poppa were sitting in the sunroom and I was off in the house somewhere when Poppa started calling for Honey, a nickname used often but only by Poppa. Henry started calling for Honey also. I’ve been Honey ever since.

Jeannie Sacra I’m a first time grandma of a 20-month-old boy and he calls me Boogie. This is a nickname that was given to me by my very own grandma when I was a baby. It has stuck with me as a family nickname, so now that I am a grandma, I have decided this will be my name.

Charmaine Berlioux When my daughter called and told me I was going to be a grandma, I cried - not because she was pregnant, but because I felt I was too young to be called grandma. After the shock wore off, I began my search for grandparent names. After asking several people in this elite group what their grandparent names are, I immediately realized that I would need to find easy, meaningful names. My name is Bella, from the Italian meaning word for beautiful and my husband is called Avo from the Portuguese meaning of grandfather. It is wonderful to hear our grandchildren call us Bella and Avo. Brenda Feist

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

I was going to be “Grandmom” because that was what my own mother was called by my sons. Plans changed, however, when my first grandson couldn’t pronounce it.

He deemed me Gobby. Now that is what everyone, young and old, calls me. I love it!

Lynda Keas Nathman My maternal grandmother passed away when she was young, so I only knew my Dad’s side of the family. His mom was called Plain Grandma and his grandmother (my great-grandmother) was addressed as Grandma. The story behind those names stemmed from our confusion as children when my dad would call his grandmother “Grandma” and us kids would call our grandmother “Grandma,” as they both visited at the same time quite often. We asked my great-grandmother what her name was and she said “Grandma.” Then we asked our grandmother what her name was and she said, “I am just Plain Grandma.” We all called her Plain Grandma until she died in 1986. Today still, in our reflections and stories, she is called Plain Grandma.

Donna Collins My grandfather was GrandDal (his name was Dallas) and I liked the personalization of adding part of his name so that he would be unique. When it came time to find a grandmother name for my kids to call my mom, I wanted to incorporate the same idea so she became GrandGrace. To carry on the tradition, I am hoping that my grandchildren will call me GremLin (GrandLin doesn’t flow and I am sort of impish).

Linda Vaughan Wright

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Mytraditions

by Jan (Nana) Weinheimer

Above: Camp NanaPudge ‘08 - Johanna, Pudge (Jay), Oliver, Sophie (standing), Julian, Nana (Jan), Scout, Annabelle and Finn.

Opposite page: (top) Pearl makes a wish at her first CNP; (below left) cousins head to the fishing hole; (far right) the boys prepare to find Big Foot. Photos submitted

It

all began in December, 2002. Every Christmas we added a new stocking to the mantle as our three children and their spouses started their families and blessed us with yet another grandchild – eight in eight years. Each family did its part to balance it out; the result: four adorable girls and four feisty boys.

Everything that we’d been told about this phase of life turned out to be true, and it wasn’t long before we were the obnoxious picture-carrying, story-telling grandparents that we claimed we’d never be. I became Nana and my husband proudly claimed the name Pudge.

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The first three grandchildren lived within four hours of each other, allowing cousin visits on extended weekends and holidays. But babies kept coming and there were job changes along the way. Soon, the three families were scattered from coast to coast.

Believing that traditions play a vital role in holding families together, and that cousins provide that little bit of childhood that can never be lost, Camp NanaPudge was launched in 2007. We, along with our grandchildren and their parents, enjoyed three days in Branson, Missouri, as the wide-eyed preschoolers skipped down the walkways of Silver Dollar City and stumbled through

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

the hallways of Grandfather’s Mansion. There was a lot of giggling and nighttime bed bouncing, accompanied by a few unavoidable tears as the five under five were learning to get along. The main objective was to send everyone home injury free and loaded with memories that would last a lifetime. So began the CNP tradition.

Our family agrees that Mother Nature provides the best playground, so even though each year’s camp setting is unique, we always include the great outdoors in our plans and hope for sunny skies. Most years we struggle to endure the sweltering heat and look forward to the activities that have us bobbing in a swimming pool or jumping in a lake. But we’ll never forget the year we accommodated an upcoming birth by meeting in the winter. Weathering arctic temperatures and confined to close quarters, we watched as a stomach bug was lovingly passed from cousin to cousin. It appeared that our lessons on sharing had taken hold.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

What began as a way to keep the cousins connected has resulted in an annual event that has traditions of its own. Each year the grandkids anticipate the “opening ceremony,” which begins with the presentation of their backpacks, bulging with treasures gathered throughout the year from the dollar section of various stores, along with the annual t-shirt. A camp song (based on a Girl Scout song from my childhood) was added this year, and some days I find myself humming its catchy tune while I replay the highlights of CNP11: watching as each grandchild blows the fluff from a dandelion and makes a wish for the days ahead; seeing one of the more cautious ones muster up the courage to ride on a tube as it dances across the waves behind the boat; or sharing the wonder of it all when the tree frogs come out at night to sing a bedtime serenade.

One night the girls got fancy and sipped tea from their great-grandmother’s teacups, extending their pinkies and speaking in their best British accents, a nod to their heritage. Meanwhile the boys armed themselves with baseball bats and flashlights and went out in search of Bigfoot. Led by the family patriarch, they soon discovered that scaring their girl cousins proved

far more satisfying than their quest of the mythical creature. These are the moments I hope they remember.

As I flip through snapshots, my imagination takes me to a place where, generations from now, cousins come together for Camp NanaPudge, perhaps even wondering how the reunion got its silly name. And echoing through my mind are the voices of children singing: Camp NanaPudge is the place to go To have a jolly good time.

The cousins are the best by far To doubt it is a crime, And if you don’t believe it, all you have to do Is ask the kids at Camp NanaPudge And you’ll find it’s true! Mia

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Mycause Lilah Lindsey

By Jacquelyn Collins

Helping Mothers Rebuild Their Lives I was poor myself. My husband was a contractor, and I could give no money, but I could give my time.

Lilah Lindsey

It is said that a great man leaves an inheritance for his children’s children. And so does a great woman.

The spirit of that proverb rings true in a very unique way in the life of one of Tulsa’s renowned citizens, Lilah Lindsey. Although Mrs. Lindsey never had children of her own, many Tulsa women inherit her goodwill in a home named in her honor, Lindsey House. The project is a program of Transitional Living Centers of Oklahoma (TLC), which provides single mothers who are homeless or near homeless with a place to live and skills that help them begin a new life. Women can stay in the program and live in Lindsey House for up to 18 months.

Born of Scotch and Indian ancestry, Lilah D. Lindsey, a young girl raised in Indian Territory, traveled from door-to-door with her mother, a medicine woman who cared for the sick. She learned first-hand the importance of giving one’s time and energy, and she learned the art of compassion. Lindsey, who was raised speaking the Creek language, was the youngest of six children and showed great academic promise by mastering English. In a time when women were considered intellectually inferior to men and were seldom given the opportunity for educational advancement, she excelled academically at Tullahassee Mission and graduated with honors in 1883 from Highland Institute in Ohio.

She was commissioned to teach at a one-room school for missions in Tulsa. Lindsey’s academic success also opened the door for her to teach at a government

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sponsored school for Indians and eventually open a subscription school, which served as a multi-purpose facility for young girls. There, she presided over funerals, cared for the sick, and assisted in church activities.

Following a successful teaching career, Lindsey began her life-long civic work. One of her first assignments was serving as secretary of the Woman’s Relief Corps, a patriotic organization that produced garments and items distributed to hospitals and orphanages, and to those in greatest need within the community. During her time of service with the association, she was one of the driving forces behind its organization. When Lindsey was asked about her work with the underprivileged, she responded that her greatest interest was “working with the poor, deserted mothers, deserted children, the sick and the dying.” During World War I, she was active in politics and headed the Women’s Division of the Tulsa County Council of Defense. She was also instrumental in organizing the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, and participated in the women’s suffrage movement.

In 1922 she ran for Tulsa Finance Commissioner and for state representative; however she was unsuccessful in her bid for office.

Lindsey was known for her outstanding civic achievements within the Tulsa community, and her charitable and humanitarian efforts are some of the greatest gifts in her legacy. Her passion for helping those society had abandoned, lifting them up and

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

equipping them to help themselves, gave her great fulfillment and joy. She once stated concerning her contribution to society and her remarkable life, “I was poor myself. My husband was a contractor, and I could give no money, but I could give my time.” And more than fifty years after her death, the home established in her honor is a testament to her legacy of giving.

Each night in Tulsa County, hundreds of men, women, and children sleep in shelters for the homeless.

According to the Homeless Service Network, in 2010 at least 200 single female heads of households experienced some form of homelessness.

In 2009, a group of caring members of the community launched TLC because they saw the need to provide supportive housing to a population that is often overlooked: single mothers with children who struggle to find or keep housing because of situational homelessness. Elaine Cervini, Associate Pastor for Mission and Outreach at First Presbyterian Church, said the church also felt the call to minister to the homeless and they joined the effort. She said the decision to name the house after Lilah Lindsey was significant because it is important to preserve the memory of great women in history. “We found that Lilah Lindsey had a heart for widows, orphans, and Civil War veterans.

She would deliver food to hobo camps and take their children into her home to feed and clean them. Lilah was also a charter member of our church; she taught Sunday school and played the organ.”

The objective of TLC, through projects such as Lindsey House, is to help single mothers regain their financial independence, repair their lives, and rebuild their families. The program is not an emergency shelter; it is an educational housing program designed to train and help women learn the tools needed to live healthy, productive lives. Karen Streeter, Executive Director of the Transitional Living Centers says, “If we are going to help women transition from homelessness or near homelessness to self-reliance, we have to teach them how to do that. We have to support their successful movement through that process.”

Continued on page 36. See My Cause

photos submitted Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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MyHOME

By Lisa Tresch

One Young Woman’s Transformation - Step by Step Myayn and her four-year-old daughter Lily are now safe within the walls of Lindsey House – both physically and emotionally. The mother and daughter are residents at Transitional Living Centers of Oklahoma’s Lindsey House and every day Myayn walks toward a new life hand in hand with people who believe in her.

“I could have never imagined people who were so available to support me,” she says.

Myayn came to Lindsey House in May when she was about to lose her temporary living situation. Her life had begun to spiral downward several years earlier, and a series of poor choices caused her to lose custody of her two-year-old daughter. It was a frightening and eye-opening moment for her, and she determined that she would do whatever it took to regain custody of her daughter and never lose her again. It was time to turn her life around, but she lacked the resources to do it.

TLC Executive Director Karen Streeter sees the story repeated in the lives of the many women who reach out to Lindsey House for help. “We’re working with families who are not so different from yours and mine,” Streeter says. “They are right on the edge, and all it takes is one little tip to push them over and then everything falls apart. Sometimes it’s poor choices, but often that tipping point is a circumstance – divorce, illness, job loss.”

When Myayn moved to Lindsey House, she was immediately given budget counseling and held accountable for gaining control of her finances. She pays a small program fee and is required to put part

Being here is amazing. Everything has changed for us.

Myayn, Program Participant Lindsey House

For more information or to get involved, contact Transitional Living Centers of Oklahoma: www.tlcok.org. (918) 933-5222

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

of her paycheck toward savings, all in an effort to help her learn how to make smart money choices so she can become independent.

“I have so much support,” she says. “My case manager, Tiffany, has done everything from direct me to the best place to get prescriptions to helping me pick out a dress and write a speech for my Women in Recovery graduation. She’s there for me. So is Ms. Karen and the women who helped fix up my apartment before I moved in.”

Myayn admits that she didn’t grow up with good role models. “My parents didn’t do well with finances. I didn’t learn budgeting or how to make good money decisions.

I just didn’t know how to do those things. When I got out on my own, I didn’t even know how to keep a checkbook.”

Now she has a checking account, but she has made the choice to wait until she is ready to have and carry around checks. “I just don’t feel like I’m at a point yet where I can have control of that.” She credits her decision to the accountability she has with her case manager and the budget coaching she receives. “We have a spreadsheet, and every time I spend money I write it down. If it’s a cup of coffee that costs a $1.29, I have to write it down. So I’m learning that if I get that cup of coffee several times a week, it adds up.”

She receives the money she earns at her job on a pay card, and she’s responsible for paying a program fee to TLC. In addition, she’s been putting back $10 or $20 from each paycheck into a savings account. “Before I moved here, I never saved money, so I never had

money. Now I stop and ask myself, ‘do I need to spend my money on that?’ But I love the budget discipline, and just wouldn’t have that if I wasn’t here.”

Step by step, Myayn is learning how to set realistic financial goals. And she is also learning how to dream bigger. Her full-time job at a fast food restaurant has been steady and secure employment for a full year, but she wants to someday move into a job that will advance her into a career. She will begin a seven-week business development course in the fall of 2011 at a local university. The course includes classes in decisionmaking, problem solving, team building, planning and organization, time management, dealing with conflict, and other classes that will help her learn business development skills.

In addition to learning how to manage money and set goals, Myayn’s life has been transformed by the structure provided by Lindsey House. “I think that structure helps me stay focused. If I was in a regular apartment, I would have to work so many hours and I wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with Lily. But I’m working on getting the trust back and bonding with her. And now I can focus on our relationship growing instead of worrying about whether we’re going to get moved out of where we live.”

She feels safe, not only because of the walls around her, but because of the people who keep coming to hold her up at just the right time. “Being here is amazing. Everything has changed for us.” Mia

The program is not an emergency shelter; it is an educational, supportive housing program designed to train and help women learn the tools needed to live a healthy, productive life.

Karen Streeter, Executive Director Transitional Living Centers

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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MyREflections

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

I didn’t know her name, but I knew her schedule, watched for her constantly, and brooded when she wasn’t there.

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

“She” was a fifty-ish woman who belonged to the same gym as I did. She had very short, exquisitely cut gray hair, like a pixie dipped in silver. She also had bright blue eyes, wore red, red lipstick, and had a killer figure. I found myself studying her, envying her. It would not be an exaggeration to say I wanted to be her. She clearly had the key to the door I wanted to unlock. She looked good. No, not good—great. But her template for beauty was somewhere around fifty years old, not twenty-five or thirty. And since I was in my late forties, I found her example to be thrilling and even subversive. What if I followed her lead and let my own gray shine through?

Would I look as good as she did? I was tempted, but too chicken to find out.

My own hair had started going gray a decade or so earlier when I was in my thirties. It began predictably enough: the ghostly strands, hardly perceptible at first.

A few at the right temple, then a few more at the left. A sprinkling at the crown. No real cause for worry or alarm.

I could pluck out the offending intruders easily enough.

And I became clever with my brush, as well as various types of whimsical headgear—a wide, ruched velvet hair band, wool berets in rainbow hues—all of which enabled me to cleverly conceal the telltale evidence of the encroaching enemy.

But soon enough the strands multiplied and rendered my subterfuge useless. I had to accept the ugly truth: I was going gray and I had to deal. To color or not to color? That was my question. After weeks of waffling, I decided that what I needed was a retooled point of view: gray was not necessarily bad. Gray was hip, gray was arty, gray was authentic and powerful and brave. This phase neatly coincided with the birth of my daughter. As the mother of a newborn and a rambunctious four-year old, I was too busy and frazzled to worry about hair color; it was a period during which a shampoo followed by a generous squirt of crème rinse could be considered a major triumph in my daily toilette.

But this point of view had a short shelf life. One morning I woke up, looked in the bathroom mirror as I splashed water on my puffy-eyed, sleep-deprived face, and decided gray was not interesting, hip, or arty. Gray was simply old.

I immediately mobilized. First in my line of attack was a product bought at the local drug chain that promised to cover the gray in five minutes. I left it on for eight, just to be sure. Major miscalculation. It covered the gray all right, but my hair now looked as if I had dipped it into a large vat of black shoe polish. I had to wait weeks before the funereal hue faded and I could try again.

My next foray was more cautious, and involved a spray-on foam. Vaguely reminiscent of chocolate

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

mousse, it offered adequate if not superb coverage. It also dripped, staining my dining room floor with a trail of ominous looking black blobs, and completely ruining the once-white grout in my bathroom shower. Clearly, it was time for some professional help.

The first colorist I consulted was Iris who promised that her formulas were non-toxic, non-staining and so benign they were practically edible. But she never would reveal their exact origins or chemical composition.

And she talked me into highlights. Initially they were auburn, but they soon morphed into a toxic—and mildly appalling—shade of orange. I moved on.

Kim was next. At first she used the regular, salon-issue dye, and although I liked the coverage - and the fact that I no longer had to deal with the awful mess - I had to admit that it robbed my hair of whatever bounce and shine it still had; the oomph was gone. So I switched to a two-step henna process. The coarse, granular powder had to be mixed with boiling water. It smelled like rotting hay, took hours to apply and wash out, and still did not even remotely replicate the color, texture, and sheen of the hair I once had. I was frustrated, but I soldiered on.

That’s where my would-be gym buddy came in.

Watching her was like getting a peek at another scenario, one that could play out in an alternate, parallel universe, if only I had the courage to step into it. I thought about it, toyed with it, and on more than one occasion, dreamed about it.

Finally, on the eve of my own 50th birthday, I was ready to take the plunge. I told Kim to shear me like a lamb in spring. And I also told her that I was swearing off the henna or any other form of hair color. Much to her credit, she never tried to change my mind. Instead, she gave me a very chic new look (think young Mia Farrow and you’ll get the idea) and pointed me toward a shampoo geared just for the silver set.

It was a bit shocking at first. But it was also galvanizing, and forced me to clean house. Or in this case, closet. I suddenly found my new coif gave me the necessary push to lose that last stubborn ten pounds I’d been lugging around for years, and I sent my old size 10 clothes to charity. In their stead, I bought myself some fancy new duds to celebrate. A celadon leather mini skirt, a pair of tight black pants, summer frocks galore, and a vintage, peacock blue Thierry Mugler suit - all in size six. I also started wearing red lipstick, just like the woman at the gym. It was all part of the new hair, the new me. So although I was silver, I was not old; I felt and looked - more trim, more chic, more stylish than I had in ages. Going gray didn’t make the years vanish, but it did remind me that living in the now may be the best way to pretend they have. Mia

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

MyBookshelf

by Annie Paige

Cinderella Ate My Daughter In recent weeks, I’ve annoyed my friends by pointing out the frightening lyrics of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story,” questioning the ramifications of pink princess paraphernalia and throwing around the book title Cinderella Ate My Daughter with great frequency. In this non-fiction book, Peggy Orenstein expresses her concerns about the rampant “princess culture” prevalent for young girls, raising questions and working through the issues herself as she describes her relationship with her own princess-loving daughter. Orenstein wonders if she’s over-reacting in protecting her daughter from Disney movies, Hannah Montana CDs, and pink Easy Bake ovens. Is “princess culture” merely a part of young girls’ lives that can’t be avoided? Or is it instead a dangerous weapon that has engrained itself so fully into our society that we rarely ponder its effects?

Somewhere in between the rise of the 1990s Spice Girls-driven “Girl Power” anthem and today’s focus on the beauty and physical exploitation of teen stars like Miley Cyrus, physical perfection has been recast as the source of female empowerment. In the media, young girls are often valued for their inner beauty but only as it relates to their outer beauty. Think Cinderella. Young, sweet, and outwardly beautiful, Cinderella is our heroine while the “evil” stepsisters are defined by their ugliness.

Outer and inner beauty are so intricately linked in princess culture that young girls understand their worth only through their physical appearance.

Orenstein points out many cogs in the “round-theclock, all-pervasive media machine” that instructs young girls to view their femininity, sexuality, and identity as performance. She doesn’t condemn the Disney Princess nor Hannah Montana nor Twilight as the sole destroyer of a girl’s healthy self-esteem. Instead, she ponders how each works together to consistently influence a girl’s opinion of herself and the way she understands her place in the world. Girls are taught that they must achieve physical perfection to be respected or loved, and because femininity is so intricately linked with material possessions, their feminine identity is understood through consumerism and materialism.

If a girl buys the right clothes and does her hair the right way, she’ll be accepted, seen as beautiful, and celebrated as a girl. This has dangerous consequences and Orenstein believes that it leads girls to view both their identity and sexuality as products over which they have little authority.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

For the past three summers, I’ve seen the ramifications of these issues while working with middle and high school girls at New Life Ranch in Colcord, Oklahoma. The camp is a second home to me, and I love hanging out with students. More than that, I love mentoring girls. Throughout my time there, I’ve seen girls struggle in achieving a healthy understanding of their identity. I’ve witnessed them opening up about how insecure they are, how much it sucks not having a boyfriend in 10th grade, and how distracting it is to worry about their appearance all the time. My heart breaks for those girls because I’ve been there. I’ve felt worthless because I wasn’t pretty enough or because that cute boy I liked didn’t feel the same way. But after going through those moments of insecurity and self-doubt, somehow I came out of my adolescence intact, with a strong sense of identity and a healthy selfesteem. I survived my insecure youth because I learned that my worth and value weren’t defined by what culture told me. While I still struggle with moments of insecurity, I’m a confident woman. As I sit at camp and watch teenage girls frantically curling their hair to get ready for Chapel or crying because a boy was mean to them, I wonder if I’m being overly worrisome about our girls.

As I read Orenstein’s book, I reminded myself that I’m not the only one worrying. So how do we respond? How do we teach girls to stop objectifying themselves? To stop seeking validation from guys? To stop empowering themselves only through their beauty? I wish the answer was as simple as throwing out all the Disney princess dolls, but it’s not. Even if we could realistically eliminate consumerism and materialism, I doubt it would fix everything. But we can acknowledge that there’s a problem instead of dismissing the issue as something that girls have always struggled with.

Instead, we should realize that young girls are easily influenced. Let’s compliment them not only on their appearance, but also on their intelligence, creativity, and kindness. Let’s replace the lies of culture with truth.

Let’s fight to make a difference. Mia

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My relationships, continued from page 19 to a stranger. That’s why so many couples divorce after twenty or twenty-five years of marriage.”

I didn’t want that to happen to me, so I did all I could to make sure my relationship to my husband grew and matured as the years rolled by.

Not too long ago a book came on the market called The Ten-Second Kiss. The author said that too many husbands and wives had forgotten how to kiss. They just went for the quick brushing of the lips. The author said to time yourself—kiss for ten seconds—often.

She also recommended the thirty-second hug, and the thirty-minute conversation. The idea is to pay attention to one another, spend time with one another, touch one another.

Robert Browning wrote a poem which includes these lines: “Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be/The last of life for which the first was made.” I like this idea.

Love grows. It matures. Relationships strengthen, change. The romance has not gone from my life, but something has been added that I cherish: companionship. To sit on the patio at dusk, sipping lemonade, talking (or not talking), relishing the sheer presence of the man beside me that I love so much.

Can heaven be any better than this?

Marriage is worth the journey. It’s worth the struggle and working through the rough patches. It’s worth

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Help us celebrate 40 Years of Families and learn how you can give hope to vulnerable children around the world.

Dillon International’s Annual Lunar New Year Dinner January 29, 2012

International Adoption Post-adoption Services Aid to Orphans For information or sponsorship: 918.749.4600 www.dillonadopt.com Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

having someone you trust utterly, someone who will not forsake you no matter what. It’s worth whatever it takes.

Each party in a marriage has a unique gift to bring into the relationship. Each one must give 100 percent (not 50). According to the personality and gifts God gave you, you must use these within the marriage to make it be all it can be. For instance, some husbands are excellent administrators—but some are not. Whichever spouse has the gift of administration is the one who should be paying the bills. This does not mean that she (or he) is making the financial decisions. These must be made together. It just means that one is in charge of the daily business of looking after the checkbook. The business of figuring out how to make the household run smoothly is something each couple must work out together. One doesn’t rule the other.

Homer tells of the Old Man of the Sea. He changed his shape at will and could not be captured. I think marriage is like that. The minute someone thinks she can box it or capture it or create a formula for it, it changes its shape and escapes. The two people involved in this most intimate of all human relationships must work out what is best for them. They must pay attention to their marriage, yield where necessary, make changes as required, bathe everything in love and prayer, and never, ever give up.

We have weathered more storms than I care to list— living on the edge of poverty, struggling with nearly five years of granddaddy’s depression, uprooting our family by moving three times in two years (to three different states), teenage pregnancy, a wayward son who still breaks our hearts, several major surgeries, cancer, death, a near-fatal car accident, loss of job—just name it, and I think we’ve experienced it.

But this I can say, “I was young, and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread” (Psalms 37:25). God has always–always– provided for us. Life is never easy–or maybe I should say it’s not always easy–but it’s true: God is faithful–and in the good times and bad, He takes care of us. I’ve loved the good times–but I have to say I’ve learned more from the bad times, so I’ve been blessed by the bad times. I wouldn’t choose them, but I can say thank you to God for bringing me through them.

Dear precious Erinn, cherish your husband–and your children. But I don’t need to tell you that. I’ve observed you through the years–watched your close walk with the Heavenly Father–noticed your tender regard for Kevin and for Addy and Tanner–cheered your wisdom in parenting–been proud of you for seeking help when it was needed.

I love you, Erinn. I thank God for you.

Mia

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My journey, continued from page 13 nest, watching and waiting, always looking for further evidence of the drug’s toll each day.

The fathers of our grandchildren are out of the picture – one died of cancer before our granddaughter’s 16th birthday, and the boys’ fathers have fled and joined the ranks of the “deadbeat dads.” The second round has been exhausting, especially since the nine-year-old has special needs that will follow him through life.

And I admit without shame it’s often very hard to stay positive. Like other grandparents raising grandchildren, we mourn the loss of the special relationship we have with our grandchildren - spoiling them to our hearts’ desire and then sending them home to their parents, confident they are cherished and well cared-for. We sometimes wallow in self pity that we can’t look forward to a few years of rest, relaxation and renewal as a muchdeserved reward for all our years of hard work. And we worry and question incessantly: How do we counteract the emotional impact of their parents’ negligence?

What if something happens to one of us that renders us incapable of not only taking care of their basic needs, but also providing the emotional and financial support so necessary to launch them into healthy adulthood?

What if our nest egg isn’t big enough to sustain our family for the next 20 or more years? How will we be able to cope with the boundless energy of the unusually

rambunctious boys as our own inevitable health issues and dwindling energy reserves become more and more obvious?

When people ask us how we do it, the answer isn’t complicated. We don’t know! Like the lilies of the field, we simply take each day as it comes, making whatever decisions present themselves as urgent at the time. When we find ourselves faced with a seemingly insurmountable roadblock, we put our heads together and come up with a solution that works for the moment.

We do have one hard and fast rule: no matter what, we must each take some time alone each day to renew and recharge. And we are not an island. We have two other adult children and our now 17-year-old granddaughter who understand that they will sooner or later probably have to take up the baton when our lap has been run.

So, strong suit or not, raising kids is my current life.

Yes, I worry, fret, and stew, but I never give up hope that someday their mother will turn her life around and be capable of caring for them independently. I work hard to maintain a sense of humor and laugh...a lot! When others my age remark how fortunate these children are to have me in their lives, I have to reply that it is a privilege, not an obligation nor a burden to be borne with a martyr’s sigh. It only takes a little boy holding my aging face in his hands, saying, “I love you so much” to convince me once again that it is I who am blessed. Mia

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My Cause, continued from page 25 That support comes through employment, education, eliminating debt, and budget management. Families are provided a fully-furnished one-bedroom apartment, and each mother is required to create a list of goals for her family. The mother is also required to meet with a case manager weekly and work with a budget coach to help with debt reduction.

“Every family regardless of income must pay 15 percent of their adjusted gross income as a program fee, put 10 percent into savings, and a fifty dollar enrollment fee to be paid when they enter the program,” Streeter said. “All of those things relate to life lessons. In order to be successful, we must pay rent on time, put gas in the car, have a bus pass, pay off debt. These are things we all must do to be successful in life.” There are currently nine families living in the facility.

Lilah Lindsey died on December 22, 1943, at the age of 83. She once stated, “God gave me no children.

He must have meant for me to care for those He gave others. I have taken 17 into my home and sent them out equipped to help themselves.” Her life-long efforts of helping those who are disadvantaged and reaching out into the Tulsa community still benefit many today through the home named in her honor, Lindsey House.

Mia

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

Myafterthoughts

by Monica Roberts

TURNING OVER a New (Lettuce) Leaf

“ ” Eating vegan, it turns out, needs to start pretty much at birth in order to take.

Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

A few months ago I decided my family was going vegan.

My sister had invited me to see a documentary on the subject called Forks Over Knives, in which a Cleveland Clinic cardiologist and a Columbia Ph.D. shared the compelling health benefits of why we should be giving up the consumption of animal products. The movie also touched on both ethical and environmental issues related to eating animals, but the main focus was on health.

And nowhere in the entire show was the word “vegan” mentioned. “Plant-based, whole-food diets” were the operative words.

As someone who works in the field of marketing, I thought this was pretty smart.

For the masses, the word “vegan” is too loaded with innuendo and images of hippies eating birdseed.

At first it wasn’t so hard to eat only plant-based whole foods, primarily because my older children were away at camp for a week, leaving my husband and me to experiment with new recipes. You’d be amazed at what you can do with tofu.

We were feeling pretty virtuous after completing the second week of our new diet.

Hamburgers? Steaks? Nope. We didn’t miss them a bit.

Then a couple of things happened to knock us off our high horses. First, the big kids came home from camp. Eating vegan, it turns out, needs to start pretty much at birth in order to take. While our oldest was game for trying mom’s new obscure grains and tofu-as-meat concoctions, our middle child was not buying it for a second. And so I found myself gradually giving them a little cheese here and a chicken breast there in order to fend off starvation. The system was starting to show a few cracks.

The second thing was that my new culinary tricks started to get old. Turning oneself (and family) into hard-core vegans requires a whole new way of thinking about cooking. Meat is no longer the centerpiece of a meal. It is often replaced by beans, seeds and/or some version of tofu or other soy product, which led us to the final nail in the veganism coffin.

Who knew a diet filled with beans and tofu could create such a powerful gut bomb? No kidding, the military should go completely vegan and lower the national defense budget. The gas passed by the soldiers could single handedly make any terrorist organization surrender immediately. I have the “meatless meatloaf” recipe handy to help jumpstart this new initiative.

One shining (read pious) vegan moment came when we hosted a nun from Uganda overnight in our home. When I asked Sister Rosemary what she typically likes to eat for dinner, she smiled and said, “Vegetables.”

I just happened to have a fridge full of colorful veggies and, remarkably, the one meat substitute our family did enjoy (made from mostly mushrooms, if I understood the ingredients list). I served meatless soft tacos along with an array of salads and vegetables that Sister Rosemary proclaimed “delicious.” And although I’m pretty sure she always compliments the cook, I know it was good because my daughter actually ate it.

At the end of all this rampant veganism came a few words of wisdom from my 25-year-old baby sitter. “It’s all about balance,” she said. And I tend to think she’s right.

Some days the meals are vegetarian. Some days they are vegan. And others are unabashedly carnivorous. Variety, for me, is the spice of life. Mia

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MeetourWRITERS

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Linda Watanabe McFerrin (My Tastes, “The Sweet Life, p. 6) is a poet, travel writer, and novelist. She is the author of two poetry collections and is a past winner of the Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction. Her latest novel, Dead Love, was published by Stone Bridge Press in September 2010. She lives in Oakland, Calif.

WRITERS Virginia T. Coleman (My Art, “Love at First Touch,” p 14), is a professional welder and artist. Her work varies from metal sculpture, painting, drawing and photography.

She has been living in Tulsa, Okla., for little over a year.

For information go to www.virginiatcoleman.com.

Yona Zeldis McDonough, (My Reflections,“Gray Girl,” p.

28) is a freelance writer and novelist. Her new children’s book, The Cats In The Doll Shop, will be out in November, 2011. Visit her at www.yonazeldismcdonough.com.

She lives in Brooklyn, N.Y. with her husband and two children.

Annie Paige, (My Bookshelf, “Cinderella Ate My Daughter,” p. 30) left her home state of Oklahoma to study at the University of Texas. She’s a junior, with a double major in English and Radio-Television-Film. She was planning on pursuing a career as a screenwriter, but is now considering going to seminary after she graduates to study Biblical counseling. She’s looking forward to another year in Austin (and another season pretending she cares about football) and is learning every day to chill out about her future.

Virginia Reedy (My Relationships, “Letter to Erinn” p. 18) retired in 1995 after 33 years of teaching English. For the past eight years she has taught conversation and citizenship classes through the international ministry at her church in Grapevine, Texas. She has been married 63 years to her sweetheart of a husband, Tom. They have three children, five grandchildren, and seven greatgrandchildren (with one more on the way).

Monica Roberts (My Afterthoughts, “Turning Over a New (Lettuce Leaf,”) p. 37) is a freelance writer, marketing consultant, and columnist for Mia magazine. She enjoys cooking, reading, entertaining, and an occasional long walk. She lives in Tulsa, Okla., with her husband and three children.

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Patty Sisco (My Journey, “The Second Round,” p. 13) is beginning her 39th year in education, with 27 of those years as a high school guidance counselor. Her dream is to build a home on the beach in Mexico and write a novel. She lives with her husband, Chandler, and three grandchildren in Grand Prairie, Texas.

Valerie Vaughan (My World, “Empowering Women Through Silk Road Solutions,” p. 6) moved from Tulsa to Kabul in 2007 to pursue a dream. Today she is a leadership coach and human resources consultant for Silk Road Solutions. What she loves most about her job is watching hope grow in young leaders as they discover new possibilities for their own future and the future of their beloved country.

Jan Weinheimer (My Traditions, “Camp NanaPudge,” p. 22) recently retired as managing editor of Mia to pursue the joy of bi-coastal grandparenting. Closer to home, she and her husband, Jay, enjoy the great outdoors through camping and leisurely bike riding. Plans for Camp NanaPudge ‘12 are currently underway. Jan lives in Tulsa, Okla.

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Mia Magazine, Fall 2011

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