Mia Magazine Winter 2011

winter2011

a journal by for and about women

my cause finding families for children My bookshelf 100 SIMPLE THINGS YOU CAN DO TO PREVENT ALZHEIMER’S My TASTES real life in a real kitchen

my voice is facebook for you?

my JOURNEY Mary Dreesen becomes a mom

See her story on page 16

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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winter2011 Mia Magazine A journal by, for, and about women Publisher The Leslie Group, LLC

Listening is an art, and I’m convinced that there are few people who know how to do it well. Put me in the category of those who don’t, but make a note by my name: she’s working on it. There are people in my life who listen well, and I am drawn to them. They always stay with the story. They listen with their eyes and their heart. They care about what I’m saying because they care about me. And they never miss Some lessons are learned the the ending. I’m still learning lessons hard way. about how to be one of these Several years ago at a dinner party, I took part in a conversation people. I constantly have to remind with a woman who was telling me myself that every person matters, and they deserve my attention a story about her sister. They had when sharing their stories. a complicated relationship, and If you are holding this magazine the woman was sharing some of in your hands or reading it from our the sorrow she felt for not being website, you have joined the Mia there for her sister in their adult community. And in this community years. Somewhere in the midst of her story, it crossed my mind that we strive not only to tell our stories well, but to listen well to the stories I might have left my cell phone of others. We’re always looking for in the car. It was a flash thought, more ways to do this, so in early but it turned my mind from the January 2012 we will be launching story to wondering if I should our new website. The site will give interrupt her to dig through my purse. Would that be rude? I gave you more opportunities to tell and listen. Join us on Facebook or an occasional nod as the woman Twitter (we believe these are also continued talking, but mentally storytelling venues!) to get the I was frantically trying to track latest on the launch of our new down my phone. I kept nodding, website. We still believe that our but I was hearing almost nothing print magazine is a beautiful way to she was saying.

And then, the story ended. I was engage in storytelling since you are able to hold the magazine in your caught off guard and jolted back hands and turn the pages. But the into the moment. My new friend website will give us another place was looking at me expectantly to share your stories. And there will and I was able to remember a be more ways for our readers to few details of the story – possibly enough to cover for my wandering engage and listen – all the way to mind. But I missed a crucial part: I the end of the story. had no idea how the story ended.

I didn’t know whether to express sadness or relief at her story and I admit with shame that I didn’t even listen carefully enough to know if her sister was still alive.

Editor Lisa Tresch Graphic Designer Lina Holmes Finance & WEbsite Director Juli Armour DISTRIBUTION Jacquelyn Collins Contributing Editor Linda Watanabe McFerrin Writers Linda Phillips Ashour Kandice K. Bridges Mary Dreesen Genyce Goodchild Karen Dugan Holman Yona Zeldis McDonough Amy Ragland Monica Roberts Maya Rock Karen Szabo Roz Warren Photography All photos by Lisa Dunham (LSD Photography) unless otherwise noted 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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For nearly three 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.

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Contentswinter 2011

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

MyWORLD

On a Mission

by Kandice K. Bridges

10

MyRELATIONSHIPS

14

Mycollection

16

Myjourney

19

Mycause

20

MYvoice

23

Myreflections

25

Mytastes

28

Mybookshelf

30

Myheritage

37

MyAfterTHOUGHTS

Writing in Fur

by Karen Dugan Holman

Treasures Worth Talking About

by Amy Ragland and Mia Magazine Readers Becoming a Mother From the Other Side of the World

by Mary Dreesen Deniese Dillon: Finding Families for Children

by Karen Szabo Is Facebook For You?

by Linda Phillips Ashour and Maya Rock On Her Blindness

by Yona Zeldis McDonough Real Life in a Real Kitchen

by Genyce Goodchild 100 Simple Things You Can Do to Prevent Alzheimer’s

by Roz Warren A New Map of the Past

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin Storm Warning

by Monica Roberts

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Myworld

By Kandice K. Bridges

It is the month following my 36th birthday. I am in the village of Eseka in Cameroon, West Africa, standing in the community center made of cement and a corrugated metal roof, drenched in sweat. My clothes are glued to my body, my ankles are swollen to twice their normal size, and I am developing heat rash.

I haven’t had a shower in two days because there is no power in the village and the generator at the hotel is barely able to give us light, let alone enough juice to get the water pumped from the well all the way to the shower head. The toilets do not have seats.

The hotel room is sparse. There is a bed, a desk and a decrepit wooden chair. A tiny air conditioning unit is attached to the wall near the ceiling, but turning it on when relying on generator power is forbidden. On those occasions when there is electricity, the ancient AC groans and rattles with such volume I am afraid it will die right then and there. I teeter on top of the chair to stare at the unit, hazel eye to power button, accepting that I am weak and spoiled, but begging it to work anyway. Even for just five minutes. Pretty please?

Before arriving in Eseka, my idea of roughing it had been the Holiday Inn. At home I preferred to start my day with a Starbucks French vanilla non-fat twoSplenda no-foam latte. I really believed I was not a high maintenance person. I just thought I liked high maintenance drinks. I was wrong.

The community center is command central for our team of twelve church members from Texas. We swoop in on a Monday and set up a vision clinic in a couple of hours. Five thousand pairs of glasses, three laptops, one auto-refractor, and two eye charts are unloaded and organized. An office is set up in a storage closet where the eye doctor in our group will make diagnoses.

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We garner curious stares from the locals and those who have walked for days to come to the clinic. Not only are we there to provide eyeglasses, but we have also brought malaria nets for distribution. Handing out the nets is our first order of business each day. The criteria seem simple enough. Those who are most vulnerable to malaria get a net: pregnant women, parents of small children, and the elderly.

A ten-dollar net can protect a family of four from an involuntary game of mosquito roulette. I am not prepared for the onslaught of people lining up for les moustiquaires or the fact that we simply don’t have enough. How does one decide, of the hundreds of women and babies in line, who gets a net and who does not? Eight hundred families get malaria nets and a chance. I get a whole new perspective on four-dollar cups of coffee.

We work twelve to fourteen hours each day, finishing up by flashlight when the generator fails. Back at the hotel, I collapse in my bed, my body too exhausted to do anything but swat away the flies. My mind, on the other hand, is in hyper-drive until the Ambien forces it to close up shop.

On Day Four of the clinic I say to a distinguished older woman wearing a gold dress, “Avec moi, s’ils-vous plait” (“With me, please”).

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My French stinks. I escort Madame Gold Dress to a seat outside the doctor’s office. Ten minutes later the verdict comes: she is impossibly nearsighted. With the help of an interpreter, we learn that she has lived her entire sixtysomething years unable to see anything that isn’t right in front of her face.

I take the paper the doctor has marked with four inventory numbers and go in search of the perfect pair of glasses for our new friend. Madame struggles to get the glasses over her ears, but her effort is worth it. Our effort is worth it.

Standing about eight feet away from her, I wave.

Beaming, she waves back. No translation needed: she can see. I jump up and down; overcome with such excitement, I surprise even myself. In that moment, I forget the sweat, I forget the heat, and I forget the toilets without seats. I forget about Starbucks and my aching back and the bugs crawling all over the walls.

I zero in on Madame Gold Dress who can reflect on the blurry life she knew before, and for the first time, see clearly what lies ahead. She can appreciate the smallest of details and live unencumbered by distortion. And, with Madame’s smile nudging me, so can I. Mia Photos submitted.

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

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Myrelationships

by Karen Dugan Holman

Writing in Fur Scrunch scrunch, jingle jingle, click clack.

These were the sounds that were familiar to me while growing up in my family’s 1960s rambling ranch-style home. I was hearing heavy canvas rubbing together, zippered compartments, and the boots of my dad’s flight suit as he walked down the long hall to my bedroom. I dreaded these sounds, as I knew it meant Dad, who flew with the Air National Guard, was leaving.

He might be gone for the morning or for weeks and sometimes months, depending on his orders. Each time he left to fly, it was very early in the morning, and we would be deep in our dreams. He would come to my room, lean over my bed, tell me he loved me, then give me a kiss and say: “Take care of the dogs.” I was young during the Vietnam War and I didn’t understand the magnitude of Dad’s departures or the true meaning behind the phrase, “Take care of the dogs.”

Karen’s dad, Ken Dugan, with Spot. Photo submitted.

Dad was larger than life, not only in stature but also in presence. He was an avid quail and pheasant hunter and we raised English Setters for his sporting adventures.

These dogs were never meant to be pets, but working dogs. Although we loved, trained, and cared for them, the dogs were not allowed to sleep in the house. After all, they needed to be acclimated to cold weather and were bred to be outdoor, working dogs. We trained them using positive reinforcement, love, and repetition.

It was magical to watch these dogs work with Dad. He had a relationship and a bond with each and every pup.

Dad often told me “If you look into your dog’s eyes, you can see your soul. You will know if you have done your job well.”

One particular dog was the alpha dog of our setters and the dog every hunter wanted theirs to emulate.

Spot was white with one large black spot on his back and black surrounding each eye. My parents separated when Spot and I were both in our teenage years. I felt as if my world had flipped, and I was perplexed about how my dad could leave us—and his dogs.

That winter we were experiencing a heavy snow storm with bitter-cold temperatures. We could hear the north wind howling as it came across our pond toward our home. Spot had grown older and weaker, so we made a warm bed for him near the front door behind a rock wall. The storm was gaining in strength, so I bundled in layers and headed out to feed the dogs and horses. As I walked out the front door, I kicked over Spot’s water, noticing he was not there to greet me. After carrying warm water in a bucket to give fresh water to each of the animals, I began my search for Spot. I feared that he might have wandered off to die alone. He was 16 and beyond the “golden years” for a large dog. I checked the dog pens, the barns, and any place he might go for protection and warmth. Although he was aging, his confidence had not wavered. He was feeble, almost bony in appearance, and I could not

Karen with Maddie and Csonka

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imagine him walking against the Oklahoma wind or trudging through the knee-deep snow.

It was getting dark outside and I began to panic, so I asked my mom and sisters to join in the search.

We found no dog tracks or hints where he might have headed. We returned to the warm house and Mom tried to gently convince me that he was probably gone. I sat by the fire, trying not to cry. I wanted to be strong, but the knot in my throat was swelling. Dad had told me to “take care of the dogs.” I could not accept the possibility that Spot was gone. He had been a best friend, a confidant, a teacher, a listener, and a protector. If he was still alive, I owed it to him to search.

I bundled up again, grabbed the big flashlight, and left without saying a word to anyone. My mind was racing. I thought of the place I would go to laugh, cry, chase lightning bugs, gaze at the clouds, and sketch. It was there I learned to write my name in cursive in Spot’s coat, taking my finger and softly carving my name in his fur. And I would always follow the last letter with a firm love pat - my imitation of an exclamation point. As a little girl I believed that he could read my letters and that it made me “his girl.” After all the times we shared at our special place, how could I not consider this location a preferred, comfortable resting area for Spot to spend his last hours? I began running as fast as I could and headed up the steep hillside. Our patch of heaven was a thick green grass in the springtime, shaded by a large Bald Cypress tree. It was now covered by a deep drift of snow. I saw no sign of Spot, so I began furiously digging through the snowdrift, thinking I would find his body underneath. I dug as if I were a dog myself seeking a bone I had buried weeks ago. Kneeling in the snowdrift, my heart was sinking. I stood up, afraid to look for fear I might actually see him. I slowly turned facing the painful north wind, snowflakes stinging my face and my eyes adjusting, trying to see the pond. There, on the bank at the base of our hillside, was a large white pile: my bird dog, my pet, my Spot. He had tried to get water and slipped on the ice, falling, unable to get his feeble body back to a stance. I took my coat off and softly covered him, rubbing his head lightly and trying to feel his muzzle for breath. His fur was frozen and stuck to the ice. I delicately freed his fur, small sections at a time, wondering how I was I going to carry this large, lifeless dog back to our home.

I picked Spot up, cradled him, and trudged through the snow. I reached the heavy, wooden front door, but it was locked to keep the wind from blowing it open. I kicked until my sisters finally opened the door. Rushing in, I lay Spot on the big sheepskin rug in front of the warm fire. My mom and sisters tenderly covered Spot and me with warm blankets and tended to my bleeding fingers. I was unaware that I had torn the ends of them trying to free him from the ice.

Slowly, but miraculously, Spot recovered, living almost another year before developing cancer. It was my first experience putting a pet to sleep. I lay with him to make sure he knew he was loved and not alone. Spot, my friend, had helped me pull an unknown strength from within myself and find peace amidst turmoil.

Many years have passed and the marks I made on the door with my boots remain, reminding me of the strength I was given on that winter day. Dad became weak with a terminal illness, but before he died we had time to relive some of our dog stories. The shared memories gave us a much-needed reason to laugh. I finally gained the courage to ask him how he could have left his dogs behind when he separated from Mom. “I left them for you,” he said. “I knew you would need them more than me. Spot had to stay at his home with the other dogs. They were a pack—a family, and it would have been more painful for you if I took them to live with me.”

I was stunned. Dad was thinking of me all along when I wasted so many years harboring anger at him for leaving the dogs behind. Dad’s last words to me were, “I am proud of you. Take care of my dogs.” It took me years to understand the meaning of “take care of the dogs.” It might have been easier for him to say, “Hold it all together” or “Be strong.” But in his own cantankerous way, he was guiding me to learn who I was and who I was capable of becoming.

I gain strength from my childhood memories and am now writing my name in the fur of two labs I rescued, Maddie and Csonka. I have trained them to be Therapy Assistance Dogs and Paw Pals. We visit hospitals and nursing homes, sharing canine love and, of course, a few dog stories. Each day, I look into Maddie and Csonka’s eyes and I can almost hear my Dad saying, “Job well done. You have taken care of the dogs.” Mia Karen with Maddie and Csonka Photo by Lisa Dunham, LSD Photography

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

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Mycollection

by Amy Ragland and Mia Magazine Readers

Treasures Worth Talking About My Collection: Talkers

I’m not much of a talker. Don’t get me wrong: I function just fine in social situations, thank you very much. But given my druthers I’d choose a good book and a quiet room over human contact any day.

Somehow, this reticence has been interpreted by others as being a good listener. As a result, I have inadvertently surrounded myself with talkers. I’ve collected them here and there, like sea shells you pick up on a vacation to the shore.

My husband has never found a topic he can’t expound upon, especially if it involves something that plugs in and turns on. I knew this when I married him, yet after seven years together, I am still amazed at his ability to talk. He thinks out loud; Brad’s honey-do projects are accompanied by a steady monologue, complete with preview of what he’s going to do, summary of what he’s doing, and recap of what he’s accomplished. He talked incessantly on our first date.

I know now that when he’s nervous, his Chatty Cathy factor goes up tenfold.

(It should be noted that I know several women who are married to strong, silent types. An act of God or nature are the only things that can open these men up, leaving their wives to wonder what he’s thinking.

Admittedly, it is nice to never have to wonder what my man has going on in his head.)

Our four-year-old daughter is an apple that hasn’t fallen far from her father’s tree; she adores the sound of her own voice, whether she’s yammering on about the topic du jour or singing her new “favoritest” song. I had hoped to find a fellow quiet soul in my two-year-old, but every day she acquires more words and more love of the talk. Soon I won’t be able to get a word in edgewise in my own home. If I had a quarter for every time I hear, “Mommy, know what?” throughout the day, I could buy my own place. Somewhere quiet, of course.

My extended family is populated with talkers, some of them better at the give and take of conversation than others. At church, where I am involved in several groups, I’ve befriended several people who love to talk.

Something in my face must scream “Talk to me!”, for complete strangers often unburden themselves in my presence. It isn’t uncommon for a checker at a store to

reply to my seemingly innocuous question of “How are you today?” with a recap of their life story.

All this listening often leaves me drained by the end of the day. At times, I retreat to the only sacred place I can find: my bathroom. Armed with reading material, I can eke out at least five whole minutes of quiet before a child knocks on the door and I hear a tiny voice query, “Mommy, are you IN there?” They pounce as I reluctantly exit my safe haven,hurling themselves at my legs with the declaration, “Mommy, know what?!?”

That’s another quarter in my jar.

I have learned that it’s okay to seek refuge from the chatter around me by retreating into my own head from time to time. Like a true introvert, my batteries are best recharged by silence. Even an undisturbed hour during afternoon nap time allows me to regroup, ready for my child’s next story or the next phone call that comes in.

While I didn’t set out to surround myself with a bunch of people who possess flapping gums, I am glad that others feel that they can share with me. Don’t the Proverbs tell us that the best way to seem wise is to keep one’s mouth shut? (That’s a loose paraphrase.)

And if the best gift I can give to my friends and family is the gift of listening, then I’m all ears. Let me just put my book down first.

- Amy Ragland

Photos submitted.

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

My Collection: Jewel Tea Autumn Leaf China

My Collection: Laundry Photographs

A couple of years ago, while sorting travel photographs, I realized that I had started a collection.

While it is a small collection, I treasure it because it tugs at my heart. The photos are of laundry hanging out to dry in various locations around the world. They represent a commonality in humankind, the desire for cleanliness in all types of conditions—the labor of women in most cases. The obstacles vary from place to place. Some carry contaminated water in a pail from a ditch or a spigot some distance away, but as the photos show, the women manage to get the laundry clean.

These photos leave me feeling humbled and grateful for a home where I have running water at the turn of the faucet. Maybe I love these photos because I have memories of my maternal grandmother’s wash house in southeastern Oklahoma—the washtub and the wringer —and hiding in my mother’s skirt to shield my eyes from the blinding sun while the clothes were hung on the line. Whatever it is, I feel a deep respect and honor for people everywhere who continue their ritual quest of scrubbing their laundry and hanging it out to dry.

Now I have a small collection of photos framed in my laundry room from places such as China, Soweto, Cairo, and the Egyptian countryside.

- Ginger Weddle

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

My mother grew up during the Great Depression and experienced hunger and poverty as a child. She died in 2002 at the age of 89 years. We didn’t have much in terms of a nice house or furnishings. Our home was comprised of two streetcars joined together, although we did have a lot of windows! Mother cooked enough food to feed an army. She didn’t want anyone to leave her table hungry. She remembered what it was like to grow up hungry. A few of our dishes came from the Jewel Tea Company as a premium, like many other premium programs that sprung up during the depression and World War II. A premium was something you received free if you ordered something else.

Autumn Leaf China was available from 1933 to 1976.

I recall we had three pieces. Perhaps someone gave them to mother, because I’m confident that a Jewel Tea salesman wouldn’t have come calling at a streetcar. We had a ball jug from which mother served iced sweet tea, a set of three mixing bowls that we used in the oven, and a dripping (grease) bowl that was kept on the stove for drippings from browning meat. Each time I add to my collection, I remember my mother.

- Jean Thornbrugh

continued on page 33 See MY COLLECTION

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MyJOURNEY

by Mary Dreesen

Becoming a Mother From the Other Side of the World My journey to motherhood changed me in both expected and surprising ways. There were the inevitable twists and turns, ups and downs along the way, but becoming a mother to my two sons has allowed me to find a passion and voice for orphans across the globe.

As I was growing up and as a young adult, I didn’t think much about motherhood. I rarely babysat and as I got older, I couldn’t understand why new mothers could only seem to talk about their child. Wasn’t there more to life than kids? But as I got older—and hopefully wiser—I started to experience that longing to become a mother. Maybe it was my biological clock ticking, but it was strong nonetheless. This is where my journey began.

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After getting married, my husband and I endured the typical question that people ask after you marry: “When are you going to have kids?” At first, this was only annoying. However, after spending almost two years enduring doctor’s visits, treatments, and a miscarriage, this question became painful. But out of this pain came more blessings than I could ever have imagined.

Looking back now, I am amazed that becoming a mother would happen by way of South Korea and international adoption. And not just once, but twice.

I certainly never saw that coming. What an incredible journey of faith we would be taking on a path marked before us!

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

While the actual mechanics of each of our boys’ adoption process was the same (one occurred in 2007 and the other in 2010), they were also very unique.

During each adoption, we were ecstatic only to then find the process either completely halted or endlessly waiting for government paperwork to be completed.

We had been warned by our adoption agency (Dillon International) that international adoption was not for the faint of heart, and this is true. Nor is it for the impatient.

We endured months of ups and downs. My emotions ranged from joy to disbelief, then anger, sadness, guilt, and ultimately thankfulness. I credit my faith in God and the prayers of so many for getting me through some very tough times.

When we received the referral for each of our boys, there was an instant connection with them that is difficult to explain. I knew immediately, even though I was only given pictures and a report, that these were my children. They needed me and I needed them. We were each other’s forever family. Unfortunately, we then had to encounter the not-so-fun aspects of adoption. I found myself in disbelief and was downright angry at things that were out of our and the adoption agency’s control.

I questioned whether the governments of any country truly had the children’s best interests at heart. At this moment, I was reminded that this was a journey of faith, and that is what I would cling to going forward.

After successfully navigating through that maze for months, we were finally at the point of meeting our boys.

We traveled to Seoul, South Korea, to meet our older son, William, who was eight months old when we brought him home. I felt such overwhelming joy as I held my son after months of anticipation. We would occasionally receive updates and videos while we were waiting to travel, but they were also a little bittersweet. I was always Photos submitted

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

thrilled for the update, but then saddened that our son wasn’t home yet. But once he was in my arms, I loved him as if I had given birth to him. I am still amazed at the heart’s capacity to love.

The meeting of our second son was just as incredible.

Samuel was escorted home from South Korea, so our first meeting with him was at the airport. It was just as joyous, and watching William greet his younger brother was priceless.

Becoming a mother has obviously changed my life in the day-to-day routines. There were also some unique challenges that surprised us about bringing a second child into our family. We were concerned how that would affect our older son, but we were grateful that our agency was available to give needed insight, suggestions, and counsel. I am happy to report that all is well. I wasn’t expecting to experience such a deep and emotional life change. While the growing of my family was joyful, there were other sides to this story: a foster mother who grieved saying goodbye to the child she had been caring for and loving as her own, and a birth mother who made the courageous decision to choose adoption for her child. continued on page 32 See MY JOURNEY

William, home from Korea

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

MyCAUSE

by Karen Szabo

Deniese Dillon: Finding Families for Children Until the moment that she held a tiny Korean orphan in her arms, Deniese Dillon thought she had her life planned out. The year was 1972, and Deniese was finishing her graduate work in special education and looking forward to living overseas and teaching children. But then, she looked into the eyes of a baby girl and everything changed—for the baby, for Deniese, and for thousands of children and families around the world.

The little girl, Deniese realized, would have a bleak future unless she was part of a family. She also realized that someone needed to do something to help make that happen, and suddenly all her plans to teach overseas came to a halt. Deniese wanted to dedicate her life to helping children around the world who didn’t have a permanent home, and the seeds of Dillon International were planted.

It all began several months earlier at a Rotary meeting. Deniese’s husband, Jerry, heard a presentation by a major with the 45th Infantry Division of the Oklahoma National Guard. During the Division’s time in South Korea, they had started 26 orphanages. After the meeting, Jerry couldn’t stop thinking about the welfare of those children—that they had no family and therefore no future. Jerry felt someone had to do something.

Later that week, with the words of the 45th Infantry major still swirling in his head, a group of missionaries approached Jerry and asked him to help start an adoption program in South Korea. Destiny took the reins that day, and soon Jerry made his first trip to Korea.

He returned with stories of a wonderful man, Dr. Duk Whang Kim. Dr. Kim was managing several babies’ homes for Korean orphans, but had dreams of building a school for disabled children, a clinic, and a hospital for neglected children. Jerry had half of his answer – he knew they could do something. Now they just had to figure out what.

Several months later, he returned to Korea with Deniese. “I thought he was out of his mind to even consider such a project,” she recalls. But his argument was compelling. “He said, ‘If we can help just 100 children in five years, then it will be worth the effort.’”

So she agreed and took the first step on a journey that would change her life. Forty years later, she still

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

remembers everything about that first trip to Korea: the smell of kimchi in the cold November air, the coalheated floors beneath her bare feet, and the small baby girl she held in the babies’ room. Deniese began to see that her husband wasn’t out of his mind. Rather, he had a very profound dream that could improve the lives of many children.

They moved forward with the licensing process and made a very strategic decision—one that has been a constant for Dillon International from the beginning.

They decided that the agency would have no American presence. It would have a Korean staff and board of directors who would work with a separate American agency, Dillon Child Services, which would eventually become Dillon International.

Since those early days, Dillon International has coordinated its adoption programs with separate organizations in the various countries where it works.

“We don’t go into countries and put our name on an agency,” Deniese explains. “We identify individuals and organizations that have a heart for children and walk alongside them. They have the respect of the local government. That original decision has served us well.” continued on page 34 See MY CAUSE

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Linda: One of my brothers has 1645 friends on Facebook. My husband receives new friend requests weekly. I had hoped longing to be a popular girl was over, but looking over my modest list of friends, I feel like I’m back in high school. Why

“Facebook is not for you,” my adult daughter intoned on the telephone.

But if it isn’t for me, then who is it for?

I am a woman cresting middle age and staring into a vast beyond not yet filled with grandchildren whose adorable pictures I can include in my album. You’d think that living in New York City, a tumultuous, gossipy metropolis that transmits information with merciless speed, would be the perfect training ground for Facebook, but so far I am a disaster.

My daughter will no longer discuss my “wall” or whether or not I should wear sunglasses in my profile picture. To off-load the task of decoding Facebook, she found me a temporary stand-in, Maya Rock, someone with the pluck and stamina required to guide a woman of a certain age through a very strange land. What follows are my fretful queries and a provisional daughter’s wise answers.

would I want to do that again?

Maya: It’s true. Facebook is like high school. You scrutinize people’s appearances, you fret about your reputation (Why did no one ‘like’ my latest update?) and every day you’ll see the grown-up faces of the jocks, nerds, geeks, and mean girls whose opinions once meant the world to you. But you have far more control with Facebook. You have time and space to craft witty status updates, or choose an alluring picture and to freely gossip about your Facebook friends while flipping through their profiles —no one’s eavesdropping in the halls.

Plus you have more self-confidence than you did in high school, right? If you strategize correctly (photo albums with titles like “Cape Cod Summer,” updates like “Best Monday Ever!”), you can log off every night feeling as beloved as the homecoming queen — albeit electronically.

Linda: I like parties with an attainable goal, i.e. one good conversation. The approach, the engagement, and a gentle denouement with promises to stay in touch with a perfect stranger mark a wildly successful evening. But, sadly, this is worlds away from a Facebook exchange. Basically I’m still wondering where to stand and who to approach next as I balance a plate loaded with finger food. It feels like a party, but not one I understand.

Maya: It is a bit like a party—closer to an informal cocktail party than a kegger.

You want to show personality while keeping your comments short and breezy.

These three words, along with the like button, will get you far on Facebook: “Congratulations!” “LOL” and “Yes!” In our Emily Post-trained real world, it is rude to ignore someone talking to you at a cocktail party; but in the virtual world, it is completely acceptable. Remember, people are dashing off comments and updates in the lulls of their real life (Four minutes to five o’clock freedom; Sleep beckons, etc.).

Linda: I love collecting other people’s business cards. I have a porcelain bowl where they accumulate until I transfer them to the address book on my computer. I admire friends who have advanced beyond the bowl to post their updates with grace and humor. Whatever ambivalence I feel about selfpromotion evaporates when I discover a writer buddy has sold his audio rights.

Is this what is meant by social networking?

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Linda I Home t

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Maya: Social networking describes the function of Internet sites where people maintain online profiles containing information about one another and connect, often through interests or personal history. Check out the movie “The Social Network” to see how Mark Zuckerberg began connecting Harvard students six years ago and quickly expanded his site to include other colleges. Now Facebook is for everyone over thirteen, regardless of education level.

Linda: Facebook keeps coming up with baffling new categories. Not only can I create a Smart List, I am now told I can subdivide my pals into Close Friends and Acquaintances. Tell me who, exactly, sees what I post on my Wall?

Maya: No stranger can stumble across your Wall from a search engine. By default, the only Facebook users who can see your Wall are your Friends and anyone in your network (i.e., groups based on your workplace, region, high school or college). But Facebook understands you may not want all those network people—potentially the cashier from the supermarket around the block or your boss —checking out your Wall. Here’s how to make your Wall more private. Go to the top left of the menu bar that is visible on your profile page and home page. Choose “account” and scroll down to “privacy settings”. Under privacy settings, you can choose who will see your status updates, and picture uploads, as well as select what groups can post on your wall and who sees wall posts from your friends. But before you cover up your profile like you’re in the CIA, try to be comfortable with a bit of public exposure. Facebook is meant to let you shine. Yes, you would be wise to keep controversial opinions and certain pictures (bikini, mistletoe) private, but there’s nothing wrong with sharing your hard-earned wisdom, sparkling wit, and flattering photos with a wider audience.

Who knows, as you accumulate presses of the like button and appreciative comments, you may even consider selecting the “everyone” option in the Privacy settings. It lets all Facebook members see your Wall (but still protects you from sketchy random Googlers).

Linda: It is curious that a writer should be intensely private (make that neurotic), but so be it. I am. When my friends are on Facebook, it feels like I’m peering over their shoulder, and vice-versa. How can I control the setting?

Maya: Try to let go of the paranoia. No one’s looking at you. But if the sight of little green dots still scares you, here’s how to sign off Facebook chat, (the only way you can tell if someone’s on Facebook). Your chat window is in the lower left hand corner of your Facebook home page. Click “options” on the bar

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

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facebook

Search

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at the top of the window, then, choose “go offline.” But consider staying online and see what happens. You’ll get more comfortable, I promise. Chat is a great way to connect with people, and you may find yourself conversing with a fun contact—like the former homecoming queen whose profile has a poignant Ralph Waldo Emerson quote, “The years teach much which the days never knew.” Now that the ground is more equal between you, a heartfelt chat could be worthwhile.

Linda: Let’s say this gets easier. Assume instead of agonizing about what to post, I just post it. Pretty soon I’m riffing like some of the Facebook pros I admire, but like all good things, this must come to an end. What’s a polite way to say goodbye on Facebook once you’ve finally started talking?

Maya: If you’re on chat on Facebook, the best way to say goodbye is by typing TTYL. This means, “talk to you later.” Anything else (“goodbye,” “see you,” “talk later”) leaves the door open to continue conversation. But when you write TTYL (or ttyl), the person you’re talking to knows you are actually leaving the conversation. Also, TTYL should immediately be followed by signing off chat.

To type TTYL, then stay on chat and talk to other people is definitely rude. If you want to keep talking to other people, it is perfectly polite to slow down your other conversation, but don’t type ttyl and then remain on the computer.

Linda: Alternately, the worst happens. I risk a comment about vegan running shoes that creates a firestorm of angry debate. I push the “see all” button to read more wrathful back and forth, then can’t figure out how to make sixty-five responses retract. How can I make sure I don’t commit some huge blooper for the whole Facebook world to see?

Maya: You can’t. TTYL. Write a comment:

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Myreflections

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

The manners of New Yorkers are forever under fire: we’re known for being aggressive, selfish, and rude. In the face of such criticism, it’s always been particularly important to me to preserve certain minor but essential decencies: giving up my seat on subways and buses to the elderly, frail, or pregnant; holding doors for those behind me or those encumbered with parcels or strollers; offering to share a cab; taking a moment to give street directions or even the time. And perhaps most important in this canon of small kindnesses is the willingness to help someone who is blind.

But then I had an encounter with a blind woman that made me reconsider not my impulse to assist her, but my ability to effectively do so. It happened like this: I was on my way to meet a friend at Lincoln Center, where we were to see a performance of the New York City Ballet. It was a warm spring night, and I was in a new red dress, a favorite silk scarf, and a few drops of Chanel #5 behind my ears. One of my favorite ballets —Balanchine’s Concerto Barocco—was on the program, and I quietly hummed some of the Bach score as I rode the cross-town bus along Eighty-sixth Street. I left the bus at the corner of Broadway to make my southbound connection. (Some useful geography: The cross-town

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

bus stops at the northeast corner of the street; the stop for the southbound buses along Broadway is on the southwest corner of the same intersection.) I hurried across Broadway just in time to make the light to cross Eighty-sixth when I saw a blind woman standing on the opposite corner, evidently waiting for someone to help her traverse the busy street. I hesitated. She was going in the direction opposite to mine, and I was already late. But several people who were going in her direction passed her by, so I stopped and asked if she would like me to accompany her.

“Oh yes,” she replied, taking my arm. “I’d be afraid to cross here by myself.” For a moment I experienced a small self-satisfied glow as I gently guided her: I was a good person, sensitive to the needs of others and willing to go out of my way (okay, only slightly) to accommodate her needs.

Just as we reached the curb, my attention was diverted—unintentionally and only momentarily—by the appearance of the downtown bus. I quickly calculated the time it would take to help the woman onto continued on page 32 See MY REFLECTIONS

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Mytastes

by Genyce Goodchild

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Real Life in a real Kitchen If I could invite you back in time into my kitchen, or if you haphazardly stepped into it today, I hope you would discover a passionate belief in the doing of life, not simply the viewing of it.

In the days when my mother set about learning to cook, that is, apart from the skills she had learned in her own kitchen growing up, she sought out a friend who could afford French cooking lessons. My mother spent many hours, pot on stove, spoon in hand, learning from her friend’s newly acquired skills. Picture it: two girlfriends making a mess in the kitchen, figuring it out. That’s what I call living. My mother became the more proficient of the two because she was not only resourceful, but undaunted by the unknown. That may be the greatest gift she passed down to her four daughters—each one of us now with very different adult lives, yet keenly similar in our approach to life. I do not know if it was my parents’ poor roots and sheer ingenuity or our own personal moments in desperate situations that formed this strength. Most likely it is both.

All of my children cook. My mother invited me into her kitchen, and I invited my children into mine. When they were old enough to stand on a chair, they were in the kitchen. There they were: two boys and two girls preparing dinner. But please don’t imagine Martha Stewart. This is real life. I used to say when the children were little that between the hours of 4:00-6:00 p.m., gangrene would set in. It was the end of a long day and the kids were tired of each other and me. Dad was still not home. It was too late for a snack and too early for dinner. Yes, that’s real life, which is exactly the perfect environment to learn how to do life. And we did. Now I get calls from my sons at college on how to grill salmon, and my daughters call to tell me they are blueberry picking with friends.

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

If we could take out the white board eraser and wipe off the images of perfection and glamour that our culture has painted about how life should be, and instead make big blank spaces on that same white board for life to unfold, how much more would we be able to live our days in the moment and have capacity to learn the lessons life teaches us? Real life is not always shiny, orchestrated, and certainly not predictable. But life is incredibly rich if lived in the moment. Life will teach you things if you are not constantly surprised and disappointed at its realities. It’s going to be messy anyway. Why not embrace it by making bread? Get your hands dirty and experiment with yeast. It won’t turn on you like an unsuspecting foe. Make homemade bread, roll out pasta, or debone a chicken you boiled in a pot.

The television food craze has glorified the work of the kitchen to Hollywood levels of admiration and may have served to sever us further from the experience of really learning to cook. We are over educated in food culture (everyone now knows what a caper is) and under-educated on how to use a wooden spoon. So let’s refocus. Away from the food network please. Grab a cookbook. Sit down with a good cup of coffee and read. What do you want to make? Read the ingredients first. Read the recipe…all of it. Jot a list of grocery items on the back of an envelope. Go. Don’t let the fear of not knowing how to do something become an excuse for not jumping in and learning how to do it by trial and error. You can always run to Taco Bueno if you need to.

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Winter Comfort Chicken Pot Pie

2-lb. whole broiler/fryer chicken or one chicken cut up (may also use one cooked rotisserie chicken - in which case you will also need 1 cup of purchased chicken broth) 4 cups water 1/2 tsp. pepper 1 bunch fresh thyme 1 tbsp. salt 2 tbsp. butter I onion diced 1 stalk celery, diced 1 large baking potato, peeled and cubed 2 large carrots, peeled and sliced 1 cup frozen corn 1 1/2 cups half-n-half 1 tsp. chicken soup base 1 tsp. salt 1/2 tsp. pepper 3/4 cup flour

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Filling Directions: In a large stockpot, combine chicken, water, pepper, one tablespoon of thyme, and salt. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cover and simmer 35 min.

Remove chicken to a plate and let cool, setting aside one cup of reserved broth from the pot. (If you want to skip this step, you can use a Rotisserie chicken and you will need one cup of chicken broth for later in the recipe.)

Once the chicken has cooled enough to handle, pull the chicken off the bone in bite-sized pieces and set aside.

Set oven to 350 degrees. In three-quart saucepan, sautĂŠ diced onions and celery in the butter until soft. Carefully add one cup of reserved broth (or purchased broth if using the rotisserie chicken), potatoes, and carrots. Cover pot and bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for eight minutes.

Remove vegetables with a slotted spoon and set aside, leaving broth in the saucepan. In a large drinking glass, blend 1/3 cup of flour with 3/4 cup of the half n half.

Pour broth slowly through a strainer into the saucepan catching all the lumps in the strainer. Stir in remaining half and half, chicken base, salt and pepper. Heat over medium heat until sauce thickens. In a large mixing

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

bowl, combine pulled chicken, cooked vegetables, corn, and sauce, stirring lightly to combine. Avoid breaking up the cooked vegetables. Line a 9x13 glass baking dish with a bottom crust. Pour filling mixture into crust and top with remaining crust. Bake for one hour until crust is toasty and filling is bubbly.

Simple Crust: 2 cups flour 3/4 tsp. salt 1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon oil 4 tablespoons cold water 1 egg yolk

Crust Directions: In small mixing bowl measure flour and salt. In large coffee cup, mix oil and water with a fork until blended.

Pour oil and water mixture over flour and stir quickly and lightly with a fork. Pull mixture into a ball. Divide dough into two portions, one slightly larger than the other. Roll out the larger dough ball between two sheets of waxed paper using a rolling pin. Use for the bottom crust. Roll out the remaining dough in the same manner for the top crust. Mix 1 tablespoon of water with the yolk and brush top crust with egg glaze before baking.

Photos submitted.

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

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Mybookshelf Reviewed by Roz Warren

Say “Yes” to Wine, Coffee and Chocolate, but “No” to Losing (too much) Weight Pour yourself a glass of wine, hop on the treadmill, and read Jean Carper’s 100 Simple Things You Can Do To Prevent Alzheimer’s.

I’m good at doing simple things, and while I’m usually skeptical about advice givers, Carper is reassuringly credentialed. She’s written 23 health-related books and penned USA Weekend’s “Eat Smart” column for 14 years.

But she’s got a personal reason to get this one right.

The book’s dedication notes that she and two sisters share “a single copy of the ApoE4 susceptibility gene.” (“Know About The ApoE4 Gene” is one of the things she recommends we do.)

100 Simple Things is a grab bag of advice to follow if you want to stop the big A in its tracks. The simple things range from the predictable “Eat Antioxidant-Rich Foods” to the unexpected “Consider Medical Marijuana.”

Each recommendation is presented in a concise chapter, which includes the science to back it up.

The book is packed with fascinating and potentially useful facts: How long you are able to balance on one leg is a predictor of how likely you are to develop Alzheimer’s.

Women who drink only wine and no other type of alcoholic beverages are 70 percent less apt to develop dementia.

Some people with Alzheimer’s temporarily become more lucid after taking antibiotics.

I began reading the book on the treadmill, which took care of Items 99 (“Walk. Walk. Walk.”) and 37 (“Enjoy Exercise”). How difficult could it be to cover all 100?

I decided to try to incorporate as many of Carper’s suggestions into my life as possible. Some items were easy. For instance, “Beware of Being Underweight.”

Being underweight isn’t something most menopausal women need to fret about. Also included were “Google Something,” “Be Conscientious,” and “Say Yes to Coffee.”

Those three things pretty much describe my life in a nutshell.

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Working in a public library, I’ve got “Have An Interesting Job” covered. But that makes it a challenge to “Avoid Stress.” The next time a patron hollers at me for refusing to waive his fines, I’m going to ask, “What are you trying to do, Pal? Give me Alzheimer’s?”

“Get a Good Night’s Sleep?” No problem. Sleeping is another activity at which I excel. But my sweet tooth will make “Cut Down On Sugar” difficult. Luckily there’s “Treat Yourself to Chocolate” (cocoa increases blood flow to the brain).

Thankfully, some of the advice just doesn’t apply to me: “Think about A Nicotine Patch,” “Overcome Depression,” “Get Help For Obstructive Sleep Apnea.”

And there are some things I just won’t do, however useful they may be: “Play Video Games,” “Put Vinegar on Everything,” “Embrace Marriage.” (Been there, done that.)

Some advice is easier to give than to follow: “Try to Keep Infections Away.” Good luck with that when you deal with the public all day. Many people think nothing of sneezing on their library card, then handing it to me.

It’s no surprise that much of Carper’s advice is about food and nutrition. “Eat Berries.” “Eat Curry.” (Not together, thankfully.) “Drink Apple Juice.” “Drink Wine.”

“Eat Fatty Fish.” “Go Nuts Over Nuts.” “Don’t Forget Your Spinach.” I thought about preparing one gigantic meal with all the recommended foodstuffs, but I came up against “Count Calories.” Not to mention, “Worry About Middle-Aged Obesity.”

It was fun to see how many of the non-food items I could combine. For instance, I was able to “Be Easygoing and Upbeat,” “Keep Mentally Active,” “Beware of Omega-6 Fats,” and “Drink Tea” all at the same time. But I’m afraid that “Be An Extrovert” will forever be beyond my capacity.

Most items, like “Beware of Bad Fats,” make sense at first glance. Others are more mysterious. What does “Have Your Eyes Checked” have to do with preventing Alzheimer’s? Read the book and find out. If you do, you can cross off one recommendation: “Find Good Information.” Mia

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

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MyHeritage

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin

A New Map of the Past

Writer Linda Watanabe McFerrin’s grandfather (left) with a friend in Shanghai, circa 1930.

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It was the elderly Russian painter—a student of mine who spent her childhood in a Jewish ghetto in Shanghai—who first gave me the map. The map was enormous and nearly a century old, a web of spidery lines on paper, delicate as lace, tearing where it had been folded again and again. I studied it carefully, hoping it would yield some secret insight into my grandparents’ and my mother’s lives in Shanghai in the 1930s. I knew the city from old photos and from the stories my mother told me when I was a little girl.

When my mother died, my connection to old Shanghai —the treaty port with its singsong of settlements and multinational communities—seemed to be slipping away from me. No doubt it played a part in my decision to visit the famous port city and take my sister, Amelia, who had not been to Asia since her childhood. Amelia and I were embarking on a pilgrimage.

According to Phil Cousineau, author of The Art of Pilgrimage, a pilgrimage is a transformative journey to a sacred place, sacred to you personally, your family, your tribe, your passion. It can be traditionally religious or secular. Popular pilgrimages include trips to Jerusalem, Mecca, Rome, Kyoto and Shikoku, Machu Picchu, Auschwitz and Dachau. But a pilgrimage can also be a writer’s trip to Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford-upon-Avon, a baseball lover’s visit to the Field of Dreams movie site in Iowa, or a country music fan’s introduction to Nashville. What these journeys have in common is the desire to pay homage to something or someone we honor. The journey can be for penance, for healing, or to revive one’s spiritual or inner life. It is always a “crossroads” trip, one taken not for entertainment or escape, but for transformation and renewal, a way to go forward, to move on.

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Shanghai did not disappoint. Because old Shanghai was divided into distinctly different settlements or “concessions” where residents of like background settled, I decided we’d stay in a number of different hotels in various parts of the city. Our first stop was the Bund. The Shanghai my mother remembered—the Shanghai she and her journalist father and actress mother called home—was a dazzling world filled with chauffeurs, dressmakers, pastries, and parties. It was a place of appetite and wealth and all that money could buy. Symbols of status and affluence still abound on the Bund. Big Ben, the grand clock in the city’s famed Customs House, continues to dominate the riverside swath of high-rise businesses. Colonial haunts of my mother’s day, like the Peace Hotel, which in its former Cathay Hotel incarnation housed notables like Charlie Chaplin, George Bernard Shaw and Noel Coward, are enjoying a return to old glory.

Amelia and I drifted along Nanjing Lu and Nanjing Xilu, streets lined with top-of-the-line hotels and high-end shops. This was one of my mother’s favorite strolls, one she’d take with her parents on Sundays.

It seemed strange to find such style and commerce in communist China, but Shanghai seems to have a destiny all its own. After a communist clean-up that supposedly rid it of drugs, corruption, and western domination, Shanghai has resumed its old capitalistic course and, clearly, its international appeal.

My mother and her parents lived just south of the International Settlement, on Avenue de Roi Albert, in what was called the French Concession. Even the wealthy Taipans, flush from their business dealings in the banks and “hongs”—the trading companies on Nanjing Road—made their homes in the French Concession, surrounding themselves with thick walls, ample gardens and armies of servants. A bohemian center that drew artists, entertainers, and their wellheeled patrons, the French Concession also supported a refugee population that included White Russians, European Jews, and others down on their luck and quite literally at the end of their rope. We didn’t find my mother’s house on Shaanxi Nanlu (old Avenue de Roi Albert), but we did find tree-lined streets still sporting a continental color, and the concession-era ambiance of backstreets dotted with small businesses, boutiques, and art galleries.

The crowded lanes and alleys of Nan Shi weren’t quite as Mom had remembered them either. This is the Old Town, where the Chinese first settled in a walled encampment constructed to deter Japanese

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Writer Linda Watanabe McFerrin’s grandmother in Shanghai, circa 1930. Photos submitted

pirates. Cramped quarters, crowded lanes, back alleys strung with laundry and a tangle of sights, sounds and smells suggest the heady combination of sensory stimulation that once surrounded residents of old Shanghai. It has been modernized, of course, and souvenirs today include watches featuring Chairman Mao instead of Mickey Mouse, but we did find recently restored neighborhoods like the area around Fangang Zhonglu. Here, temples and tenements abound, and street vendors sell the same snacks—dumplings (xiaolongbao), baked sweet potato, shaved ice and syrup (bingsha), and roasted chestnuts (in winter)— that tempted children back in the 20’s and 30’s when my mother was a girl. continued on page 36 See MY heritage

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MY JOURNEY Continued from page 17 This caused me to have feelings of guilt. So while I celebrate our family, my heart also breaks for the sacrifices of these women. This journey turned into an educational experience for me. It opened my eyes and heart to the needs of the millions of orphans in the U.S. and across the globe. Many will never experience the love of a mother, and I want somehow to touch their lives. Even if it’s long distance, I desire to help provide for them. They all deserve care and love. After I adopted my sons, I decided to look for opportunities, great or small, that would help the life of a child. I enjoy being able to educate and bring awareness to the need as well as volunteer my time for fundraisers that specifically help bring families together as well as provide needed care to orphans in various countries.

Life as a mother is amazing. My boys serve as a daily reminder of all I have to be thankful for. And, yes, I did become one of those mothers who talks incessantly about her children. I get it now. I do try to keep that in check but if you ask me about my boys, be prepared to listen. I’ve been blessed, and I am thankful for the road I continue to travel. It’s an incredible journey. Mia

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MY REFLECTIONS Continued from page 23 the sidewalk, then dashing back across the street while I still had the light in time to make the bus. Preoccupied as I was, I failed to see that I was guiding my companion straight for a large lamppost. Before I could change her course she had slammed right into it, her cheek making a loud thwack! as it struck the unyielding metal.

An expletive flew from her mouth as she turned her indignant, sightless face to mine. “That I could have done for myself.”

Deeply shamed, I could only mumble my apologies and slink away. Later, in the theater, my own eyes did not really “see” the dancers. Instead of watching the intricate patterns of Concerto Barocco unfold, I saw myself taking the woman’s arm, leading her across, allowing myself to get distracted; I heard the ugly sound of her face hitting the lamp post—over and over again.

In the days that followed, the memory remained sharp. Every time I thought of my sanctimonious, self-congratulatory air, I cringed. But eventually, a lesson sifted down from all that shame, and the lesson was this: although a desire to help is a fine thing, desire alone is not sufficient; it must be firmly wedded to ability. To truly help, you have to set aside your own needs and attend—without stinting, without distraction—to the needs of someone else. That was my failure at the bus stop.

I had wanted to help. I had meant to help. I had even tried to help. But when I allowed my own agenda—catching the bus and being on time for my theater curtain—to intrude, I had inadvertently hurt the very person whom I had wanted only to aid. Fortunately, the result of my lapse was only a rude smack on another’s woman’s cheek, and a clip to my own pride. Still, it was bad enough.

Since then, I have been more selective about where and when I offer my help. I don’t always like my caution; it feels stingy, even mean. But I think that the recognition of my own limits has made me—paradoxically enough—better able to give. I’ve come to see that in order to do any real good, giving must be sustained by capability, altruism bolstered by a strong sense of focus.

I still offer my seat to people with canes and hold doors for women with strollers. And I have even begun helping blind people again, although with what is perhaps a disproportionate amount of trepidation. I feel regret about the times I turn away, but also know that there will be other moments when I will again be able to offer my help.

Until then, I think of that haunting line from John Milton’s poem “On His Blindness”—”They also serve who stand and wait”—and try to make myself ready. Mia

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

MY COLLECTION Continued from page 15

My Collection: Zuni Fetishes

Zuni fetishes are small carvings from various stones, made by the Zuni Indians. These carvings serve a ceremonial purpose for their creators, or they can be sold, with non-religious intentions, to collectors worldwide. Typically they depict animals such as the

wolf, badger, bear, mountain lion, eagle, mole, frog, and others. According to the book Zuni Fetish Carvings

by Dr. Harold Finklelstein, the Zuni world is made up of six regions or directions. Each direction has a guardian animal: North - the Mountain Lion; West – the Black Bear; South – the Badger; East – the Wolf; the Sky or Upper – The Eagle; and the Underground or Lower – the Mole.

Traditionally, the essential materials used by carvers were often turquoise, jet, shell (primarily mother-ofpearl), and coral. The artists’ styles are as unique as the artists themselves, and there are many whose works are highly sought after by collectors.

In tradition, each animal is believed to have inherent powers or qualities that may aid the owner. The wolf for example, provides guidance through life’s journeys, while the raven and the horse are thought to have the power to provide healing. A fetish in the shape of a horse might also be carried during travel in hopes of a safe, swift journey.

I have at least 100 or more of these fetishes in different sizes, shapes, colors, and textures. My dream is to go to the Zuni Puebleo in New Mexico and meet some of the artists.

- Karen K. Streeter

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MY CAUSE Continued from page 19 Another early decision was perhaps more subtle, but it’s also been there from the start: the best interest of the child is the focus of all decisions. Deniese explains that it’s too easy to get distracted, but if they stay focused on the child’s best interest, they always make the best decisions.

The work can be draining. Every day agency workers hold the hands of eager families waiting for a child, deal with new parents abroad and in crisis, or work through new adoption regulations from foreign countries.

“The staff keep me going,” Deniese says. “Their passion and dedication inspire me. And they do it every day because of the children and our families. That’s why we’re here.”

She says the first time she escorted a baby home to America from Korea was “the most humbling experience.” (Families adopting from Korea may choose to have their child escorted to the nearest U.S. port of entry or to their home airport.) The baby was a 14-month-old girl who came to the U.S. and grew up in the Dallas area.

“I remember weeping as the airplane took off. The reality of helping to change the destiny of that child and family forever was so serious and humbling. And that hasn’t changed. It never gets old.”

Deniese escorting an infant to her new home. Photos submitted

In those early days, Deniese and Jerry would escort as many as three children each. They would take up the entire back section of the airplane, dubbing it ‘Nursery Row.’ She and Jerry would walk the aisles with the babies in an attempt to keep everyone happy.

“Thank goodness they changed the regulation to only one escort per child, which is best. We were learning… and so were the airlines!”

Much has changed since the days of flying with three babies to one adult. The adoption process is slower, with more regulations, paperwork and red tape. Many are safeguards for the children, Deniese explains, while

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

others are just detours and roadblocks to the adoption process.

There have also been changes for the agency that bears her name. In 2009, Dillon International expanded its ability to change lives around the world through an affiliation with Buckner International, located in Dallas.

Through the affiliation, Dillon has added three country programs and is able to help children in countries where international adoption is not an option. Dillon still places children from Korea, but over the years the agency has added China, Ghana, Haiti, Hong Kong, India, and through the Buckner affiliation, Ethiopia, Honduras, and Russia. In addition to facilitating adoptions for families across the United States, Dillon offers training for adoptive parents, post-adoption counseling, birth searches, heritage camps, and birthland tours for adoptees. Dillon also provides humanitarian aid to various countries. The number of children whose lives have been changed far exceeds that initial goal of 100. There are over 6,000 children who have come home to a family through the agency’s adoption program in the past 40 years.

Deniese has never gotten used to being the “Dillon” of Dillon International. In fact, she probably would have named it something else if she had known it would have been around for 40 years. “We didn’t do this alone,” she says. “There have been so many others who made this dream a reality. It’s always been bigger than us.” Mia

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

In 2012, Dillon International will celebrate their 40th anniversary, kicking it off with the annual Lunar New Year Benefit Dinner on January 29th.

The celebration will be held at the Downtown Doubletree Hotel in Tulsa and will benefit the programs and mission of Dillon International.

For more information about tickets and sponsorship, call 918.749.4600

35

MY HERITAGE Continued from page 31

M-F 10 am-5:30 pm Sat 10 am-5 pm 918.491.0808 Kingspointe Village 61st & Yale www.maryruby.com

36

For our final stop in Shanghai I selected an area that Mother could not have seen as we did. In her day, the Pudong New Area on the eastern bank of the Huangpu River was just a bog that served alternately as a farmland supplying pigs and vegetables to Shanghai and a storage area where the port’s godowns (warehouses) and compradors (buyers) shifted and sorted the sources of trading house fortunes. In 1990, when Shanghai became an autonomous municipality, Pudong was identified as a special economic zone. Today, it has evolved into a kind of Buck Rogers/George Jetson City of the Future, complete with two-billion-dollar airport, super-long suspension bridges, MagLev train service, and soaring superstructures that vie with other Asian skyscrapers for the title of tallest.

At eighty-eight stories, the observation deck of the Jinmao Tower, the fifth tallest building in the world, offers the best views of modern Shanghai. Like the shocking-pink, sci-fi-style Oriental Pearl Tower—the world’s third tallest tower—it is located in the Liujiazui Finance and Trade Zone, home to China’s stock market and headquarters for foreign banks. Amelia and I stayed at the Park Hyatt, which occupies the fifty-third to eighty-seventh floors of the edifice. From there we could look back across the Huangpu River at modern Shanghai, once called the Pearl of the Orient, still a glittering jewel. On our last night we dined at a restaurant on the 87th floor. A Chinese fortuneteller read our fortunes. I realized then that we’d moved on from the past and into our futures, the old map of Shanghai replaced by a new one, our mother’s and our own. Mia

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Myafterthoughts

by Monica Roberts

STORM warning

“ ” something had slipped through the cracks of my ironclad, foolproof alert system

Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

Today it seems we’re all on high alert.

Sure, there are the routine Homeland Security threats, pending weather catastrophes, and local road construction warnings to keep us on our toes. They’ve become just another part of simple day-to-day living.

Then there are the alerts that literally keep my world spinning. If you’re an iPhone devotee like me, you know exactly what I’m talking about. As a busy mom with three kids, I program my phone’s calendar to beep at me as a reminder that another scheduled event is coming up. Which lately seems to be about every 15 minutes.

I have alerts set for looming piano lessons, soccer practice, ballet. Doctor and dentist visits, hair appointments, work meetings, conference calls, repairman visits and birthdays are in there as well, along with reminders to pay the bills, volunteer at school and, rarely, see a counselor to ensure my mental and emotional fortitude.

And yet, I recently found out something had slipped through the cracks of my ironclad, foolproof alert system.

This one snuck up on me, as important things in life often do. I’d had a particularly tough morning getting all the kids (including a strong-willed three year old) off to school. My husband had been out of the country for about nine days. Getting my youngest dressed left me in a cold sweat. I was angry and yelling at everyone a lot.

Driving home after drop-off I had a complete breakdown. Sobbing uncontrollably, I dragged myself up the front steps and fell onto the floor in a pitiful heap. Surely I was the worst mother in the world. These kids deserved better than me. I might as well give up parenting and find a different life project.

This storm of upset raged for about an hour before I was able to collect my wits and pull myself together. Thank God that’s over, I thought.

Then the next day–surprise! I started my period.

I went to a work meeting later that morning and was telling a female colleague about my meltdown just prior to my period. I told her I do this every single month, and yet never seem to track when Hurricane Monica is about to hit.

Turns out, there’s an app for that.

She shows me a free app on her iPhone called iPeriod (seriously). Surely invented by a techno whiz of a woman, iPeriod can give you a few days’ heads up that you’re about to start. It can also track a wide range of other related issues, like ovulation, moods, and self-breast exam reminders.

I was on my knees thanking God, Steve Jobs, and anyone else involved in the evolution of modern technology. This app, I knew, would change my entire family’s life. That and probably a couple nights away from my high-alert life.

Somehow that never gets on the calendar. Mia

37

MeetourWRITERS CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Linda Watanabe McFerrin (Heritage: A New Map of the Past, p. 30) is a poet, travel writer, and novelist. She is the author of two poetry collections, an award-winning novel, and a past winner of the Nimrod International Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction. Her latest novel, Dead Love (www.deadlovebook.com), a Bram Stoker Award finalist for Superior Achievement in a Novel and a current candidate for a Carl Brandon Society award, was published by Stone Bridge Press in 2010.

WRITERS Linda Phillips Ashour (My Voice: Is Facebook For You?, p. 20) has written four novels published by Simon and Schuster and book reviews for The New York Times. Her non-fiction has been anthologized in My Father Married Your Mother: Writers Talk about Stepparents, Stepchildren, and Everyone in Between. A native of Tulsa, Oklahoma, Linda has lived in New York City for the past 10 years and is the mother of two grown children.

Kandice K. Bridges (My World: On a Mission, p. 6) lives in Dallas with her husband, two children, two rescued dogs and the two miniature frogs Santa brought last Christmas. She is a compensation and benefits attorney by day, writer by night. She sometimes blogs at organicfamilyonabudget.blogspot.com and has been published in Sue Magazine.

Mary Dreesen (My Journey: Becoming a Mother from the Other Side of the World, p. 16) has been employed by Cancer Care Associates for the past 24 years and also holds a position of National Envoy with Affiliated Women International. She enjoys being an advocate for adoption and orphans and volunteers for Dillon International when possible. She lives in Tulsa with her husband and two sons.

Genyce Goodchild (My Tastes: Real Life in a Real Kitchen, p. 25) grew up in a family that cooked, canned, served, and loved others well. Along the way she discovered that the art of good food could touch people in profoundly deep ways. Many doors have opened for her from teaching adult cooking classes, developing a culinary program for young adults, serving as a chef at a local tea room, staging food designs for television, as well as event coordination and countless caterings. She lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma with her husband and youngest daughter.

Karen Dugan Holman, (My Relationships: Writing in Fur, p.10) was born, raised and currently teaches science in Broken Arrow, Okla. She incorporates dogs into her curriculum whenever possible to encourage students to model characterbuilding skills such as loyalty, responsibility, commitment and compassion. She rescued her dogs through Lab Rescue of Oklahoma and is a member of Paw Pals, a therapy assistance dog program that visits hospitals, schools and nursing homes sharing canine stories and love.

Yona Zeldis McDonough, (My Reflections: On Her Blindness, p. 23) is a freelance writer and novelist. Her new children’s book, The Cats In The Doll Shop, was published in November, 2011. Visit her at www.yonazeldismcdonough.com. She lives in Brooklyn, N.Y. with her husband and two children.

Amy Ragland (My Collection: Treasures Worth Talking About, p. 14) lives in Wichita, Kan., with her husband, Brad and their two girls, ages 4 and 2. Amy’s official title is stay-at-home mom, a title she finds amusing since she’ll use any excuse to load up the kids and leave the house. Amy is a freelance writer and contributor to several websites. Find her online at her blog, www.blankiesandbooboos.com.

Maya Rock (My Voice: Is Facebook For You?, p. 20) is a freelance writer and editor who has written two young adult novels that are forthcoming from Penguin Putnam. You can find out more about her services at www.maya-rock.com.

She lives in New York City.

Karen Szabo (My Cause: Deniese Dillon: Finding Families for Children, p.19) is a native Tulsan who spent most of her career working in public relations for nonprofit organizations and hospitals. Five years ago, she and her husband adopted their daughter from China. After a few years as a stay-at-home mom, Karen now works part-time as the development director for a school for children with learning disabilities – while maintaining her full-time mom status.

Roz Warren (My Bookshelf: 100 Simple Things You Can Do to Prevent Alzheimer’s, p 28) is a writer whose work has appeared in The Funny Times, The Christian Science Monitor, The Utne Reader, Seventeen Magazine and Beatniks from Space. Check out her website: www.rosalindwarren.com.

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Mia Magazine, Winter 2011

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