Ben Franklin's 13 Virtues

In 1726, at age 20, Benjamin Franklin created a system to develop his character. I long to create such a system by sharing in-depth, deep and meaningful conversation. I continue searching for like-minded individuals with whom I may learn. Let's converge to discuss Ben's 13 Virtues and incorporate them today for the betterment of tomorrow's World:

1. Temperance. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation. In other words, eat to satisfy the stomach, however, not to overstuff it. Drink alcoholic beverages in moderation and refrain from destroying brain cells.
2. Silence. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation. In other words, speak when there is something of importance and/or relevance to share, not merely to hear the sound of one's own voice. 
3. Order. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time. In other words, put the crud where it belongs, give away unwanted items and throw away the rest. Make time for what is needed in life. 
4. Resolution. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve. In other words, make a To-Do list and do what is on it.
5. Frugality. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing. In other words, treat others well. If unable, do everyone a favor and find something constructive to do. Share a wealthy consciousness. Use every part of the apple. 
6. Industry. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions. In other words, if Facebook and other Social Media sucks you into their vortexes, close those accounts and write a story or better yet, a book.
7. Sincerity. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly. In other words, give others the benefit of the doubt and speak with respect. If this is impossible, close your mouth and leave.
8. Justice. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. In other words, cause emotional, mental and/or physical pain to no one, especially those in your direct care. 
9. Moderation. Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve. In other words, stop and think before acting out against anyone, even if you believe they deserve it for, they do not. 
10. Cleanliness. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation. In other words, wash your body and clothes, while maintaining a presentable home.
11. Tranquillity. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable. In other words, what anyone says about you is none of your business. Life happens, peoples' and animals' feelings get hurt. Seek to soothe when the unexpected takes place.
12. Chastity. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation. In other words, kick the Friends with Benefits to the curb. There are no benefits here. FB's only result in painful, empty and broken hearts. When you are ready to begin a family, join in love. 
13. Humility. Imitate Jesus and Socrates. In other words, imagine what Jesus, the teacher of love, would say. How would Socrates, the classical Greek philosopher, respond? 

     After reviewing Mr. Franklin's 13 Virtues and taking them to heart, I'd better get crackin'. I still have a lot of work to do.

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

    In my mind's eye and heart I'm a mare, an adult female horse. I have all my basic needs met with fresh water in my trough, shelter from Mother Nature's harsh elements and plenty of whole grains. For these blessings I finally attained, I give thanks. 

     However, I'm prevented from experiencing the life I see happening around me. I longingly watch horses rolling onto their backs while kicking their hooves into the unobstructed air. I see them running free in the pastures, grazing, basking in the sunshine and nuzzling each other.
          

   Can a mare use her muzzle, the mouth and nostrils, to open the stall door latch? Perhaps the stable master will show mercy and open the stall door for her? What needs to happen before she, too, may experience all she sees? Others have visions in their mind's eye. Perhaps they, too, long to leave their grueling day quarters and are prepared for more. 

       I eagerly await the moment the stable master or hired hand hears my muzzle nudging the latch on the stall door to my tiny quarters. I envision this being, whether human, spiritual or the figment of my subconscious, proudly say, "Your spirit has been locked up long enough. You're mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually prepared to join forces with the herd of your kind." You've heard it straight from the horse's mouth.

    

Naked in My SwimSuit

One’s coming-of-age can happen any time, most often when least expected. It doesn’t discriminate depending on how well mannered or how feisty the youthful individual. Tain’t no big, gnarly deal, right?

My loving, caring and always-patient mother made another futile attempt to prepare me for the awkward, delicate topic all tweenage girls should know: that time of the month. I was after all, 11 years old and my knowing mother tip-toed around the topic the past year, where her gentle words fell on deaf ears. Still, I was still a child at heart.

Disneyland, CA. 1971

My mother could no longer stand my cold shoulder therefore, one afternoon she said she needed to talk to me and asked me to sit down next to her in the living room. My adopted father and Ross, my 10-year-old brother, weren’t home. Ross couldn’t interfere, interrupt or heckle me.

I noticed a 10” X 8” box on my mother’s lap. She gingerly opened the box and to my horror I observed a wide assortment of feminine pads known to woman-kind. There were pads for this day, ones for that day and various sizes for those just-in-case days. My mother looked at me out of the corner of her eye and discovered my arms rigid at my sides. Seeing the angst in my eyes, she attempted to soften the ear-piercing silence by slowly sliding the box onto my lap.

In one quick move, I flung the box into the air with such force, pads went sailing throughout the living room. I ran out the front door and raced to the barn where I pitched my humiliation onto a bale of hay. I tried to understand why my mother would torment me with such a horrifically embarrassing topic. There wasn’t one strand of personal hair growth, for which I’d secretly searched, while holding my mother’s magnified, lighted make-up mirror to each arm pit.

A year passed when the dreaded topic became the hottest topic among my girlfriends. They’d begun getting their periods and were deliriously excited to share the great news. They were growing up and still, I wasn’t. I’d listen painfully to their in-depth details and I’d shrink into the background. I had nothing to share and didn’t fit in.

When I was 13, my family moved and I began 8^th grade. I soon learned the hot topic was at my new school, too. I was taking the required Sex Education class and the teacher threw me out more times than I can count, however, that’s another story.

Still, I had nothing to offer and became unusually quiet when the school girls asked, “So, did you get yours yet?” I’d wave my hand and roll my eyes into the back of my head as if to say, “Duh. Yeah.” I thought about my mother’s tender-hearted conversation a couple years prior and then, wondered what was wrong with my rail-thin body. By now at this ultra-late stage in life, I knew I’d never get my period. Not only was I frustrated, I was downright afraid, too. It was as if I’d never witness the tiny sprout of life from my Dixie Cup filled with fertile soil.

My tomboy, neighborhood girlfriends had older brothers and therefore, learned to keep anything personal to themselves. I was relieved nothing private was mentioned between us. I followed their lead, however, had adjustments to make as I’d been an easily-read, open book since birth.

 Disneyland, 1974

In my 9^th grade freshman English class, I was seated next to Stephanie and we became fast friends. The boys’ eyes bounced back and forth from her beautiful face to her exceptionally well-endowed breasts. Why was I built like an 11 year old?

I felt privileged, although admittedly uncomfortable, in the company of a mature peer. Perhaps then, as if by magic I would become more grown-up and the boys would notice me, too. I was still built like a waif and therefore, concealed my budding raisinets, while learning heart-racing life facts from Stephanie. During class, she’d relay hair-raising tales of her dates. We were only 14 and Stephanie experienced more than Anna Nicole Smith.

One morning, Stephanie arrived late to class and I could see by her expression something terrible happened. While the English teacher babbled on about conjunction’s functions, I mouthed to Stephanie, “What’s wrong?” She whispered her mother found her diary. I asked what she’d written and she confided she’d been sneaking a senior boy into her bedroom window each night. My innocent and naïve eyes flew wide open with astonishment. This was more information than my virgin ears could handle.

 Did Stephanie just tell me she was having S-E-X? Did she and a boy really see each other naked? Who in their right mind does that? I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes and mouthed, “Wwwaaahhhttt?” She quietly repeated she’d been sneaking Michael into her bedroom window after her parents went to sleep. I nervously and ignorantly asked, “Are you and Michael having S-E-X?”

I looked straight ahead to regain my emotional footing. I tried to grasp what I’d just learned. I hadn’t seriously thought of a boy yet or God-forbid gone on a date. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16 and my 14-year-old English class bestie was already entwined in midnight rendezvous. Were they using protection? The class bell rang and Stephanie grabbed my arm. She dragged me into the hallway where she further confided her mother was going to take her to a psychiatrist to have her head examined. Stephanie begged me to help her figure out what to do.

My mind raced and I felt my head would spin off my shoulders. Stephanie’s face was in mine as she waited for my response. In a panic I blurted out, “Tell your mother what she’d want to hear!” Stephanie’s eyes widened with relief. She said she’d tell her mother she made up the sex-capades because this was what she wished would happen.

Stephanie continued sharing her evening dalliances while my eager ears awaited the next juicy details of her adventures involving the Birds and the Bees. I didn’t hear a word our English teacher spoke and frankly, didn’t care. Honestly, would you?

My 9^th grade school year was sailing by like the wind and I was learning more in class than one may anticipate. One blustery winter’s day, January 10^th, 1975, against my wise mother’s wishes, I wore my white bell-bottom pants to school. Why was she so uptight about what I wore?

I’d bundled up with a turtle neck sweater and a blouse underneath. I told my mother not to be such a worry-wart and raced out the door to the bus stop. During English, Stephanie and I were yakking away when all of a sudden, I stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

My eyes grew huge and my stomach turned upside down as I felt unusual warmth where I sat in my wooden desk. I knew I peed in my white, bell bottom pants. I grabbed Stephanie’s arm and with horror whispered, “I just peed myself!” She calmly shook her head and said, “No, you didn’t. You got your period.” She asked whether I had anything in my backpack. I nervously replied, “No!” I lied and told her I forget them. I didn’t want her to know this was my first period. It was then visions of feminine pads sailing through the living room air danced in my head.

Stephanie jolted me out of my visionary when she firmly whispered, “Debbie! Take off your sweater and tie it around your waist.” I did as she instructed and as soon as the bell rang, she walked behind me to the girl’s bathroom where I raced into the last stall. She had only tampons, of course. With my teeth clenched, I whispered through the stall door, “Just get me one of those stupid pads out of the machine!” I angrily thought to myself, “Karma’s a nasty mother.”

The glow of growing up and finally becoming a young woman didn’t hold the charm it did for my girlfriends. Seemingly overnight, I’d gone from a fresh-faced 14 year old girl to the pimply-faced backside of a Nestlé’s Crunch bar. The following month, the dreaded Junior Lifesaving class began.

 Ms. Comer, the Physical Education instructor with a manly voice, showed no mercy for wimps like me. Besides my personal apprehensions, when the girls and I were in the locker room, we feared Ms. Comer peeked at the girls while they changed or showered. I changed into my one-piece swimsuit while holding a gym towel around me with my teeth. I’d think of an excuse not to shower in front of anyone.

I was scared out of my mind to participate in the required Junior Lifesaving class. Everyone would know I was only beginning to develop. Too, I feared my period would come while I was in the swimming pool and no, I wasn’t even close to the tampon-using stage. It was still the wintry months and the cold temperature would draw unwanted attention to my teeny high beams.

I tried to hide behind a cement pole when I heard Ms. Comer’s gruff voice holler, “Debbie Patterson! Get in the pool right now!” Frozen with terror, I slowly walked out and slid into the pool. Russell, my brother’s kind and handsome friend, swam over to me, however, I couldn’t look him in the eyes. He said he’d be my partner and I frantically shook my head from left to right while staring into the gutter of the pool. He said we’d take turns being the rescuer and being rescued to get a good grade in the class.

I silently begged for the sky to fall or for thunder and lightening to begin. When my prayers were ignored, I slowly turned to Russell and said, “Okay, but I think I’m going to die. I mean, seriously. I think my heart’s going to stop beating.” I was too emotionally and mentally underdeveloped  having a boy near me. He chuckled and said, “Then, I’ll get an A for rescuing you.”

Russell went flat on his back and I put my arm around his neck as I couldn’t reach across his chest. I began dragging him across the length of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He was much taller than me and it felt I was hauling a log. I was dog-paddling with one hand while doing the scissor kick and still moving only inches. He knew I was struggling therefore, he let his feet sink and began kicking his legs. I sailed across the pool with my rescue.

When we reached the other end of the pool, Russell and I talked for a moment under the high dive while I caught my breath. I knew it was my turn to be rescued and I was dragging my feet. I told Russell there was no way I could lie back while he had his arm draped across my chest and under my arm pit. He said to lie back and close my eyes. I finally felt comfortable enough to suffer through and we began the long journey back. All of a sudden, there was a massive blast of water in my face and I bolted up.

Mark, who nick-named himself Spanky, from “Our Gang”, had done a cannon ball off the high dive next to my head. He was in a fit of hysterics while pointing at my terrified expression. Before I could call him every name in the book, Russell quickly dragged me to the other end of the pool while I kicked and screamed. Ms. Comer dutifully marked the paper on her clipboard signaling, Russell and I completed the exercise.

Someone Up Above heeded one of my pleas during the Junior Lifesaving class. Thankfully, my unpredictable period didn’t appear for another couple months.

It’s been 43 years since the life-altering incidents during my freshman year. I wonder what happened to Stephanie and whether she’s still alive. Would she remember all the down and dirty details she experienced? Russell recently ended his corporate career and is now happily retired as a full-time rancher. Mark “Spanky” was killed in a head-on collision while riding his motorcycle through the park late one night. He was a dare devil until his short-lived, bitter end.

 Shasta Lake, CA. 1975

The youth-filled years have come and gone since I felt naked in my swimsuit. Never again will I experience the growing pains, which seemed insurmountable four decades ago. As a middle-aged woman, I know one’s coming-of-age is a big, gnarly deal. Sadly, it only happens once upon a lifetime.