The Fab Five

by Joanie Butman

Recent coverage about the “Fab Five” Olympic gymnasts brought back fond memories. Years ago Fab Five was a name given to a small group of women with whom I spent many years on the sidelines.

When my children were in elementary school, there was a beloved playground monitor named Jack Caddell. Both my son and daughter were fortunate enough to also have him as a soccer coach, a role which earned him a certain notoriety in our community. He would arrive at every practice with a trunkful of forbidden fruit: candy and soda. No one else would have gotten away with that kind of nutritional faux pas, but even the most uptight, overprotective moms didn’t have the heart to chastise him. I don’t know where he found the energy to mentor these kids. He was 80 at the time and, last I heard, he is still active. I can still hear his mantra “Shoot for the far post!” called from the sidelines in his singsong Scottish brogue.

Mr. Caddell's Fab Five Doing the Fan dingo

Some of the moms of our ragtag soccer team became so close to this dear man, he was adopted as an additional grandparent to our children. Then, somewhere towards the end of our tenure together, his wife developed cancer. We did what any friends would do. We provided meals, comfort items, TLC. No one thought twice about it. So we were surprised to discover ourselves mentioned in his retirement speech published in the local paper a couple of years later. It was there that he christened us the Fab Five as he expressed his heartfelt thanks for our efforts on his wife’s behalf and listed each of us by name. So sweet – just like him.

We didn’t do anything extraordinary. We didn’t have a life-time of training. We weren’t particularly talented. You would definitely not want to see any of our Fab Five in a leotard. In fact, there wasn’t anything special about us at all except maybe the soft spot we all shared for Mr. C. He was the special one. We simply chose to offer a helping hand during a difficult time. For that small act of kindness he bestowed on us his own gold medal of appreciation. In his eyes, the “Fab Five” were Olympians of a sort. That’s the mystery of serving others. You always get back more than you give. It is a reward unto itself.

Our “performance” wasn’t newsworthy. People do it every day – which is exactly my point. I’ve witnessed ordinary people performing with extraordinary grace and excellence in the most quiet of ways that go unnoticed for the most part, but it doesn’t make them any less valuable. They may not be worthy of a medal, but those small acts of kindness add meaning to our days and sweetness to our life.

I’ve been on the receiving end more than the giving end of this equation, and I can attest to the power those small gestures hold. It is a reminder that you are not forgotten in your pain which can be isolating.

We can’t all be blessed with the abilities of an Olympic athlete. However, there is one ability we can all choose: availability, which comes with its own rewards.

I write this in honor of Jack Caddell who deserves a life-time achievement award for his dedication to the youth of New Canaan. While he was an accomplished athlete here and abroad for many years, he claims it was his 16 years as a volunteer soccer coach that gave him the most satisfaction.

P.S. As I finished this essay, I felt bad I hadn’t kept up with Jack except for the annual Christmas card. Feeling nostalgic, I paid a surprise visit this morning while on an errand with my daughter. She was appalled I would just ring his bell unannounced; but somehow, I knew he wouldn’t be bothered by my breach of etiquette. As I anticipated, he was delighted. He is now 88 and not as robust as he once was but with a heart as big as ever. We had a lovely visit, and I promised to bring the remaining two members of his Fab Five by next week. Claiming we were some of his favorites, he told me he still prays for each of us every night. I told you he was special.

A Peaceful Stillness

by Joanie Butman

My porch experiences are not limited to those I described last week. We have two porches of our own at the Krusty Krab – the name we christened our cottage just a stone’s throw from my in-laws. Our decks have seen their own share of family and friends who “come and sit a spell.” Before we rebuilt them, there were times I was worried they might buckle under the weight of my visiting relatives. The front porch is my favorite place to do my early morning devotionals, and I’ve written many a story there in the peaceful stillness with the ocean as my constant companion. It is a place to regain my balance in a world that seems to spin faster the older I get, making it difficult to keep up the pace.

Unfortunately, our home in Connecticut is not adorned with a front or back porch, but as I learned, “the porch is not a place, but a state of mind.” Our well-worn kitchen table serves as my Connecticut porch. My ocean view is supplanted by the resident pair of red-tailed hawks as they gracefully circle over our front yard, gliding effortlessly across the sky.

We don’t live in a “neighborhood” so people rarely just “stop by and sit a spell.” For someone who grew up in a house with a revolving door of visitors, this took some getting used to. I discovered I actually had to invite people over, which seems to defeat the spontaneity of porch sitting. However, even though it feels more contrived, once I get them there, the ease of porch conversation takes over, and our lunches are notorious for lasting almost to dinner. At times, I even leave my friends there while I tend to driving responsibilities. When my extended family visits, we sit there so long one meal just blends into another. The amount of food and coffee we consume could keep a small country going for days. 

Particularly this year, these marathon lunches involve a unique group of porch sitters. I found them at a place I visit weekly during the school year that serves as my Thursday morning dose of porch sitting. It is a group of women who gather for to study the bible. Though we officially meet once a week, our fellowship extends far beyond those weekly meetings. Like the porch, this bible study is a great equalizer. Members come in all ages, races, religions, and ethnicities. The common bond is that we are there to study the bible and enjoy the fellowship of other women. The lure of bible study is different for everyone. For some it is an intellectual exercise, others are seeking spiritual refreshment, and others simply to meet and greet. Then there is me who came because they offered “childcare” and being new to town, I was desperate for any brief respite from my toddlers. If I had to study the bible to get it, so be it. That was 15 years ago.

When I arrived that first day, I found myself surrounded by what I considered to be Christian giants. I left feeling discouraged and more than a little skeptical. After all, I had just moved from New York where I had spent the majority of my life. An inbred cynicism kept whispering “Can anyone be that nice?” “Are they for real?” “What’s with all the tears?” Maybe this wasn’t for me. I can’t recite verses from the bible – never mind cite their location. That’s what BibleGateway.com is for. However, I did recognize that my rusty bible knowledge needed some oiling in order to begin teaching my own children.

What I learned soon enough was that the answer to the first two questions was “Yes,” but that didn’t mean these women didn’t have their own sack clothes of suffering. They just wore them better. We all have our crosses to bear. Some are bigger than others, but we all get weighed down by them. However, listening to other people’s stories often makes our own problems seem smaller and our blessings larger. It puts things in perspective. It also reminds you that you are not alone. Whatever it is you are facing, there is always someone who has gone through a similar situation ready to offer empathy, practical advice, a helping hand or just a listening ear.

I chose to return to that bible study despite my initial skepticism, and it proved to be one of the rare “wise” choices I’ve made in my life. It also marked the beginning of a relationship I never dreamed possible. Did it change the course of my life? Not necessarily, just how I travelled it. I’ve spent the past fifteen years learning from some of the smartest women I know. The wisdom they share so generously doesn’t come from books but from experience. In the past they nurtured and prepared me for some of life’s biggest challenges, and then held my hand through them all. Now, they continue to offer a place to regain my balance on an ongoing basis and are a constant source of encouragement and support.

The answer to the third question came years later. Though it took me a while—and believe me, I had a tough shell to crack—I finally realized that when someone touches your soul, you can’t help but cry. I also learned once it starts, it’s hard to stop. God moments happen to me when I am brought to tears by the overpowering, undeniable feeling of God’s presence. Sometimes it’s the sight of an incredible sunset, a rainbow after a summer storm, the vastness of the ocean or  holding a newborn in amazement at the tiny perfection of God’s creation. I can’t explain this phenomenon but in Paul Coelho’s, The Alchemist, he states, “Be aware of the place where you are brought to tears. That’s where I am, and that’s where your treasure is.” Sounds eerily familiar to Christ’s words in the gospel of Matthew, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” This is the gift my choice led to so many years ago. The discovery of my own treasure, that which I value above all else: my faith.

Did I get any better at memorizing verses or their location? No, but I found one even I could memorize, “Be not afraid,” which is applicable in most life circumstances because I believe fear is the underlying cause of so many human issues. Of course, I have my favorite “go-to” verses, but I will never be able to rattle off scripture on demand. As I get older, reciting scripture gets even harder, but I’ve never considered that an important facet of my Christianity. Like almost everything else, there is now an app for that. The right verse is never further than a click away.

What I came away with from my years of bible study is far more valuable: fellowship in its purest sense unbound by rules, regulations or religion (I suppose that’s a bit redundant), and filled with unfailing trust, joy, a deep faith, and a profound appreciation for taking the time to be still and sit a spell with God on a daily basis. Yes, porch sitting is definitely a state of mind, and I have learned to access the peace and stillness of my spiritual porch wherever I find myself whether it is by the sea, amidst a crowd or in the solitude of a hospital bed.

Today and everyday, I choose faith; and without a doubt, it is life defining.

Sounds of Summer

by Joanie Butman

The warm, friendly greetings welcoming you back after a long winter

The peaceful silence of watching a beautiful sunrise with a hot cup of coffee

The rhythmic sound of the waves, whether they be gentle, rolling ones or angry, crashing ones

The patter of rain on the roof unmuffled by finished ceilings or insulation

The whistle of a tea kettle every morning at exactly 7:35

The morning paper hitting the deck

The screen door slamming

The bark of the neighbor’s dog

The seagulls and doves singing their own distinctive songs

The sweet tinkling of a wind chime blowing in the ever present ocean breeze

The irresistible sound of children giggling with delight

The easy, lazy conversations over a beer on the porch or a glass of wine at cocktail hour

The lively conversations of loved ones over a lobster dinner

Stories told, laughter shared

The soft, sleepy “I love you” as we drift off to sleep warm from the kiss of the sun on our skin, our hearts pleasantly full with the love of family and friends, our bellies full from the foods of summer.

The sad farewells at the end of the summer

These are the sounds of Long Beach

They are what make it such a special place that tugs at your heart all winter while you anxiously await the first signs of Spring calling you home.

The Porch

by Joanie Butman

Growing up in Brooklyn, the stoop was where we socialized. If it wasn’t the stoop, it was the corner. Though we were often identified by the creative names we invented, our location was coveted real estate. Whether it was a stoop or a corner, both served the same purpose. A place to simply “be,” a tradition that seems to be lost in our society. The closest thing I can think of to compare it to is the bar on the old TV series Cheers whose theme song aptly describes the porch mentality,

Making your way in the world

today takes everything you've got.

Taking a break from all your worries,

 sure would help a lot.

Wouldn't you like to get away?

Sometimes you want to go

Where everybody knows your name,

and they're always glad you came.

You wanna be where you can see,

our troubles are all the same

You wanna be where everybody knows

your name.

The reason it comes to mind now is that in the summer my family lives in Rockport, Massachusetts and “the porch” is the heart of our tiny community. There is nothing fancy about it. It probably hasn't changed much since the day it was built in the early 1900’s. 

I have spent some of my most cherished moments on my in-law’s front porch. It has hosted many a victory ice cream after the Doll Carriage Parade, hours of idle chatter, rocking babies, naps, yards sales, lemonade stands, cocktail hours, parties, and the inevitable noontime beer and sandwich; and if your lucky, one of my mother-in-law’s famous Maple Leaf hotdogs on a toasted bun. My father-in-law’s specialty has always been hacking the watermelon for eager children to devour. That porch has produced generations of happy memories. Its rhythm is just as steady as the ocean it presides over.

So, you can imagine my surprise to learn that there is actually a Professional Porch Sitters Union. According to the founder, Claude Stephens, "Starting your own chapter of PPSU is simple. You simply declare yourself a local chapter, pick a number to represent your Local Chapter identity and then sit back with friends and neighbors to celebrate with an interesting story or two. Meetings can be called at any time by any member and attendance is optional." Voila! He just described my summer and my early life in Brooklyn.

I might be a minority, but I value what porches represent; namely, a simpler time. A time when people lived more slowly – when life wasn’t a race but a journey to be savored. A time when the porch was the social media of the day. There is no doubt in my mind that when you have nothing to say, that is when real communication begins, just ask any therapist. The porch discussions vary widely from the sublime to the ridiculous, and I’ve often toyed with the idea of writing a book of Paulisms (my father-in-law) that have been uttered on that porch. The stories I’ve heard there could fill volumes if I could just remember them. Regardless, that porch represents family in its purest sense. It is home – a place without pretense, a place where I am always welcome (or if I’m not, they pretend I am), a place with no expectations, a place to grow old surrounded by your loved ones, a place to simply sit and enjoy the lazy days of summer.

             Four Generations of Porch Sitters

While reading up on the PPSU, I learned it doesn’t have a motto per se, just a suggestion, "Sit down a spell. That can wait." A procrastinator’s dream! I’m starting a chapter called PPSU 80 – the address of my favorite summer haunt. My in-laws will be honored.

You might be wondering what my life-defining choice is here. Certainly not earth-shattering by any means. It is simply to stop and sit a spell, to be in the moment, to put aside my “to do” list, to give myself permission to be lazy, to listen to other people’s stories, to take the time to enjoy those I love while I still have the opportunity. It may seem silly, but it is a choice whose importance you never appreciate until it is no longer an option.

At 95 I don't know how many more summers will find my in-laws at their posts on the porch, so I dedicate this to Paul and Elinor Butman for always saving me a seat at their table, on their porch and in their hearts. Thank you.

I wrote this poem last year in an effort to capture the simple charm of our community in Rockport. It doesn’t do it justice, but it comes close.

No Pain, No Gain

by Joanie Butman

My exercise routines have evolved over the years much like my spirituality, which comes with its own type of daily workout. Since my earliest memory, I’ve been in a tug of war with the sinful nature of my body and my soul.

The physical battle began with Jack LaLanne, known as the first fitness superhero. He must have been because he helped me unload 25 pounds of “baby fat” in the SEVENTH grade. This while the nuns were heaping at least 25 pounds of guilt on my impressionable soul. What could I possibly have done at that point? Somehow, being a chatty Catholic put me on a fast track to hell. My fate was sealed when a confiscated note I was passing to a friend landed me under the statue of Mary while the entire school prayed on my behalf. For years I was convinced my soul was just as damned as most of my subsequent diet and exercise programs, which led to a constant effort of working to earn something I’d had all along – God's love.

Just as fruitless, Buns of Steel failed to produce anything close to resembling the shapely derriere on the cover, and Jane Fonda’s battle cry, Go for the Burn!, still haunts me along with the visual of the signature leg warmers she donned for every video. No pain, no gain was the fitness credo of my youth. I’ve spent a lifetime obsessing over ten pounds – just different ones. When I was 125, I yearned to be 115. When I was 135, I struggled to regain my 125 status, which in hindsight looked better than I originally thought. A wise friend finally passed along the facts of life regarding body image: “Chances are, whatever your body is today, five years from now you are going to be longing to have it back, so relax and enjoy it.” I wish I’d learned that piece of wisdom sooner. It would have saved me endless hours of torture trying to force my body into a shape it was never meant to be. All those years fretting about my weight, and I was never satisfied with where I was until I was no longer there.

Now that I am just north of 135, I am painfully aware that aside from getting sick again, 125 is not going to happen. Not because I couldn’t achieve that goal, it’s just that it doesn’t seem so important anymore. The truth of the matter is I’ve reached a point in my life where I enjoy food more than I enjoy being thin. However, I do continue a fitness routine for health, not looks.

On the spiritual front, once I realized that I couldn’t earn my way into God’s graces—and better yet, that someone else had already done it for me—I was free to begin the kind of heart-healthy workouts that are far more effective and beneficial for me as well as everyone else in my life.

Much like those ten pounds I stressed about all my life, so it is with sin. The people, situations and circumstances change, but it is generally an ongoing battle with the same underlying issues: impatience, fear, lack of self control, short temper. This isn’t True Confessions so I will keep my less obvious ones to myself, but you get the picture. They may manifest themselves in different ways, but if you analyze much of human behavior, it can be reduced to a short list of repeat offenses. That’s why God only needed Ten Commandments.

Whether I am being tempted by a burger and fries versus an apple or a smile versus a snarl at someone who is pushing my buttons, it seems like I am always bumping up against the same elephant in the room - ME. Self indulgence or self control. It’s just that simple. Even knowing the consequences, there are more times than I care to admit that I choose to throw caution to the wind and eat whatever I want or say and do whatever I want. In both situations, there are always consequences – some more costly than others. My weaknesses know no boundaries, which brings me back to the workouts. I know the areas I need to strengthen – not once but with a consistent discipline on a daily basis. It needs to be a life-long endeavor. I often remind myself, "If this is what I'm like working out, I don't ever want to find out what I'd be like without it." It's what keeps me going. However, we do need to adjust our routines to accommodate for our changing bodies and minds.

As a result, I’ve adopted a gentler approach to fitness on both fronts. I was leaving my house recently and met a man with a unique exercise style. He was wearing suit pants, a dress shirt, sneakers, carrying an extra large coffee and a LIT cigar. Oh, and a HUGE smile. I commented to him how I liked his technique but regret not taking the time to find out more and get the name of his workout philosophy. It seemed to fit my new, kinder, gentler criteria. I don't carry coffee or a cigar, but my 'walkie talkies' and yoga are the extent of my training these days. They satisfy body and soul as I put on my Christian music and chat with God about my day, my life, anything that comes to mind. Then I listen for His response. I get some of my best inspirations on the walking path around my neighborhood. I consider it sacred ground. Maybe that man discovered the same thing. No wonder he was smiling.

After a certain age, “That which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” is no longer applicable in the physical sense. And sometimes, as in my case, often makes you feel worse. If it hurts when you are doing it, guaranteed it is going to hurt even more later. I was at a recent doctor visit explaining how painful it is to run. Incredulous, the doctor looked at me like I was a moron (and rightfully so) and gave his sage advice, “THEN STOP RUNNING! You’d never know you’d been gutted like a fish twice if you would just stop trying so hard to stay in shape. Get yourself a good book, some bonbons and relax.” Finally, medical advice I will have no problem following.

My physical and spiritual evolution followed different courses but similar patterns with just as many fits and starts, fads and crash courses. I spent years trying to lose ten pounds and the weighty guilt my Catholic school experience instilled. What did I learn? That there is no quick fix to fight the effects of gravity and time or my natural instinct to feed the monster within. After all these years, in regard to my physical and spiritual well-being, I’ve finally accepted the reality that I need to be:

1. More kind and gentle to my body and soul.
2. More forgiving of myself and others.
3. More accepting of my limitations and those of others.
4. More thankful that I am still here to experience getting old and fat AND for the many blessings I enjoy every day.

Until we die, we are all a work in progress as we gather wisdom through life experience: trial and error, failures and successes, love and loss. There are lessons to be gained in all circumstances, but it is our choice as to what we take away from every experience. While No Pain, No Gain isn’t a recommended approach to physical exercise at my age, and never pleasant as spiritual training, I can attest to its efficacy in my faith journey. I have definitely learned more through my pain and discomfort than my blessings. In fact, I’ve come to recognize pain and discomfort as its own kind of blessing, teaching lessons that will last longer than the aches and pains of exercise and with results that will have eternal impact. I may never have Buns of Steel, but I have achieved a certain steely perseverance in my faith walk, which will serve me better and longer.