Conversion of a Blogaphobe

Updating Dad

2011-11-26T12:31:00.001-08:00

Sometimes we find ourselves (or our metaphorical selves anyway) being herded like cattle, nudged forward with persistent, gentle taps, or even at times what feels like the equivalent of painful jolts from an unseen cattle prod.

A few weeks ago my alternate paths were closing...boom, boom, boom. I wasn't so much making decisions about what to do as I was having choices removed, until the chute narrowed and pressed me into submission.

There is a certain peace in helplessness. No more thrashing around required, thank you--I just let events carry me along until I arrived at the destination, in this case not a slaughterhouse but a private care home on a quiet California suburban street much like Dad's own.

The day we told Dad he was going to Mali's Place, a very nice facility as these things go, was a fairly lucid day for him. He hadn't tried to drink his pre shave that morning and had actually slept for several hours in a row the night before. He was cogent enough to understand and object.

"I've lived here for 40 years. I can just stay here with Margie."

"No, Dad, Margie says it's too hard, she can't take care of you any more, even with two more helpers."

I leaned over, put my hands around the back of his head and drew his stubbled cheek to mine.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered in his ear. "I did my best, Dad, but this is the only choice I have left. You have to go."

My gift was that in this fleeting window of lucidity he was able to say that he knew I had his best interests at heart. In a gesture of still being in control of this decision to relocate, Dad agreed he would go check it out; we made a date with Mali to have lunch there the next day. By then, the window had slammed shut...mercifully so. We arrived and it was clear that the purpose of the visit had escaped Dad, but he was favorably impressed by the accommodations.

"First class!" he exclaimed when asked his opinion.

Within a few hectic days we had made a new home for him 3 miles from his old one. Aviation art hangs on the walls of Dad's private room, along with plaques honoring his service as a Navy pilot. (As an aside, is it helpful to try to ground him in his memories or does it just add another layer of confusion-- he wonders how all his stuff got to this hotel in the Philippines that he is very eager to leave.)

Mom and Dad's wedding picture as well as their 50th anniversary portrait, a big screen television, a new comfy chair and an extra long hospital bed--after all, Dad is still 6'4" when he lies down--fill his allotted space. His recliner is in the large living area, snugged up against three others belonging to the residents, arranged in homage to the large television that is never tuned to the news. Everyone still loves Lucy at 52 Camino Castenada.

Tina is next to Dad--a tiny Italian lady of 98. She's a good conversationalist if you don't mind shouting. Next to her recliner is Violet's, who spends all of her time bent at an awkward angle, holding hands with her sweetheart, Dr. Larry, a retired physician who is suffering from the effects of stroke. She rearranges his knitted throw to better cover his legs and announces, "I just love him so much!" at least once an hour. Dr. Larry doesn't seem to mind.

Violet tries to comfort Dad. too.

"It's hard, but you'll get used to it," she tells him soothingly when his distress is most vocal.

"Thank you," Dad replies, appreciating her sweetness and reassuring tone as well as the encouraging words.

I hope...no, I PRAY...that Violet is right.

What Violet does not yet know is that her sweetheart has had a recent change of status. Dr. Larry is now considered to be a hospice case. Soon the recliner next to hers will be empty and it will be Dad's turn to comfort her. By then, maybe he will be able to.

2011-11-06T09:14:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'm sorry. I have neglected you, and now that I am back, I read that I promised to blog soon and about something other than death, loss and sadness.

I lied on all counts, it seems.

I'm blogging now to vent and get some feedback. I'm blogging because I can't think about anything else but these circumstances. All advice is welcomed, all prayers coveted--I need whatever you're offering.

At the moment I'm in Camarillo, California, a southern California town known for its perfect climate. It happens to be where Mom and Dad built a house 41 years ago, and where Dad still lives. Over the years, since Mom's passing, there has been talk about his relocating to be closer to me, his only surviving child. But it's a little hard to give up Paradise for practicality.

At 90, having memory issues and getting increasingly frail, it was becoming evident that even 24/7 caregiving in his home wasn't going to cut it much longer. But then he fell--so hard that his bedroom door sports a hole the size of his head. So hard that he broke his back.

I won't go into the pitiful specifics, but it took a week to get him properly diagnosed and treated with a nifty new procedure called a kyphoplasty--essentially injecting cement into the damaged vertebra and stabilizing it. He was in an understandable amount of pain, so he was treated with some high powered narcotics, none of which he tolerated well. I'm talking major psychotic stuff here, folks, including hallucinations, paranoia, confusion, and horrendous anxiety. It was bad, but I thought it was temporary.

I flew out from Pennsylvania and Dad was released in my custody to come home. Wow--we did have some interesting times the next few days, until I took him off all narcotics. It's taken days to get him to what I fear will be his new "normal" self, and at this point dementia figures large. I am his anchor, his constant, the one true thing that so far has held his fragile mind together. His childlike dependency should make the decisions I have to make easy, but there are still those flashes of The Commander that show through--

"Just one more bite, Dad, come on..."

"I said NO!" (with the firm set chin and flash of eye that used to demand my obedience.)

I'm slowly coming to a realization-- as much as I want to keep his boat afloat in his beloved California home, it has sprung so many leaks that we may have run out of fingers to plug them up. I bought him a power-assist recliner that makes getting him up and down so much easier--but the controls confuse him. There are two buttons, side by side, labeled with arrows pointing up and down. To see a former fighter pilot defeated by such a simple task is heartbreaking.

So--do I hire more staff to try to keep him in his home while he heals enough to travel to Pennsylvania in the spring? Should I put him in the Memory Care unit at a Camarillo facility now and just make 3 or 4 trips a year to see him? Will I have to wrestle him to get his cooperation for any decision I make?

Ah...you see the dilemma.

Thoughts?

Honoring Jack

2011-09-22T19:29:00.000-07:00

Leslie in her blog post, says it better than I can. I am blown away at the grace Anna has shown in the face of such unspeakable sorrow. Knowing, from her blog over the years, just how much she loved her son Jack, it's evident that the source of this ability to mourn publicly and deal with his death must be straight from God. I know that my prayers and tears for them join many of yours.

I was thinking especially of Margaret today, Jack's little sister. I lost my brother at what I thought was too young an age, but I had 30 more years than she did. I was trying to imagine being 10 and losing my best friend, playmate, and only sibling. Then I had to stop.Pray for Margaret today, please.

I'm going to write again, soon, about something other than loss and grief. I have to do that to survive.

Blessings.

Rumor Unproven

2011-09-10T19:28:00.000-07:00

Some of you know her, I think. Anna, with the perpetual gray roots and the lovely family featured in her blog. I read the news tonight on another blogger's feed and don't want to believe it. Did her 12 year old son drown in this last week's flood? Really? If it is so, how can she go on? He was playing in his Fairfax, VA back yard with friends, the news report said, when a flash flood washed him into a nearby creek. Can someone confirm or deny this, please? Not that the tears I have shed since I heard would be any less deserved if it were any other 12 year old boy. He was someone's baby, even if not my blogger friend's.

Letter to Pma, Who Lost It All, Found in Archives

2011-09-10T19:20:00.000-07:00

It was a Mennonite family, I believe, and they lost 7 of their 8 children, the oldest 11 years old. Only a 3 yr old girl survived, and the mom, who was in the barn milking, is pregnant. There was talk of that awful pastor (and I use that word loosely) Phelps' church picketing the funeral, but thank God they stayed away. Even in a pacifistic community, there are limits to self control.

There has been follow-up on the local news--many fundraisers to benefit them, and the community (many Amish) is coming together to build them a new house across the street from the one that burned. The ruins have been bulldozed and only scorch marks remain.

I couldn't help but think of you, as I always, always do whenever I hear of families who have been through a fire. I'm so glad you had a good support system in place, including good, stalwart John, when it happened. Imagine (and I know you have) what it would be like not to have that. That was a dividing line in your life and always will be. "Before the Fire" or "After", a neat, surgical scar marking the amputation of your past.

My heart breaks for the Japanese who have suffered unimaginably and will continue to do so. However, here's where the cultural differences work in their favor. No looting--unthinkable. No rioting over limited supplies of food and water. It's a little spooky to watch in action...like The Borg, where individuals are just parts of the entity, not expecting much, expendable and interchangeable. Even in the face of devastation, people (though grieving their losses) wait patiently in line and go away peacefully when told to. Americans would be screaming their heads off, loudly demanding that last bottle of water for themselves, and giving the government hell for not providing it quicker.

Not that I want to be Japanese, of course--I does like my privileges after all, ;-)--but perhaps I'd prefer to think I would be leaning a little more to the Amish mindset than that Ugly American's if that happened to me. I pray to God I'm never tested to the point where I find out, but if you read the back of the book and believe what it says, none of this is surprising, and it does not end well for a whole lot of people. We just have hope that we're going to check out of this hotel and be on our way before it all goes down.

Wow--heavy, man.

Gotta get back to work, dear friend. Deadlines loom. Send me what you write--I am so proud f you!

xx

me

Deadlines

2011-04-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

I'm reluctant to get started this Monday morning. I'm knee-deep in clamoring dirty laundry and looking longingly out the window at the perfect warm spring day. Every blossoming tree is in full regalia, tulips have burst their green jackets and show off their gaudy colors. I have blue and yellow pansies to plant, bold weeds to discourage, a very willing dog to walk. All this will have to wait-- I have a deadline. Why is it that the interview was so pleasant, but the discipline required to actually write the story so onerous? (You noticed I'm blogging instead of getting started, didn't you?) Kick me.

D-I-E-T...A Four Letter Word

2011-04-08T10:05:00.000-07:00

I recently received a bill from the piper, and it's definitely time to pay up. Blood work results showed that everything that used to hover just under the danger zone had flopped a big hairy toe over the line. Kidneys, liver, cholesterol--everything was screaming, "Stop the insanity!" For the first time, I was scared. Scared enough to do something about it.

I want to look better, but more than that, I want to feel better. I'll spare you The Old Person Organ Recital, but suffice to say that inflammation is rampant and my primary care doc says for my liver's sake to get off Aleve, the only thing keeping me creaking around. Cold turkey. I tried, but decided that cinnamon and supplements just wasn't cutting it. I'm not good at chronic pain, as it turns out.

When my daughter Ahna suggested a visit to her holistic hormone doctor in Pittsburgh, I was primed to try something else. The doctor spent an hour with me going over my history, weight (!!), palpating my thyroid, and poking at fibromyalgia trigger points (owie.) Short story long, my credit card is smoking and I signed on for a diet program that I'd never heard of before. According to Dr. Valerie, this will be my Magic Bullet. At the end of four months, I will weigh much less and be inflammation free. Organic foods and HCG will be the things that make it possible to lose weight quickly without half my hair falling out (which has happened before when TN made eating difficult) or winding up looking like an apple doll. I'm ready to be a believer, because I WANT to believe it's possible to feel energetic and pain-free.

Part of what I am paying for is nutritional counseling with Tara and a 90 minute session with a psychotherapist, Sanna. Sanna is also a hypnotist and uses guided imagery in her sessions. I'm not a fan of the New Age, but I will say that she was able to pinpoint, in just a few minutes and with several incisive questions, places where the reasons behind uncontrolled eating lie. Just like the doctor's finger probing for fibromyalgia, these questions poked to life a neuralgia of the heart and mind.

I remember being a child in the back seat of the family car, weeping. My brother, Billy, going through a pre-growth spurt hunger phase, had asked to stop someplace to eat. My father's response was to say, "You're always thinking about your gut!" so cruelly that I burst into tears of empathic humiliation. In those days I was always naturally slender, so escaped the brunt of disapproval, at least for then. Later, I was told by both parents that my picture would be added to the gallery of family portraits on the hallway wall when I could "lose some weight and take a good picture." Even so, we were lucky; I knew we were very much loved--just not unconditionally.

Everyone has those voices in their heads, telling us that we are unworthy and unlovely. They come from deep within, internalized over the years, filled with a barrage of messages from the media or loved ones. The question comes down to this: To whom will I listen? Do I believe those ugly little barbs of unacceptability, or will I remember that I am precious in the sight of God, no matter what my exterior looks like?

I choose to forgive my parents for having planted those poisonous seeds. Somebody sowed them in their minds, too. I choose to start fresh and replace those negative memories and images with a picture of my future self--healthy and weight-appropriate. I'm not aiming for a string bikini body here folks, not at 63. I just want to walk to the top of the steep hill where we live without wheezing. I want to be able to rise and walk away from my movie theater seat without waiting to see if my knees will actually work. I want to stop being scared that if I forget where I parked the car, I'm following my family down the slippery path of Alzheimer's disease. I'm ready to stop the insanity.

It's said that diet is not what you put in your mouth, it's how you live your life. For my future, instead of DIET, I propose a new four letter word:

GLAD.

Rant Alert

2011-03-19T22:26:00.000-07:00

Minirant, cuz I am sleepy.

People who annoyed the crap out of me tonight at the movies:

1. Several teens behind us who insisted upon talking to one another. Loudly. Not stopping when the feature began. In Spanish, so I couldn't even understand what they were finding crucial enough to remark upon. We got up and moved to the back row.

2. Despite many pre-movie screen warnings, a kid in the back row who did NOT turn off his cell phone. Texting counts as distraction and is RUDE. Those little screens are WAY bright in a dark theater.

That's it for now.

I feel better, thanks. And very old.

The Sacred Three

2011-03-17T10:58:00.000-07:00

Ah, yes, St. Paddy's Day--to most Americans it means parades, the imbibing of green beer, leprechauns, and "wearin' o' the green". For one festive day, it seems that everyone's at least a wee bit Irish. But this stereotype trivializes a people whom I greatly admire.

I've actually been there and seen that The Emerald Isle is well named. I'll never forget my first sight of the verdant countryside as the plane flew out of the dark of an Atlantic Ocean night into the dawn breaking over the coast of Ireland. We came for just 10 short days and saw the country through the affectionate eyes of Philip Neiland, returning to his homeland with his group of 40 high school soccer players and their parents. My heart aches, just a little and pleasantly so, to go back again some day.

During our visit, between matches with the Irish lads, I learned that the Irish are a people who have suffered much in their history. If it were not for their indomitable spirit and unshakable faith, the Celts would have disappeared as other ancient civilizations did. To the Irish, every hedgerow's calling bird, every flowing stream alive with the slap of leaping fish, every buzzing bee circling a wildflower's open throat speaks of God's handiwork. Even the ubiquitous shamrock is a reflection of that faith.

How many who don shamrocks in celebration of St. Patrick's Day understand their true significance? The triple leaves signify the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They all watch over Ireland.

I"d like to share a lovely invocation by the late John O'Donahue, from his book, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom.

The Sacred Three

My fortress be

Encircling me

Come and be round

My hearth and my home.

An Irish blessing be upon you and may the Trinity be your fortress today.

As if he needs an award from me...

2011-03-10T17:13:00.000-08:00

My next blog award goes to Pastor Dick Woodward's blog, The Four Spiritual Secrets with Pastor Dick Woodward. Dick helped found and pastor both the Virginia Beach Community Chapel, where he served 23 years, and the Williamsburg Community Chapel, where he remains as pastor emeritus. His relationship with Dois Rosser, the founder of International Cooperating Ministries, has made it possible for Dick to realize his dream of “The Whole Word for the Whole World”. His Mini Bible College program has been translated into more than 26 strategic languages and is used around the world to nurture believers and assist in church growth. MBC is a survey, book, and topical study of the Bible that teaches practical and devotional applications of every book of the Bible to our lives.

In 1980 Dick was diagnosed with a degenerative disease of the spinal cord that has left him a quadriplegic. In spite of this disease he remains active in small groups, mentoring, and writing Bible study materials. He often says, “The less I can do, the more the Lord does.”

I have had the privilege of interviewing this great man of God and doing a story about his mentoring activities. I came away from his bedside feeling that I had spent time on holy ground.

Deer: 1, Mini Cooper: 0

2011-03-10T10:26:00.000-08:00

The Engineer is a good driver...make that EXCELLENT. He is aware and alert at all times behind the wheel and actually enjoys his hour commute to Hunt Valley, Md. He loves his little red and white Mini Cooper for its BMW handling on corners, its low center of gravity, and its zippy performance, not just because Mini is so darn cute that it's tempting to chuckle and hug her. In the past I have come upon The Engineer in the garage, rubbing Mini all over with a special cloth.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Dusting her off," he replied.

If I were a more insecure wife, I would be jealous, because it truly looked more like a massage to me. After all, it was mid-life time and she was awfully cute.

Well, she's not so cute now, after her encounter with a deer.

The Engineer never saw it coming, he says. There was just a slight impression of color in his left eye, then a huge BANG! and the passenger side of the winshield dissolved in a starburst of cracks. The Engineer pulled over in a controlled stop. Miraculously, he didn't have a deer in his lap, and there was not even evidence of one except for the few tufts of brownish fur embedded in the windshield. The hood and bumper were damaged, and Mini would need an ambu...er...a tow.

She's game. A lot of smaller cars would not have been able to absorb that kind of blow without flipping. She passed the Deer Test with flying colors and kept my beloved husband safe. After a recent astronomical bill for a minor problem, there had been serious talk of re-homing her and looking for a car which would be more economical to repair. After this experience, I think it's safe to say that Mini's place with us is secure... at least for now.

And Yet Another...

2011-03-09T16:02:00.000-08:00

The next recipient of my "Stylish Blogger" largesse is Stacey at Is There Any Mommy Out There?

When I go to my dasboard to see who's been posting what and see there's something written by this talented young woman, my heart speeds up the tiniest fraction and I click on it first. I've never been one to save the best, most luscious bite of steak on my plate for last. Why wait?

It's a hearty, meaty meal when you visit this blog. Take your pick from topics such as the joys and challenges of mothering 4 little people under age 5, interracial adoption, thoughts on blogging for free (and why she's fine with that), and other deep places I would not have gone without following her lead.

I promise that you will be smacking your lips in delight with the first taste of Stacey's lovely prose.

Yum.

NEXT!

2011-03-08T17:50:00.000-08:00

And the festivities continue!

Renee at Journey of an Upstart Freelance Writer is my next awardee.

Renee is a young woman who excells in her niche. She's a SAHM who somehow finds time to write well-researched articles on topics of interest to people who would like to minimize their impact on the ecosystem, eat healthier, and bear and raise children in a God-honoring and nurturing way. She's finding her audience and will no doubt be a rousing success. Her blog is a chance to tag along and enjoy her journey. Renee, here's your award!

The Envelopes, Please

2011-03-06T18:56:00.000-08:00

Awards:

First up is Candace Rose Rardon's Rare Travels: Words from the Road Less Taken .
Candace is a self-described wide-eyed wanderluster, an engaging young woman with mad skills, currently living in London and studying for a master's in travel writing. She's a freelance writer and specializes in smart travel tips for the young budget-conscious traveler. Candace will take you along with her to Macau or Christchurch with her well-written descriptive prose. She also happens to be a friend's daughter, but that alone does not get her the award--she earned it!

Second award goes to a woman who is a Down-Under doll, Shay at Quilting in My Pyjamas, who never fails to make me laugh with her brand of Aussie wisdom and humor. I'm not a crafter, so I usually skip over the quilting posts, but she's a woman of many interests. Her posts range from Translation Tuesdays , where she explains all things Australian to her American friends, including tours of the local grocery stores, to recipes for goodies such as Vegemite Toast, accompanied by pictorial instruction. She's funny and irreverent, and you'll be doing yourself a "favour" if you drop in for a visit.

That's only two blogs, so more to come...

Stylish Blogger Awards

2011-03-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Lisa at The Porch Swing Chronicles, it's now my task to select recipients for the "Pay It Forward" aspect of receiving the Stylish Blogger Award, plus reveal 7 things about myself that you didn't already know. I don't have many startling revelations that I'm willing to fling into the public domain, but here are a few you just might find interesting.

1. I am not a natural redhead. (Okay, so this is not exactly a shock to anyone who has seen my gray and brown roots, but still....) I started out as light brown, which darkened with age to medium brown with reddish highlights, then I went with frosted blonde for a few years, then, to escape the doldrums of Snowmageddon, 2009-10, embraced my inner RED! I'm keeping it until I start to feel like that weird old lady with the fake red hair.

2. I was a flashlight-under-the-covers reader as a child and have the nearsightedness that proves Mom right-- I did ruin my eyes. I was too vain to wear my glasses for years and developed a reputation in school for being a snob. I didn't wave back.

3. My writing mentor was a nun, Sister Sharon, my English teacher in 11th grade. I was the Token Protestant of La Reine High School, an all-girl's Catholic school in Suitland, Md. I loved her until the day she died, and one of my life's joys was to have her ask for an autographed copy of my first national magazine sale. I signed it, "With love and thanks from Linda Landreth Phelps, N.P." The N.P. stands for "Nasty Protestant", her little pet name for me. See why I loved her?

4. My favorite food group is dessert.

5. The Engineer and I got engaged without a single date. Oh, unless you count the ones where he tagged along as a 5th wheel when my best friend, her husband, my fiance, and I were together. (I'm saving the full story for later, so don't ask.)

6. When I was 16, I dated Ollie North. Yes, that one, the convicted felon, but our fleeting relationship predated that by 25 years. Again, full story later.

7. Several years ago I had the opportunity to sing with a group of 7 other people for several performances of a syymphony's Christmas Pops concert. I never dreamed that I would have that kind of experience so late in life, after most of my vocal talents have faded. "Mele Kalikimaka" isn't exactly what you expect to be singing with the symphony, but it was a blast!

Now, for my first Stylish Blogger Awards......TA DAAAAAAH! NEXT POST!

Toot!

2011-03-06T08:41:00.000-08:00

Tooting My Own Horn

Technically, Lisa Lawmaster Hess at Porch Swing Chronicles (I just love that blog's name!) tooted my horn originally, but I got my very first award from her, so I'm retooting away. Thank you, Lisa!

Stylish? Truthfully, I'm a little shy about accepting that accolade. I really need to hire a 12 year old to show me how to make my blog look less slapdash and how to do all that linking stuff. (Here I return to insert a big "THANKS! to Shay at Quilting In My Pyjamas for her quick tutorial. It works!) All I know how to do is write.

Speaking of which...

I may have just agreed to coauthor a book. Yes, a big, scary, BOOK. For someone who has in the past written only for magazines, I'm slightly deficient in confidence that I can sustain interest (my own or the reader's) in a subject past the 3,000 word mark. The subject of the book is nearer to my heart than the typical magazine piece, so maybe that is just negative thinking.

I'll be writing about my parents. Oh, yawn, you might say, another boring recitation of family lore, just vanity press fodder. I hope not. The subject is Bill and Ginger Landreth, but their story plays out against the backdrop of World War II and includes a fighter pilot crashing in the Sea of Japan, a secret POW camp,and a pregnant wife who has been told her husband is dead but refuses to believe it. It includes actual letters that trace their story, but will be historical fiction. I'm inventing dialogue, true, but with the added benefit of hearing the protagonist's actual voices in my head.

So why a coauthor, you ask? Englishman Lee Cook has just finished his third book on the subject of The Skull and Crossbones Squadron: VF-17 in World War II. Lee has devoted most of his adult life to his painstaking research of VF-17, and is the authority on all things pertaining to this squadron, both during and after the war. Dad wrote the foreword for Lee's first book, and we collaborated on the foreword for another on the squadron's many aces. I'm looking forward to my copy of Lee's recently finished pictorial history of The Jolly Rogers, due to debut in April. If I'm going to write about these men in this era, I'd better get the details right, and Lee's the guy I want as a wingman.

It's also my hope that Lee will help to guide (shove?) me through a process that has always intimidated me: a full length book.

What is a book, after all--just a series of connected short stories strung together like beads on a necklace. Over the years I've proved I'm able to write those well enough that some people will read them. Two thousand words is my sweet spot, evidently--even if paid by the piece, my stuff always lingers within shouting distance of that target. That's a chapter, isn't it? So if I can just train my creaky brain to see each chapter as a standalone, short story unit, I can do this. I can.

Lisa, as a member of my writer's critique group, will get to know Bill and Ginger intimately. I hope that she (and you) will enjoy their story. Now I plan to break open the large cardboard box full of letters I rescued from a musty cruise box in Dad's garage and get to work.

More...much more... to come.

Meanwhile, part of this Stylish Blogger Award is the request to pass it on to 10 more people. Any suggestions for candidates? Some of those I follow already will be hearing from me, but I'm always open to reading new and interesting blogs.

Grammar Nazi Humor

2011-02-27T21:48:00.001-08:00

Chicago Mishap

2011-02-27T21:36:00.000-08:00

A realization: a milestone has been passed! This is my 101st post, and it's only taken me...oh, yeah, much too long to get here. Well, pressing onward, #101 goes like this:

I've decided that driving to Baltimore to fly nonstop to LA and back is the way to go. Any other plan makes a stop mid-country necessary, and opens one up to many mishap opportunities. Take my latest visit to Chicago's O'Hare as an example.

I was rested. After an hour's drive on the dark freeway, I'd had a good night's sleep at a hotel near the airport, so fatigue is not an excuse. I tried to blame it on my dysnumeria (like dyslexia, but with numbers), or a Menopause Moment, or just temporary insanity, but I'm afraid that I was just plain not thinking. Why else would I have forgotten to change my watch to Central Time when we landed in Chicago from LAX? My cell phone even reminded me that we were in A DIFFERENT FREAKING TIME ZONE when I turned it back on after arrival there, and offered to automatically convert to it, which I approved. But no, synapses were apparently frozen when I looked at my watch and at the departure time of my connecting flight and thought, "Hmmm... time for a nice leisurely dinner."

So according to my calculations, I was probably swilling down the last drops of a very nice White Zinfadel and mopping up the marsala sauce with my bread at the very moment my plane to Harrisburg left the ground.

I paid the check and meandered over to my terminal, checking the board for departures as I had done a dozen times before to make sure the gate had not changed. Wait a minute...my flight was no longer listed. Whaaaaaat? The flight to Harrisburg was two hours from now? How can that be?

Uh oh. The Holy Crap Flopsweat hit me hard.

You know what I mean--that moment when the penny drops, sweat pops out in sickly profusion all over your body and you just know: I HAVE SO SCREWED UP!

I humbly presented myself at the United Help Desk.

"I just missed my flight," said I.
"Let's see your boarding pass," said she.
Ticka-ticka-tickticktick on her computer.
"I have good news!" she chirps. "I can get you aboard the next flight to Harrisburg, departing 9:10 p.m."
"Oh, thank you so much," I replied. Then, babbling on in relief, I say, "I sure hope my luggage will still be there when I get in."
"Well, it will be on this flight, of course. If you missed the last one, so did your luggage. It can't fly by itself, now can it?" This last accompanied by arm-flapping motions and a condescending smile. I want to smack her, or at least give her my best disapproving haughty stare.

BUT.

At this point, I realize she does not know that I blew it. She assumes that it was THEIR fault that I missed my connection and if I say one more word to correct this assumption, she will be happy to accept my credit card in payment for my stupidity.

I pause and then say, "Oh, silly me!" with a disgustingly self-deprecating little giggle. I grab my ticket and go.

Part Two

I try calling The Engineer, hoping I can catch him before he leaves home. No such luck. He's on his way, and his cell phone goes straight to voice mailbox. Fast forward to 8:30 and I'm at the gate (which they have of course switched at the last minute) ready to board. My phone rings.

"Where are you?" (The Engineer, on a borrowed cell phone.)

I explain I missed my flight, but not why.

"I tried to reach you!" I say righteously, sounding (I know) annoyed, thinking he'd had his phone turned off as usual.

"I went off without it," he says.

Realizing there is no high ground to occupy after my own dumb trick, I shut up.

I finally arrive in the largely deserted terminal at 11:55 after a total of 25 hours of travel, so happy to see my husband.

"I hope you brought a book or took a nap," I say after a heartfelt hug.

"No, I didn't know what was going to happen to your flight, so I went home and got my cell phone."

Let's see, an extra 45 minutes each way, tolls, rain.

No, no high ground whatsoever.

Green and Blue

2011-02-22T17:58:00.000-08:00

Dad and I went to the plant store today. I would have spent the day there if I could, and made a much more serious dent in his credit card. There are empty flower beds at Dad's house, something that Mom wouldn't have allowed, but after her death, as his age advanced and his vision declined, so did the condition of the house, yard and flowers. Empty flower beds in California are an affront to the eye, a wasted opportunity, and to my green-starved soul, that plant store was a little piece of heaven off the 101 freeway. It was also a good chance to channel Mom's love of all things bright and pretty.

I bought white petunias, lavender and white daisies, dark purple geraniums, and a couple of lushly pink ranunculus. We passed by a hot fuschia bougainvilla in a clay pot that would have looked great by the gate to the atrium, but Dad was resisting by this point, so I had to leave it there. I know that he bought what he did to please me, not himself. Most of his sense of smell has left him and he can't see much unless it's right in front of his face. The eye doctor we visited today illustrated his vision to me this way:

"Make a fist. Hold it in front of your nose. The stuff around the edges, that's what he sees."

Oh.

So I know he's buying the flowers for me. And I buy them for me, too, I suppose, trying to turn back the clock and recreate the home I remember. It was a warm and welcoming place of refuge when Mom was here and whole, before she faded away and disappeared into someone we did not know, then was freed and transformed by her death into the familiar once again.

If I could just change reality as easily as I do the faded bathroom towels, Dad's world would still be populated with purposeful work, lively conversation, and the touch of a loving wife. Instead, I will do what I can to bring color to his life. Turquoise towels and raspberry ranunculus are a poor substitute, but all I can manage.

More vents to follow, I'm sure.

Hot Pink Pedi Month--Getting a Head Start!

2011-02-12T10:00:00.000-08:00

For those of you who took part last year, here's your chance to do it again. For anyone who didn't, there is time to pick out your color and get ready. Newbies refer to post link below. Me, I'm getting a head start on March. Katherine approves of the neon pink as her dog tag matches my toes perfectly. She draws the line at actual nail polish, however.

Conversion of a Blogaphobe: Hot Pink Toes Month

Nonna and I head west Tuesday to see Dad in California, so twenty toes will be revealed after a long hibernation. After a mani-pedi yesterday, I'm prepared to honor Mom and minister to Dad . His memory is in shreds and I have legal stuff to do and comfort to offer. His only remaining sibling (of 9) a sister who is 96, phoned from Montana to say Hospice had been called and she didn't have long to live. Even dying, her mind is still sharp, so I am a little envious of her circumstance.

Nonetheless, while in California I'll be online and blogging my brains out, no doubt. Vent, vent. Check in if you have time, and I promise to post any PREVIEWS of Pink Pedi Month immediately!

Delusions of Spring?

2011-02-08T11:53:00.000-08:00

I'm admittedly desperate for SPRING, but am wondering now if I have progressed past desperation and wound up in delusion. I may be seeing things.

Let's look at the date: February 8th... correct. Clearly still winter here in Pennsylvania, with snow and ice to prove it. But today as I drove up to my garage after a morning out, a miracle (hallucination?) happened. There is a holly tree as tall as the roof to the left of the door, and as I approached, a flock of birds burst forth, startled. I was pretty startled myself to see that the flock consisted of about a dozen fat robins.

Robins! I wonder if perhaps they're scouts for the masses of travelers to come after them--real estate agents sent to scope out the possibilities for bargain nesting sites. Maybe they were just scooped up in the blast of wind currently moaning through the evergreen branches at 30 miles an hour (gusts up to 50, it's said) and deposited accidently at my door. However it happened, I felt my spirits, sorely beaten down and drably brown like the muddy grass peeking through the slowly melting snow, rise up and take wing, right along with the birds as they swirled upwards and took flight.

If the robins are here, can daffodils be far behind? If this be delusion or a dream, please don't wake me until the first flower blooms.

Snowed In, No Milk

2011-01-26T10:28:00.000-08:00

Today was the day that my girls from Mom2Mom planned to get together for lunch, making up for the snow cancellation of our last meeting. These only happen bimonthly, so skipping one means a whole month goes by without seeing each other. These eight young moms are all new to the Mom2Mom ministry and have bonded wonderfully with each other and me, their leader. If wisdom truly does come with age, then I qualify as mentor, but these girls are smart and wise and so much fun. I'm pretty disappointed that winter had a surprise up its sleeve.

The predicted rain that all the weather people agreed upon looks pretty white and fluffy out there, with more to come tonight. My Snow Blowing Elf who usually has such things taken care of and is gone by the time I wake is on a business trip to an area where the "rain" is actually just rain, so I'm pretty much housebound. Stuck inside, snowed in with what used to be an entire chocolate cake and no milk to wash it down....what a dilemma. I wonder if Pizza Hut would deliver a nice hot pizza and a quart of milk?

Hmmmm.....

Letting Go

2011-01-23T13:34:00.000-08:00

Ben in First Grade

Rites of passage can, out of nowhere, sneak up and smack you in the head.

A simple phone call: “Mom, to get my driver’s license in Tennessee, they need to see my original birth certificate, not a copy. Can you send it?”

“Sure, Ben, I think I know where it is.” This think comes from the last three years of semi-flux that include trying to move, moving, and recovering from said move. I was pretty sure it was in my home office, buried in the folder marked “To Go in Lock Box” (a box which I have yet to rent.)

And so it was. The birth certificate was printed on stiff, important paper with an embossed seal, and there was a substantive heft to the envelope. The heading read, “Mary Immaculate Hospital, Newport News, Virginia”, and it was dated 1988. I slipped it into a larger envelope to take to the post office, just another stop on my list of chores for the day.

Once I arrived, I chose “Priority Mail, please” when asked a few questions by the dark-haired young woman who was waiting on me. She handed me yet another envelope to address. To my surprise, I found myself lingering at the window to chat while I slowly copied the unfamiliar address; I was over-sharing, but the line behind me was very short and I was having a revelation.

Virginia is the state where our little family of four spent most of our lives, but where none of us now live. Art and I were married on a warm June day at the War Memorial Chapel of Virginia Tech. Two years later we moved to the Tidewater area, Hampton, where our baby girl, Ahna, was born. Seventeen years after that, Ben came along. When he was 12, we moved to Williamsburg. In all, we spent 38 years within a very familiar 15-mile radius.

Ahna was the first chick to fly. Western Pennsylvania was where she settled to start her career as a horsewoman, not really intending to stay forever in the land of gray skies and long winters. Then she met and married a man whose roots (literally) went deep into that soil. Rich’s business, a greenhouse nursery and landscape company, means she is planted there with him. Now Ahna’s mid-March birth date marks another snowy month of winter instead of breeze-tossed masses of daffodils. As much as she loves her husband and horses, that will always seem wrong.

Next was us. Art’s new job was in Maryland, but housing prices there meant we slipped over the Mason/Dixon Line to Central Pennsylvania, leaving Ben, a college student at a university west of Richmond, as the last Virginia holdout. Fast forward to December, 2010 and graduation. Mary, Ben's girlfriend, and her baby, plus a new job, are all in Johnson City, Tennessee; thus, Ben is there, too, needing a new driver’s license.

All of this history is flashing through my brain as I linger in line at the Red Lion, PA post office, babbling a small part of my thoughts to a young woman, stretching the moment out.

“He’s our last child. My oldest is going to be 40 in a few weeks. Imagine!” She is polite, smiling. I still hold a corner of the glossy white envelope against her gentle pull, and then her eyes seem to soften. Maybe she realizes what I had not until this moment of transition.

This is a big deal. It should be marked and recognized as such. But it is time to let go.

Art, Linda, Peyton, Mary, Ben
December 27, 2010

And so I do.

More of the Same

2010-09-27T20:00:00.000-07:00

Not to be beating a (weary, at least, if not dead) horse, I will say that the father situation took a turn for the worse shortly after the last post. I got back from CA Wednesday, and by Monday Dad was in the hospital witha very scary and yet-to-be-explained event that had his blood pressure at 58/46, reclining. Four day stay and many tests then home with 24/7 caregiver. He gradually regained his strength, or most of it, but continues confused. I have been on the phone A LOT! I kept mentally repacking to fly out there again, but I think we have it under control without that, at least for now.

Good stuff happening, too, thank God! A visit from an old friend, a 4 day trip to Williamsburg to revisit wonderful friends and places, and today I babysat for a young friend's daughters (Lily, Holly, Sage and Aspen) and got to hold her new baby, Cedar James Thomas.

As I held him, he smiled in his sleep--the biggest gummy grin--and then he actually laughed!

"Chasing boobies through fields of flowers," his daddy said. What man child wouldn't laugh for joy?

I'm BACK

2010-09-11T21:40:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to let you know that I live and breathe. A bout with a kidney infection, trip to Denver (during which I acquired a cold) and then on to LA area to see my father for extended visit (during which I coughed, blew nose and tried to be effective caregiver) has left me depleted, dried up like a literary raisin. I will be back...really back...soon, I hope. Meanwhile, I will try to catch up on all of the blogs I missed.

Missed being the operative word here. I missed you!

Eternal Father, Strong to Save

2010-08-18T21:31:00.000-07:00

This is not my usual lighthearted post. My heart is about as far from light as you could possibly be, and it's been there since about noon, when I got word that someone I know, or used to know, is in terrible peril. Actually, barring a miracle, he is dead and in the arms of Jesus.

It started as a vacation in Nag's Head, NC, and a day at the beach. It ended with a huge wave sweeping Brian Mouring off his feet and into an undertow that snatched him away as if he had been kidnapped. The Coast Guard searched all day and will resume the search for what surely must be Brian's lifeless body in the morning.

Brian was one of my wee ones in the AWANA program. The littlest kids, K-2nd grade, are known as Sparks, and Brian was a Sparkie when I was the Director. Big bittersweet chocolate eyes and looking much like his brothers and sis, he was the joy of the Mouring family. He loved sports. His dad coached basketball, which Brian grew up to play, and was on the soccer team, too, if his Facebook pictures can be believed. I wasn't at those games because I lost track of everyone when our youngest graduated from the small Christian school where they both spent their childhoods.

Of course I project and try to imagine how his parents feel. What if it had been my boy? A lifetime of pain flashes through me and I cannot concieve surviving such a monstrous theft.

I have to believe that somehow the Lord will lift them up. I have to believe that God has a purpose in this that is greater than the price they will have to pay in tears. I have to believe these things because how could I continue to live otherwise? None of us gets through life untouched by sorrow and pain. But for tonight, I will pray for the Mourings and be grateful that it's not my turn. Not this time.

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.

Bazoom!

2010-08-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

After a week of a nasty UTI and recovery, Getting Out of the House was #1 with a bullet on my chart today. Weeks of swampy heat had broken with a couple of rainy days, and today's temperature ranged in the mid-70's with a nice breeze added in for good measure. In short, outdoor activities were not just possible, but potentially enjoyable! So...

Today the Engineer and I traipsed off merrily to the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire in the middle of Amish country, Intercourse, PA. Smack dab in the center of the Plain People's farmlands lies a winery where for the last 30 years buildings have been erected of a medieval nature, and for ten glorious weekends out of the year, folks gather to see and be seen.

We used our 30 minutes in line for tickets wisely, to gawk at those in front and back of us: rough-looking wenches and pirates, noblemen, one man in a wife-beater shirt whose back and shoulders sprouted so much black hair that his back pack resembled a mushroom sprouting from some fertile forest's floor. We passed through the gate after submitting my purse to a security scrutiny. I have no idea what they were looking for in my bag, but they were waving through men wielding 6-foot long two-handed broadswords with wicked sharp blades without a blink. Judging later from the armorer's tent's brisk sales, I assume everyone was carrying at least a dirk in their sock--everyone but us.

As we wandered for several hours, some of the sights were magnificent, others not so much. A few were like having daggers repeatedly stabbed into my eyes, so I will say right now, I have graciously protected you from actual photographic evidence and only used a couple of the best examples of beauty.

This family, who in the ordinary scheme of things would be deemed to look pretty...well...ordinary, not worthy of a second glance while in line at WalMart, is, thanks to the wearing of truly magnificent clothing, suddenly transformed into nobility. They are being asked to pose for photos, engaged in conversation, indeed, worshipped. I love America, where clothes really do seem to make the man...or in this case, the family. Pretty heady, that. I tried on a few capes and Tudor headpieces myself and fought the urge to order people around.

A noble family

Soon I saw a couple of maidens fair taking their ease in front of a lovely fountain.

Now, what I am sparing you from is the the FAIL portion of the day. For every costume gotten right, there were a dozen who aaallllllmost hit the mark. A guy in a "kilt", which was actually a puffy skirt made from tartan printed cotton. Another man who sported a kilt in desert camo, yet another dressed as a knight in tennis shoes. But worse were the poor deluded women.

The invention of the bustier gave medieval women an opportunity to create the illusion of youth, but some modern gals have gone past illusion into the land of self-deception. A firm, high bazoom and tiny waist have always been esteemed, but evidently in Renaissance times, they were worshipped, at least in the yeoman class. Queens had their chestal apparatus flattened and hidden behind brocade for the most part, but wenchly bosoms like lumps of pizza dough on platters were scarcely clad and on full display today. The price of admission was well spent just to see The Engineer fight his eyeballs up to facial level as we walked.

There are several types of corset, the steel-boned "high on the shelf" kind where cleavage begins at the adam's apple, lower cut ones that leave bazooms kind of drooping over the edge, rather like a fleshy infinity pool, and the corselet, which squeezes all the fat in the midsection into a mighty, two-tiered muffin top and fails to support anything. I watched one young roundish beauty being cinched into a bustier in the costumer's shop, and I have to say she looked breathtakingly lovely. Lacing done, the merchant asked her, "Can you bend over at all?" "Of course not!" she replied, wheezing for air. When I left, she was smiling in the mirror and forking over her credit card. I think I may be too old for punitive underwear. Thank you, God.

Jealous--Bright Lime Green

2010-08-11T13:19:00.000-07:00

Just read Stacey's account of her wonderful time in NYC at the BlogHer Conference, and I am waaaay beyond pea green, deep into the lime shades. Next year in San Diego, hmmm? My old stomping grounds and one of my favorite places to be in August. It's so freakin HOT here in PA. Okay, so maybe it's a degree off of the swamps that are known as Tidewater, VA, but still...

There has been a Facebook debate on which is worse, the four feet of snow and Arctic temperatures we faced six months ago, or the blast furnace of August. I liked one friend's vote: "I'll take the cold. You can always add more layers to get warm, but you can only get so naked!"

Too true.

San Diego, here I come!

Good News/Bad News

2010-07-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

First the Bad News*:

I went in for an eye exam after a 2 year gap and found that the reason I have been squinting at the computer screen and shoving my bifocals up to magnify it is that my vision has taken a big dip. A BIIIIIIIG dip, apparently, the first since I got my second cataract surgery in 2006. (My first one was at age 50--so refreshing to be considered shockingly young for something, as I recall.) The implanted lens took my legally blind left eye up to the point that I can now find my glasses without my glasses, a lifelong fantasy. New eye doc, Dr. "I Know I Look 12, But Take Me Seriously" Link fidgeted around with the clicky thing ("Number One? or Number Two?" --giving me a sudden urge to visit the Ladies Room) until cometh....

The Good News:

I can be corrected to 20/20 for the first time in years! Further good news--evidently, what many past docs had thought was a macular hole was a dimple caused by a tiny spot which failed to detach from the retina as it peeled away from the sclera. This is a natural phenomenon of aging of which most of us are happily ignorant. Yeah--the vitreous jelly in your eyeball shrinks and dries up just like the rest of you. Nice. Anyway, I lost my dimple, which is good when we're talking eyes.

*Little Bit of Bad News:

Have you priced new glasses lately? Yikes! But if I will no longer have to hunch over the computer screen and squint, well worth the price. Maybe I'll even keep up on blogging?

When You Know You're Just a Vessel

2010-07-23T15:06:00.000-07:00

Have you ever sat down to write something and have it practically write itself? That's a great feeling, isn't it? I'm calling it inspiration, that feeling of being overtaken by something...or someone...else. The Greek for that word means "God-breathed", and I feel His breath on my neck as it bows over the keys.

I'll share this story with you when it's finished and I'm allowed. I'm supposed to be writing it for a magazine, but I know it's not really for that purpose at all. I'm convinced that being allowed to interview a man of God who just does not see many strangers any more was not of my doing. As I sat in the chair next to his bedside (did I mention he is a quadraplegic and 80 years old?), I felt I was on holy ground. He spoke generously for an hour and was exhausted, and I was on fire with the urge to get to my computer quickly. That's where I have been for days. I'll be back eventually--wait for me!

Filogisic?

2010-07-20T08:15:00.000-07:00

I commented on someone's blog this morning, and was directed to type the security word: filogisic. Filogisic? Are these REAL words? I looked it up and didn't find it, but now I'm inventing my own definition.

Filogisic is a system of information organization based on emotion rather than the alphabet. Tax stuff would be filed under "Dread", letters from old friends under "Nostalgia", complaints under "Annoyed", requests for autographed copies of best selling novels under "Euphoria".

What do you think?

Alive and Well in Williamsburg, Virginia

2010-07-18T04:59:00.000-07:00

Are there any followers left out there? I wouldn't be surprised if you have all given up and forgotten my name. I keep saying I'll make time to blog, but yes, I have been busy--and no, that is really no excuse. So this morning I set the alarm and here I am, with about 20 minutes before shower and early service at the Chapel, followed by brunch with friends.

I've been here in Williamsburg for a week, a fun, jam-packed week. I've been schizophrenically trying to be landlord, writer, and friend all at once. Tenants at my father's townhouse moved out and I have been cleaning up, raking and trimming, and showing the premises to prospective renters, without much success so far. I wanted to have it nailed down before I leave again tomorrow for my 5-hr. drive back to Pennsylvania, but that is looking unlikely. I'll have to hand the keys over to a friend who is covering for my manager, away in Ireland.

I also did an interview with a woman for the next issue of Next Door Neighbors, a nursing professor. She will be great for the month's topic of Teachers and Mentors. I'm also trying to line up an interview with a man who is bedridden and whose energy is closely guarded. So that's two pieces to write for NDN.

On that front, I had a lunch with a friend who is mentoring me, Karen Queen, who is an actual gets-checks-with-commas writer. Karen was recently invaluable in her advice and encouragement, and instrumental in my assignment with a larger magazine where she is on the staff. I did a story about a bird matchmaker which appears in September's issue of Hampton Roads Magazine. That assignment pleased the editor and led to two more for the future, so I feel like I have been pushed out of the nest of local magazine writing. Turns out I am ready to fly!

It will be time to leave again tomorrow. I'm so connected here, both with professional contacts and opportunities and with the dearest of friends. I know I have only been living in PA less than a year, so have hopes that one day I will feel anchored there as well. But for this morning, I am here with my laptop and cup of coffee, enjoying the view from Rene and Dave's deck of a slow-moving creek and a wading heron. Tidewater. My heart's home.

I MISS BLOGGING!

2010-07-10T11:44:00.000-07:00

Vacations are wonderful, but I missed you guys! I will STILL be missing you, because I am home just long enough to do laundry, love on the old doggie a little, repack and take off again Monday for Williamsburg. Interviews and landlord business await me there. I predict it will be awhile before I take a deep breath and cozy up to the computer. Don't forget me--I swear I'll be back.

Party of Two

2010-06-30T21:48:00.000-07:00

I was all excited about the first meeting of the Brian Keene writing class graduates last night. There were big plans to get together and discuss our writing projects--how far we've gotten, which draft we're on, locating pre-readers, get some feedback. You know, Writer Talk.

After all is said and done, a lot more is said than done.

The meeting took place at a restaurant with a table set for 10. Jess and I were the only ones to show up. We had a good discussion, but still...I may need to keep looking for the right group for my needs. I'm looking for peeps, man.

Complaints, Complaints!

2010-06-30T20:50:00.000-07:00

It has been pointed out to me that I have been lax in my blogging duties lately. Yes, yes, I could claim to have been busy working on the stuff I actually get paid to write, but truth to tell, summer has brought out a big fat lazy streak in me. I just want to lounge around with a large iced tea (decaf, Equal, extra lemon) and a good book, not sit at my desk. But tonight I will be diligent, and Nonna will have something fresh to read with her oatmeal in the morning.

Let's see....today.

Today was a good day on the whole. Sometimes the cosmic balance tips towards suckiness, but today I'd say that the blessings side of the scale wins hands down. Two incidents bear mention; read them and see if you agree.

I visited Rachel, my hair magician today. She takes my frizzy/curly/graying hair and turns it into slick mahogany that falls like a curtain against my neck. Last month one of the owners of the salon was distraught and in tears when I arrived.

"They won't let me in," he said to Rachel. "They said I'm not family!"

The woman he descibed as his "York Mom" ("I'm such a mess, I need two!"), also named Linda, was hospitalized and on her death bed. I don't know the back story since I'm new here, but I know suffering when I see it, and this man was in agony. He wandered around and tried to work, brushing tears from his eyes as he cut hair. As I was leaving, I said, "I'll pray for Linda." He seemed comforted by this simple offer.

Today I walked in and saw him straight away, working on his client's hair. I tentatively asked him, hoping he wouldn't burst into tears if I mentioned her name, how his York Mom was doing.

"Right after you left here last month, I got a call," he said. "Linda suddenly sat up in bed and demanded lunch. She's out of the hospital and she's been in here three times since then! It was a miracle!" He squeezed my hand. "Thanks for your prayers." I was the one who almost burst into tears.

Fast forward to me in line at Wal Mart an hour or so later. I had picked up a few necessities and was waiting in the Express Lane, in my own little ruminative fog. The Not-So-Express Lane was moving at a slothlike pace, but I was in the zone, a million miles away in Tabloid Land. (When is Prince William going to get off his duff and propose to Wait-ey Katie? How does Demi Moore get those abs? Who the heck is Jake Pavelka? I'll bet if I could afford a personal chef like Oprah's, I'd be as skinny as Kelly Ripa. Poor Sandra Bullock--but she picked Jessie!)

A woman about my age (my real age, not the quasi-youthful number I had just paid much money to revivify) in line ahead of me turned around, sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, "You'd think they'd have more lanes open."

Now, I am an extremely friendly person, the type who strikes up conversations in the line to buy popcorn in the theater. "Where do you know her from?" my husband wants to know. "I don't--we just met," I reply. Ordinarily, I would have been the first to speak, but today, I was deeply lost in trivial thought. By the time I was able to process what she had said and begin to form a reply other than a shrug and a sympathetic (or so I thought) look, she said in a loud, sarcastic tone, "Oh, excu-u-u-use me; I thought you could talk!" And she turned her back on me. I felt like I'd been slapped. I was speechless.

Here's where the weird part comes in: I have just recently read a book called "The Help", all about servants in the south in the '60's and what they were really thinking and feeling behind the often impassive facades they showed the white families they served. It was a revelation to someone who grew up as I did, with an African- American maid (and yes, the polite descriptive term was "colored" then) a regular presence in my life. I found it hard to read and wonderfully thought-ptovoking at the same time. I've had to revisit and reexamine my past in light of what I learned by reading this book.

So the weird part is this: The woman was Black. I'm thinking to myself as I continue to wait in line, staring at her rigid back, "Could this be racial? Does she think the white woman snubbed her because she's Black? Of course I didn't snub her, but she's awfully touchy--maybe that's happened to her before. Maybe I should apologize. Maybe she's a crazy person and I should just shut up." I hear my mother in my mind's ear: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

So I'm silent. Silent as the woman pays for her few groceries, silent as she hefts her bag and starts to walk away.

"Good afternoon!" the clerk says to me brightly.

"Hi, there," I reply with a smile.

The woman turns to me, angry eyes scalding me like acid.

"Oh, so you CAN speak!" she says.

I am silent, speechless and slapped yet again.

The woman turns on her heel and leaves the store.

And I--the wordsmith?

When I fnally recover enough to speak, I say to the puzzled clerk, "She wasn't very nice."

And that's the bottom line, folks. Nice is color blind.

Enjoy your breakfast, Nonna!

Quilting In My Pyjamas: Theme-less in Blogland

2010-06-19T17:17:00.000-07:00

My bloggy friend Down Under, Miz Pyjamas at

Quilting In My Pyjamas: Theme-less in Blogland

(notice how I am generously creating a link for you even if you have seven times as many followers!) raises a good question: what's a theme, and do we really need one to blog?

Miz P, as long as you keep entertaining me and educating me about Aussie customs (and our recent exchange pertaining to just which words are rude in what country qualified in both categories, I must say) and being your wonderful self, you've got all the theme you need. Keep it up, girlfriend! I'm loving what you do.

Paranoia Can Be Appropriate

2010-06-15T20:21:00.000-07:00

Stacy, a great writer at "IsThere Any Mommy Out There?" http://www.anymommyoutthere.com/ (you really should go back and read her lovely post, people) and I had this recent exchange:

vawriter has left a new comment on your post "Like an hour glass glued to the table":

My first reaction at the end of this post was "Oh, she used my metaphor!" I described writing as pinning butterflies to the page a few years back. My second thought was, "Crap! She did it better!"

(My third was "What a great post--what a terrific writer." Which should have been my first. Mea culpa.)

Stacey's reply:

You are so sweet. I am positive I didn't "do it better." I did get a little heart palpitation when I first read your comment. One of my biggest fears when I'm writing (it's almost stifling sometimes) is that I'm mining things from my brain that I actually read elsewhere. That aren't original, but just incorporated into the fabric of my mind because I read so much and appreciate other people's writing so much. Not that I think you mean that at all, but I do worry about it, you know? So, I was very relieved to read "a few years back!"

stacey

And finally, my response:

Exactly my fears, too, Stacy! Who knows where these thoughts come from that get poured out onto the page? All input gets tossed in the brain's stewpot, stirred and simmered until I'm convinced that I never have an original idea in my head--it's all been thought and said before, and in far better ways.

And now I find out that even this is not an original thought. And once again, Stacey said it better.

I apologize in advance to any writer whose words and ideas I inadvertantly appropriate. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I'm pretty sure the line gets drawn at plagiarism. The problem is that the line is so terribly blurry!

An Anniversary to Remember

2010-06-09T07:03:00.000-07:00

Instead of the fragrance of roses and filet mignon, The Engineer and I celebrated our 42nd anniversary last night with a whiff of freshly manured fields. This year our candlelight dinner took place in the kitchen of an Amish farmhouse with the Gid and Linda Fisher family.

Since we moved last year to a part of Pennsylvania greatly influenced by the Old Order Amish community, we've learned to expect road hazards. Things to be alert for include clipclopping horse drawn carriages and tourists' cars slowing to take in the impressive sight of a wagon piled impossibly high with alfalfa bales. The typical Amish farmer, blue shirt sleeves rolled above tanned forearms, flatbrimmed straw hat level with his eyebrows and beard blowing in the breeze, stands up with reins in hands, in total control of his 5-across hitch of sturdy mules or horses. It's a step back into another century, and even we, totally used to the sight of Colonial Williamsburg's interpreters in 18th century garb pumping gas, are intrigued and curious. The Amish are not playing a role-- this is their real life, and that makes the difference. The Engineer and I found that in some ways there isn't quite as wide a gulf between the Fishers and ourselves as we expected. My grandmother cooked on a wood stove, after all, and people are just people at the end of the day.

The Amish religion has its roots in the Anabaptists, a splinter of Christianity dating from the 1600's. They take seriously the Biblical admonition to "be not conformed to this world", and they try to separate themselves from civil government as much as possible. They have their own schools--one room affairs that educate children for eight years, no more. Even their teachers have no further training. The Amish expect to live a simple life where reading, writing, basic mathematics and some history is all that will be required. A desire for anything more than that would be prideful, they believe, and would lead their young people away from their community of faith. They don't participate in Medicare, Social Security or have health insurance; Amish take care of their own. Families are closely knit, self disciplined and hard workers, all admirable traits.

The Amish also take vows very seriously. Young, unbaptized teens are given a great degree of freedom to experience the attractions of the outside world before they marry and commit to church membership. They are free to leave their way of life with no repercussions until then, but once baptized, anyone who leaves is shunned completely. They are as dead to their families and friends.

Anyone who is not Amish is English, no matter what their heritage. Japanese, Latino, African American...we're all English to them. But what The Engineer and I experienced last night was that, as diligently as the Amish work to be set apart, there is still a bond of kinship that comes from a common belief in God. As we were invited by the lady of the house to the table laden with simple, tasty food and bowed our heads in a silent blessing, I realized that, Amish or English, we were brothers and sisters in Christ.

The dinner conversation flowed as it would have with any new friends: vacation plans, family history, talk of children's dreams for their lives. We were encouraged to take generous servings of the fragrant heavy bread, hearty meatloaf, creamy mashed potatoes, and tender vegetables, fresh from the neatly tended garden just visible from the open window. Dessert was a meal unto itself: blueberry delight, a dense and chewy chocolate cake with cream cheese icing made by the Fisher's young teenaged boy, and fresh-churned vanilla ice cream.

After we pushed ourselves away from the table at last, Mr. Fisher gave The Engineer a tour of the carriage making business out back while I was given a chance to pet every animal on the farm. Nancy, a shy 9 year old with a tight chignon of blonde hair and a simple yellow dress, showed me Carla, a sleek brown pup she had chosen for herself from a litter just two weeks old, and introduced me to her shaggy miniature horse. Mewing cats, trailed by their unsteady kittens, were trying their best to herd us to their empty food bowl in the barn. I was in animal lover heaven.

When the visit drew to a close and it was time to say goodbye, I promised to return to get some flower bulbs when they're divided late in the summer. I thanked Linda Fisher sincerely for her hospitality and extended my hand in a gesture of farewell. As much as we had found in common, that handshake revealed our basic differences. Linda's grip was strong, her skin was roughened by use, and I found myself embarrassed by my soft, uncallused hand. I have never before felt quite so "English".

Mine Died

2010-05-31T06:56:00.000-07:00

I am suffering from Peonies Envy.

Nonna and Mom

2010-05-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day Celebration

(I am standing in a hole!)

Amy's back yard

It was such fun to be with my girl again. We didn't do anything earthshaking--we just kind of hung out. This picture was taken on the Sunday morning of my departure. Nonna, her friend, Amy, and I had gone into the deepest heart of Pittsburgh, to a funky little Mom-and-Pop diner that was locally famous for its breakfast fare. Even the Food Channel guy with the spiky hair had been there to film an episode of "Dives and Diners" or whatever it's called. A half hour drive for pancakes? Well, yeah, if they're pumpkin pancakes that taste like syrup-drenched ginger cookies. Or, in my case, banana walnut pancakes that filled the plate. So in this picture we are full and sleepy, and I have a 5 hour drive ahead. Amazing that I arrived safely!

Charlie and cleavage--not mine!

I loved Amy's adorable house, but was taken especially by the lushness of her back yard. There were hostas and iris and other bee-magnets, and a fence line laden with grapevine in blossom. Her cocker, Charlie, was a charming young man, too.

Nonna at Work

Nonna travels to other barns to train horses and give lessons to people. This red beauty is Amy's Sid, who needed some schooling. I look forward to going to this particular barn because it has beautiful flowers and a hammock in the shade of tall trees where I can hang out with my book of the day and pet the barn animals who come by looking for some excitement.

A tad to the left, please!

One of my last posts was "Love Letters"-- all about learning to slow down and look for the love letters God sends us every day. I didn't have to work very hard to find the love letters God wrote during this visit. His signature was everywhere!

A Cherry Picker, A Crane, and Five Men

2010-05-27T20:03:00.000-07:00

With chainsaws. That's all it took to remove the dangerous tree from my back yard today. This was taken right before the guy slipped that rope onto a hook and the crane lifted him 85 feet into the air:

Swoooooop! My stomach flipped.

And this is the top of that same tree, sailing over my rooftop at the end of the boom. I am amazed at the ease of the operation, and how safety conscious everyone was. With good reason. I mean, the guy had a chain saw running and he was tied to a tree-half blinded by sawdust!

I get the willies when I see this picture. That's a lot of wood, and it could have been inside my living room instead of on my driveway

Gonna Be a Horse Grandma!

2010-05-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

Cornerstone Equestrian proudly announces Amazing's first potential offspring!

Now all we have to do is wait until next April.

Love Letters

2010-05-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

People who know my affinity for sleep will be surprised to hear that I was actually paying attention in church this morning, even though it was the early service. Alertness could be explained by the coffee cup I was clutching, but the message on divine jealousy was unusual and interesting. The topic of the sermon was how great is God's love for us, and how He is jealous of anything that competes with our relationship. He wants ALL of us, all the time. That's a hard concept to grasp, because there are times when, given a choice, even I wouldn't associate with myself.

When praised, The Engineer is usually uncomfortable and replies, "I know 'me' too well!" I also know "me" well enough to wonder why someone who embodies perfection chooses to love us with such zeal. But God tells me that He does, and that it is His choice. I only wish that I, in my imperfection, was capable of returning that passion in kind. God writes me love letters which I often overlook, but I am learning to search them out.

Every evening without fail, my husband fills the coffee pot with water in anticipation of his rising at 4:45 a.m. for his work day. He chooses not one, but two mugs to lay out, with two packets each of sweetener. I crawl belatedly from bed at 8:00 to pour coffee from the thermal carafe, enjoying the rich warmth of the drink as well as the glow of knowing that my husband had been thinking of me. Such a small gesture, but a love letter nevertheless.

So I look for God's love letters as I go through the day. An unexpected phone call from an old friend, a good book, a flower pearled with raindrops, my old dog at my feet, sighing with peace...and I learn to recognize His signature.

Married Life Live

2010-05-21T17:42:00.000-07:00

My church holds an annual event, Married Life Live. It's supposed to be a Date Night for couples, and includes desserts, fellowship, skits, and a good message about building and maintaining strong, Christ-centered marriages. We attended last year and had a really good time. While I was gone, The Engineer bought tickets for tonight's event.

We totally forgot to go.

I'm wondering if that means that we really, really needed this night's message and blew it, or if we are, after 42 years, doing okay. Forgetful, but okay.

Sound Track, cont.

2010-05-21T10:34:00.000-07:00

So, as I was saying...

Regis had a local San Diego prime time TV show in the mid-'60's, Called, if memory serves, "Sundown". The Shasta Street Singers were pretty much regulars on it. I think Regis had the burns for Mom, to tell the truth. Looking back on pictures of us then, I can see why that would be so. Mom, being the faithful kind, knew how to flirt like a true Southern girl while still remaining unattainable.

So one night Mom was telling Regis a story. "A cute little puppy came into our yard recently and started playing with Pepi, our black poodle," Mom told Regis. "Suddenly, that adorable puppy growled and bit his ear. I shooed him away and inspected Pepi's ear for broken skin."

Mom couldn't find broken skin but had a bad feeling (which she always paid attention to) and called the animal shelter and reported the incident.

"The dog catcher found the puppy and brought it back for identification," she said. "He was holding him in his arms while the pup wriggled and licked his face. 'There's nothing wrong with this dog,' the man told me. So he took him to the pound and several days later I got a call saying the puppy had rabies."

"So what happened?" he asked.

"Well, the dog catcher had a shaving cut, so he had to take the series of 21 shots in the abdomen," Mom said.

"What about you?" Regis inquired, turning slightly pale.

"Oh, I'm fine...except every once in awhile I get the strangest urge..." Mom said with a playful twinkle and a little growl as she took his hand and lifted it to her mouth.

Regis didn't think it was funny. We thought it was hysterical that he snatched his hand away and looked sick.

Actually, Mom, who had a small cut on her hand when she inspected our dog's saliva-wet ear, was on shot #18 that night, and her belly was dotted with punctures and looking like a purple, green and yellow kaleidoscope. Three days later, we were at the dock as my father's ship arrived home from a 9 month tour of the Pacific. Mom never mentioned a word of this to him until she had to ask him to stop at the doctor's office for her last shot. "I didn't want to worry you," she told him.

I know, I am way off topic here. We were talking music. I will tell you that I forgot the words of the verse in my big solo moment during "The Bonnie Ship, The Diamond". The camera came in for a closeup and suddenly my brain turned to mush. After a few extra moments of improvised guitar solo, Mom started me off and then I took over, relieved. There--that's musical. That's also live TV.

Music Makes the World Go Around

2010-05-20T21:29:00.000-07:00

Leslie, the clever girl at "A Clever Title Goes Here" (how do you do that linky thing, anyway?) has written a post that makes me feel creaky and ancient. It's all about how music influenced her life.

We've all got a great sound track playing in our heads for the memories that lie there, don't we? The tunes on that mix tape are a dead giveaway of our age. Where Leslie has Nine Inch Nails screaming and Alice in Chains banging away, I have Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez and Ian & Sylvia strumming earnestly and harmonizing about peace and love.

I'm talking pre-Beatles here, folks. That musical love affair comes later, in high school, along with Simon and Garfunkle, sliding later into The Doors (hearing this music today can slam me back to driving along the Pacific Coast Highway, windows down in my 1964 VW, miniskirt blowing in the breeze, blasting the radio and hearing "Light My Fire" for the first time.) Then came Jefferson Airplane, Buffalo Springfield, and Janis Joplin, followed down the line by Fleetwood Mac. But for now, let's talk Hootenanny.

Yes, Hootenanny. For all of you youngsters, this is the term used for a concert involving folksingers and strictly acoustic instruments, what became known later as "unplugged" music. (Oh, the outcry when Bob Dylan, our own poet laureate, picked up an electric guitar! There were actual catcalls and booing! I am amazed now at the angst that was expended.)

But for now, let's look at the early 1960's. I was about 15 when I realized that what I wanted more than anything else was to push Mary Travers over a cliff and assume her spot between Peter and Paul. Wisely, my mother could not be budged from her decision that I was too young to attend their concert with a college guy with 2 tickets in his pocket and lust in his heart. Instead, I was stuck with a gig with my mom and brother, probably singing at a private party for twenty bucks and light hors d'oeuvres.

Yes, my friends, I was a folk singer, part of a family group we called The Shasta Street Singers, or, privately, Two Hoots and a Nanny. All the instrumental talent genes skipped me, but I could shake my tambourine (and other parts) while brother Bill and Mom played quite good guitar and mandolin accompaniment as we all sang Kingston Trio songs. Also in our reportoire were a lot of the older tunes from the '30's that Mom and her sister used to sing on their Norfolk, VA radio show. We saved these for the nursing homes. They were good gigs--talk about a captive audience! Some of them were actually tied to their wheelchairs. We gained a lot of experience that way and most of them seemed to enjoy our concerts. We worked our way up to coffee houses and hootenannies.

More tomorrow if you're interested. I have a good story about being on Regis Philbin's San Diego television show, but it's midnight and yard sales start early!

One of Life's Greatest Joys

2010-05-17T21:03:00.000-07:00

Did you miss me? I know it has been a long time between posts, so please forgive. I was fully intending to hold up my end of our bloggy relationship no matter where I find myself, but I seemed unable to be very creative and chatty away from my usual environment. Motivation went out the window as I spent time with my daughter at her house in Allison Park, Pa.
Probably for the best. After all, I'd be foolish to pass up time with Nonna's head in my lap, playing with her hair until she drools, as she puts it so elegantly, to retreat to my bedroom with my laptop.

Among our other favorite girly activities such as manicures and shopping at T.J.Maxx, Nonna and I saw the movie "Letters to Juliet". Completely formulaic and predictable, but sweet and romantic--a totally unapologetic chick flick. The critics may sneer at the fluff and lack of substance of these, but there are times in a woman's life when cravings hit and only a marshmallow really satisfies.

One scene from the movie I will take away and paste in my mental scrapbook. Vanessa Redgrave (who has refreshingly allowed herself to AGE, gracefully or not) plays a grandmother who begins to sweetly and gently brush the hair of a young woman. "Having one's hair brushed is one of life's greatest joys," she said.

In the darkened theater, two heads turned toward each other, our eyes met, and Nonna and I smiled.

What the old woman plainly felt but did not articulate is that the blessing flows in both directions.

Going to Nonna's to Play Horsie

2010-05-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

I'm excited...can you tell?

I'll be leaving in the morning to drive about 4 hours to my daughter's house. The picture above will be what I see from my window Thursday morning--my grand-horse, Amazing. He's a gorgeous Hanoverian stallion who is being gainfully employed this spring. There are 11 mares waiting for what he's got, and 2 who we'll soon find out if they are, in fact, pregnant. I can't wait to see those foals! I hope they all inherit Amazing glamorous good looks, talent, and sweet nature. Another day I will post pictures of Doc, the Haflinger who screams from the pasture whenever he catches a glimpse of Nonna from afar.

I'm going to go buy a big bag of peppermints for my furry grands. Here comes Grandma, kids!

A New Identity

2010-05-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

I have been spurred by one of my friends who is an actual makes-a-living-at-it writer to get a little more professional in my presentation. I am getting new business cards and a dedicated email address. The centuries-old email refers to our now-defunct (or at least on hold) business, Phelps Research and Technology. Henceforth, I can be reached at wordsbylinda@aol.com if you really want to pay me for something. Otherwise, just hang out here and get it for free!

xxoo

moi
the writer

An Eye for an Ear

2010-05-07T20:57:00.000-07:00

Perversely, I just loved the newspaper article on the front of the local news section a couple of days back. The "ICK!" factor was way over the top. You can't make this stuff up and have it be any better than this, folks.

There was a mug shot of a middle-aged man who was, shall we say, a little under the weather. Reading the article, I found out that this man was arrested for being in a bar fight with another man. They were ejected from the premises and continued the fight outside, rolling in the dirt, trading drunken punches, gouging and scratching at each other. After that went on for awhile, witnesses say one man bit the other's ear off and spit it out. The police arrived to find the suspect (who I will, for obvious reasons, call Tyson) crawling around, head down, muddy and covered in blood (much of it not his own.) As it turns out, Tyson was looking for something fairly important that was lost in the melee. Not the other man's ear, oh, no...he was hunting for something of his own --his prosthetic eye. Something tells me this wasn't his first drunken bar fight.

You'll be happy to hear that the prosthetic was eventually located and popped back in. I don't want to admit how long I stared at Tyson's mug shot, trying to figure out which eye was the fake. It's hard to tell when the guy in the picture is glassy-eyed drunk.

Dog Park Diaries

2010-05-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

Amazing weather today--one of those perfect days whose memory I hug close when the heat index hovers at "unbearable" for the second July week in a row. The sky was a pure washed-denim blue, the humidity was negligable, the breeze...ahhhhhhh. The dogs were out in droves at John Rudy Park, recently named one of the country's Top 20 dog parks. There are acres of fenced area, as you can see, and this is just the Big Dog side. Pups under 30 lbs have their own scaled down version of playland all to themselves. Katherine, although technically over that limit by just three pounds, is welcomed due to her advanced age and sensibility. She avoids the troublemakers, big and small alike. When there is a butt-sniffing doggy daisy chain going on, she's right in there exchanging calling cards, but when the play gets rough, she drifts off to either sit at my feet and observe, or to investigate the seductive scents beckoning from a grassy fence line. That does not make Katherine a weenie, it just means she's smart.

The other day she had to put Chuck (a little designer dog with glamorous, Fabio-esque blonde locks that ripple in the wind as he zips by) firmly in his place. Chuck, named for the carsickness that plagued him on his first car ride home, is a young boy who is feeling his hormones, and unwisely picked 15 year old Katherine as a candidate for slaking his lust. The first time Chuck tried to mount her, Katherine looked over her shoulder, showed him a fang, and gave a warning growl. "None of that nonsense, little boy!" Dumb and frisky. Chuck soon tried again, sure that Katherine hadn't really meant to refuse someone so cute. He was wrong. Not only did Katherine growl like a bear, she turned on poor little dumb Chuck and chastened him with a decisive "What part of 'no' didn't you understand?" nip. Chuck, like most young boys, needed to be taught to respect his elders, and the School of Katherine was in session. Chuck will think twice before accosting another 90 year old lady, by golly!

A Good Way to Have a Car Accident

2010-04-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

Listening to the local radio station last night as The Engineer and I drove through the lush and green Pennsylvania countryside:

"Don't forget to stop in at Madge's Restaurant tomorrow for her Friday Special. Yes, get Madge's world-famous Sausage Sandwich right here in Intercourse!"

Still wheezing over that one.

Pink Again

2010-04-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

They're pinker in person, I promise. I'm enjoying my new yard's surprises as Spring unfolds. No orange stuff has sprouted as yet.

P. Allen Smith says "Orange is a quarrelsome color. It doesn't play well with others."

Pink, however...

Yum.

Another Pink Picture

2010-04-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

Oh, yeah...pretty in pink, anyone? Mom was behind the camera, but she was wearing a teased bouffant hairstyle (compliments of me, The Aqua-Net Queen!) and a matching Hot Pink dress. Somewhere in the piles of boxes in my new home's closet is a picture of us together. The sheer Pinkness of the two of us is pretty spectacular. When I find it, I'll post it, with a warning to wear sunglasses.

I guess Dad balked at a pink tie. What a spoilsport!

It was 1974, and Ginger wore...PINK!

2010-04-28T21:05:00.000-07:00

For all of you who have joined the Pink Pedi Tribute to Ginger Landreth, if you needed further proof that Mom really, really liked pink, here it is. In this picture I was (I did the math, so correct me if I'm wrong) 26. Mom was a gorgeous 50. The colors here may have faded a bit, but not my memory of this day. Was I ever blessed to have a mother who loved me so well. I'm still missing her laughter and the lullabies she sang for my brother and me. She sat on a chair midway between our two rooms, strummed her guitar, and sang.

"Ragtime Cowboy Joe" as a lullaby?

You bet.

I love you, Mom.

Carrot Cake and Book Club

2010-04-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

Oh, I do love a good excuse to break out the pretty stuff and buy myself roses. The gorgeous carrot cake (the only horse-connection on my menu) is made by one of the young moms in my Mom2Mom Group, a Christian Parenting program where older women mentor the youger ones. Amy is a genius with baked goods! EVERYBODY liked the cake, while not everyone liked the book I chose. One woman loved the story (see previous post: Chosen by a Horse) until she got halfway through and it looked like it might finish unhappily. She slammed the book shut and read no further. How can you do that without peeking? I've been known to abandon a book I really dislike or that has failed to seduce me into its reality, but if it's grabbed me, I have to know how it ends, even if it disappoints. How about you?

Alert: Pictures added to previous blog

2010-04-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

Check out the gorgeous Greek on my "I've Been Busy..." post. He's still a great-looking 90. Sophocles was a stunner!

a clever title goes here: Grandma Ginger Pink!

2010-04-23T11:06:00.000-07:00

I'm laughing so loudly that I woke the dog. the very deaf dog. Thanks, Leslie, for making my day brighter!

a clever title goes here: Grandma Ginger Pink!

Forgetting What Lies Behind...We Press On

2010-04-22T20:12:00.000-07:00

My phone rang tonight. It was my father calling, as it often is. Dad lives in California, three thousand long miles away--too many miles for an 89 year old with problems, but that's just the way it is.

"I'm going to tell you this only once," Dad said grimly. "Then I am going to hang up."

As you can imagine, I was expecting the worst. My heartbeat picked up, my mouth went dry, and I went into the unnaturally calm, zenlike state I summon when emergencies arise. I braced myself for what I would hear.

"I went to the doctor yesterday and he told me I have prostate cancer."

Cancer. Bad news.

Even worse news was the fact that he has had it for 12 years and has had two separate courses of radiation to treat it. The precise total number of shots of radiation received he used to tell everyone who evidenced the least glimmer of interest, and many who didn't.

As he has done for many years, "See you in 6 months!" his doctor said after his brief consult, then breezed through the door. Not knowing, of course, that he had dropped a bomb on his patient that literally blew his mind. For two days Dad went through a hell of fear, then finally called me to break the news.

So our ensuing conversation was somewhat Bad News/Good News/Really Bad News.

"You've had it for years, Dad! The doctor says it's slow-growing, so they're just going to watch it for now. Relax and don't worry." Dad was delighted to hear he's had cancer for so long and that he feels no ill effects from it. The best part is that no decisions have to be made. Life goes on as if the evil gremlins working away inside did not exist.

Of course the really bad news here is that huge chunks of memory are being blasted to bits by the cannon of dementia. He realizes he is 'forgetful" and "elderly" but I've been content for the most part to let him live peacefully in the land of denial. Caregivers I have put in place tend him better than I would be able to if he were to live close to me.

I truly think Dad was so giddy with joy for his reprieve that he forgot to worry about that aspect of the whole ordeal. He used to lie awake at night, counting his worries like a rosary, wondering if he was joining his wife down the road to Alzheimer's, unwilling to leave his beloved home in the perfect Southern California sun to follow a daughter who was herself in transition to a colder climate.

There are some things that we cannot fix; we've done all we can and they're still not right and never will be. In cases like this, forgetfulness falls like a blessing, bringing an ease to the spirit.

Forgetting what lies behind,with God's help, we can do nothing less than press on.

I've Been Busy...Really!

2010-04-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

See why I like my job? I meet the neatest people! This will appear in the June issue of "Williamsburg's Next Door Neighbors". To make up for my neglect of late, you get a free preview!

Nine Decades-- From Immigrants to Accomplishments

On November 24th, 1919, a baby boy was born in a Chicago suburb to Greek immigrants Ioannis and Angeliki Dokos. They christened him Sophocles, a name he shares with the classical Greek playwright. The 1920’s and ‘30’s were a challenging time to raise a family, but the Dokos household managed to thrive by their joined efforts and emphasis on education.
“My father worked as a barber six days a week, but the seventh day was always reserved for attending church and the education of his children,” Sophocles (who is now known to all but his many Greek relatives as Steve) shares. “Every Sunday afternoon until I was grown, my brother Dimitri and I would visit Chicago’s great public art museums with our father.” They took advantage of the many free exhibits and saw works by the greatest artists of their time on display. Steve remembers examples of Picasso’s Blue Period hung when they were so new that the paint was barely dry. “He took us to aquariums and museums, and as we did, my father, who spoke no English when he came to America and went to night school as a young man, discussed mathematics and philosophy with us.” These seeds planted by Ioannis Dokos would bear abundant fruit in the century to come.
“It was the Depression,” Steve recalls of his childhood, “and like a lot of people at the time we were on relief. Dimitri and I would peddle ice cream bars from a pushcart all day in the summer heat and were proud to bring a dollar apiece home to our mother. My father was earning about $15.00 a week at this time, and our family needed every penny to make ends meet.”

When Steve was 15, he found employment as an apprentice tool maker for a brilliant inventor, Oscar Moore. His afternoons after school and all day Saturday were devoted to his job, but Steve still managed to be a top student. Mr. Moore, impressed by Steve’s work and intelligence, offered to help finance Steve’s higher education by matching every 50 cents his mother could scrimp from the wages Steve contributed to the family.

“I knew we needed every penny I earned, so I was reluctant to tell my mother about Mr. Moore’s offer, but to my surprise, she accepted immediately! That was the only way I managed to afford to go to college.”

Steve’s educational career was launched, and he graduated from the Illinois Institute of Technology in 1943. He eventually went on to pursue a Ph.D. in Engineering and Applied Mathematics. During the course of his long career in the technical field, Steve would take his place in Who’s Who in America as the 1940’s authority on the “Stick/Slip Phenomenon” of friction. Among other things, he worked for Westinghouse Research Laboratories, supervised scientists studying effects of the atom bomb, designed sewing machines, and spent 20 years developing a complete line of home appliances for Sunbeam Corporation, including the Lady Sunbeam, the first electric shaver made exclusively for women

“That product alone brought in 7 to 10 million dollars a year. Of course, because I was working for Sunbeam, my name wasn’t on the patent, even though it was my concept and design,” Steve says. Perhaps this helped stir him to leave the technical field and become an independent businessman.

Always a visionary, one day Steve walked across the street from the Sunbeam headquarters in Oak Brook, Illinois to the McDonald’s corporate office.

“I asked to be considered for a franchise,” Steve says. “They offered me the entire state of Kansas. Looking back on it now, that would have been a smart business move, but I really didn’t want to live in Kansas, so I went with one in Roanoke, Virginia.” Steve returned to his boyhood’s roots as a vendor of fast food.
Eventually, Steve owned a chain of eleven McDonald’s that stretched from Roanoke to Norfolk, Va. He also was named a trustee of the corporation’s engineering department, helping to design several helpful appliances for their restaurants’ kitchens. In 1985, Steve sold the restaurants and began working on his own concepts. He opened Cheers in Newport News, soon followed by the casually elegant Seasons Restaurant and Tavern and the attached Stephanos’ Pizza and Subs, located adjacent to Colonial Williamsburg at 110 S. Henry Street. You can often find the amazing “Mr. D”, now 90, and his lovely and warm wife, Geri, in their friendly, bustling restaurant, greeting customers and keeping a finger on the pulse of business. Steve met Geri when she worked in the accounts office of one of his franchises.

“You were such a persistent flirt!” Geri remembers with a smile for her husband. “Every time I passed by, you would say, ‘Hello, Beauty!’, and ask me out. I kept saying ‘No, thanks!’ until one day I finally went to lunch with you,” she says. “The next thing I knew, I was fascinated and we were out dancing and having a wonderful time. People used to think we were professional ballroom dancers.” Not until a year went by did Geri discover that the vigorous, dashing, dark-haired man courting her was actually several decades older than she was. Geri and Steve have now been together for 34 years and married for 30; their second and last son was born when Steve was 65.
Youthful longevity runs in the family’s genes. Steve’s grandmother in Greece lived to see her 106th birthday. His father lived well into his late 80’s and was very proud of his children and their thriving families.

From the day of his arrival in America in 1908, Ioannis dreamed that his family would succeed in his newly adopted homeland. Steve, now sailing into the tenth decade of his adventurous life, has many blessings to look back on, and professes profound gratitude for the people who have made his success possible.

When the Greek tragedian Sophocles died at a greatly advanced age in the winter of 406 B.C., he was eulogized by a poet of the era.

“Blessed is Sophocles, who had a long life and was a man both happy and talented.”

If they were to meet today, it seems that these two Greeks would have much in common.

Isn't he the best? I will scan and send a picture of him tomorrow. Tonight I am tired. Nigh nigh, folks.

Head Down, Eyes Front

2010-04-19T19:05:00.000-07:00

Concentrating on delayed story. I get PAID for this one, so cannot slack off and blog like I am DYING TO!!!!

I have 2 more in the chute...then bloggy bliss again. Patience.

Visiting My Ripe Bananas

2010-04-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

One of my first posts on this blog was "Green Banana Friends", about my struggle to settle into a new niche in a strange place. I have bored you all with my nostalgic praise of Williamsburg, VA, and I do appreciate your patience. There were some good lessons for me in this recent visit.

Now that I am home again (and yes, I learned this IS home now!), I find that what stands out in memory amid all the beauty I experienced last week is not the gorgeous spring weather and Williamsburg scenery, pretty as it may be. No, it's the "connectedness" (indulge me, it's a word...really!) I felt with my old friends. It was like mentally taking off a pair of pretty but not quite broken in shoes and slipping into favorite scuffed loafers. The mind just relaxes into the "Ahhhhhhh!" of familiarity. Rene, Patsy, Zandra, Betsy, Nancy B.... they know me well and make allowances. But one day and evening was devoted to the mental equivalent of well-used bedroom slippers.

Nancy R, my friend of 37 years, and I had an afternoon of retail therapy, enjoyed a leisurely dinner with decadent desserts, and attended a great concert of bluegrass music. Nancy and I can crack each other up with a glance. We have saved each other thousands of dollars in psychiatric counseling over the decades. I know where her bodies are buried and she has a detailed roadmap to mine. Nancy and I know where the conversational hot buttons are located and assiduously avoid them. The shorthand of shared years allows us to cover a lot of ground, laugh until we pee ourselves, and cry unashamedly. We've known each other when we looked fabulous in our 2 piece bathing suits, and can now happliy relax on a Nag's Head, NC beach in industrial strength Lycra, full-coverage fashions. Over the years we've prayed together for our families, our failings, and our friendship.

Nancy's father just died after a long illness. My mother's death 12 years ago today was similar in length, if not in kind. Everyone needs a friend to whom you can safely say, "Daddy's dying...but not fast enough." We are both blessed in that.

Life changes and goes on and I am making new friends, some of whom I can already see will become true friends of the heart as well. Women need to be connected or we wither--God made us that way. I thank Him for bringing such wonderful people into my life.

Williamsburg Again--so pretty it's disgusting!

2010-04-11T22:10:00.000-07:00

Can you smell the lilacs? Do you hear the lambs bleating for their mothers?

I'm back to real life again. My hug deficit has been taken care of and I'm ready to write.

Tomorrow.

Williamsburg in Spring...

2010-04-09T21:09:00.000-07:00

Yes---bliss! VA Dogwood trees in bloom

2010-04-07T14:58:00.001-07:00

Travelin Fool

2010-04-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

I'd love to do a long blog about my writing class tonight since Brian was a veritable fount of information about various forms of publishing, but I have to pack. Let me just say that if you're writing a book, beware of the self-publishing scam artists out there. Even if you have money to burn, there are good ones and many more who are not; I will divulge all later. (I'm learning about building suspense, too!)

Tonight I'm packing for my long delayed,twice-snowed-out trip to Williamsburg. I have two interviews to do and a bunch of lovely people to see. Also a Friday night concert by Robin & Linda Williams and their Fine Bunch (of Prairie Home Companion fame), one of our favorite bluegrass/gospel groups. The perfect combination of business and pleasure! I'm headquartered with my dear friend Rene and her husband, Dave, and plan to enjoy sunsets on the water, sipping good wine and watching the eagles fish for their babies' dinner.

If you don't hear from me, it's because I am busy beng blissful.

Miz Pyjamas' Pretty Pinkies!

2010-04-03T21:47:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Miz P, for sending in a photo of your lovely Pink Pedi in "honour" of my "Mum", Ginger Landreth. Are you spreading sunshine, too?

Evidently an Australian's feet are attached on the reverse side of the body as ours here in North America.Everyone must fall a lot. It must have something to do with the International Date Line or time zone difference!

Keep the pedipics coming, everyone!

Visit Shay at her blog," Quilting in My Pyjamas", for a real treat.

GOOD Friday

2010-04-02T07:45:00.000-07:00

As a child, I wondered why the day that Jesus hung on the cross and people were mean to him was called "Good Friday". I understood that He was doing it by choice, and that it was necessary so we could go to heaven, but labeling this sad day as "good" was just beyond the comprehensive ability of one as young as I.

Even as an adult, if I dwell on the suffering Jesus--the beating He bore, the humiliation of the piercing crown, the long, burdened gauntlet to Golgotha, where his earthly flesh would be torn by nails and mockery would rise to His ears--my spirit quails in me.

This? THIS is what it took to pay my debt? I did this to Him?

Like Peter, I want to run and hide rather than look upon the bleeding body of my savior. Undone by shame, I wrap myself in the dark silence of the tomb.

But what Jesus' followers at the foot of the cross did not understand, I know...

Soon there will be a Sonrise,

and this is Good.

a clever title goes here: Drew & Romania Reborn

2010-03-31T14:20:00.000-07:00

My bloggy friend Leslie wrote this recently. It has gripped me so--I can see those faces even when I close my eyes. I am stunned when I think of how great the needs of children throughout the world, and how blessed and inadequately grateful I have been to be able to provide my own children with such security and abundance. I think I know where my Easter offering is going this year!

a clever title goes here: Drew & Romania Reborn

Sharing Writing Secrets

2010-03-31T08:31:00.000-07:00

Brian Keene is a very good writer. After many years of writing books that will keep you sleeping with the lights on, Brian knows how to build suspense and keep a reader coming back for more. It was no surprise that attendance was perfect last night when his writing class met at our local Borders book store for the field trip during which he had promised to divulge "...the secret to getting published. I'll show you an easy way to find both an agent and a publisher. It will seem so simple, but to my knowledge, no other writing teacher includes this method in their course." Since I am such a nice person, I am freely sharing these secrets that will soon have your novel rubbing shoulders with the best sellers on the shelves of Barnes&Noble.

Ready? First, find a book that is sort of like your own, not limiting yourself to one section or category. Larry McMurtry couldn't find a publisher for his classic novel, Lonesome Dove, when he pitched it as a Western. Without changing a word, he repackaged it as Historical Fiction, sold it, and it is now featured in the Literature section.

Look for the most prominently displayed books and check the name of the publishing house. Publishers pay a premium for stores to feature their books up front, on end caps, or in a freestanding display. This tells you that the publishers support what they buy and your book won't end up next to the rest rooms in the darkest recesses of the store.

Now that you have found a book, open this great work of art to the the "Acknowledgements" page. Chances are very good that the author has thanked his publisher and editors by name (telling who handles your particular genre) and also his agent (someone who actually has experience pitching these stories.) This information will save you hours of net crawling. Follow up on what you glean with queries directed to specific people, and soon...Wham! Your book is sold and an advance of $100,000 is nestled in your bank account..

(I may have exaggerated a tiny bit about the ease and amount of money you can expect, but hey...outside of the blogosphere, I do fiction!)

In repayment for this valuable information, you may send me a signed first edition of your best-selling book.

Good luck!

Crock Repurposed

2010-03-29T16:43:00.000-07:00

Clearly an umbrella stand now, but available as a cooler if I ever give a big party again.

I need more umbrellas!

A bumbershoot is what I thought an umbrella was called long ago in England. No?

NONNA: First Responder's Hot Pinkies--Add Yours!

2010-03-29T09:19:00.000-07:00

Hey, Sweet Girl. See what you started with this Hot Pinkies stuff? You're the first to send me a picture of them, too. Now I need some tech support so I can actually post a list of the participants and show off their various pinkies!

Hot Pink Toes Month

2010-03-28T14:12:00.000-07:00

"Hot Pink Pedi"

Two weeks from now will mark the 12 year anniversary of my mom's going to heaven. Nonna called the other morning to say that she had gotten a pedicure.

"I'm wearing Grandma Ginger Pink!" she said. Of course I knew exactly what shade she was referring to. My mom was a little on the festive side when it came to the colors she wore --some even said that "gaudy" was a better word for her typical attire. She was drawn to tropical turquoise or jade green muumuus, the look finished off with sparkly jewelry and hot pink lipstick and toenail polish. Her favorite, ubiquitous hat looked like a Tiki Hut trimmed in multicolored feathers. Sound garish, doesn't it? But on her...it worked!

After Nonna's call, I sped down to my nail place and picked out the hottest pink I could find. As it turned out, it looks a little more purple than pink, but I've got time to fix that before April, when we launch our

Official Ginger Landreth Memorial

Hot Pink Pedi Month

It turns out that all the girls in the family saw the post on Facebook and want in, too.

Hey, even friends of friends are rockin' the hot pink! So now I'd like to see if we can get this to go international. Miz Pyjamas, you've got Australia covered, I know. Even if it's not spring Down Under, it's still a cheerful color. Mom was a sweet sunshine-spreader, one of those people who had a huge heart for hurting people, always ready with a smile, an encouraging word, or a joke to lighten your day. So we'll do this in her honor, and as a way to remind us to spread a little sunshine as we go through this life.

I remember when Mom was still in the early stages of Alzheimer's Disease. She could no longer wield the nail polish brush, so I watched my father ( all 6'4" of the Navy Commander that he was) with her feet in his lap, doing a bangup job of painting those pretty toenails.

Hot Pink, of course.

That's a Crock! (15 gallons)

2010-03-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

By popular request, I'm posting about my new antique store bargain I found last weekend in New Oxford, right outside Gettysburg, PA. I spotted it on my first run-through of the shop. "Wow, that's a really cool crock...and only $70? But I think I can negotiate a better price," went through my head as I made my way to the back of the store. This crock and a cute little English transferware creamer marked $6 (see below) were my only pieces of interest. As I headed back up the center aisle to the proprietor's desk, a man carrying MY CROCK passed me headed to the rear, where he was loading up a truck. I followed him and found out he was a dealer headed for an auction in NC., so I figured all was not lost. After some negotiation, I still managed to get it for ten dollars less than the original price, or $60.00. I would have paid that anyway, so I should have been pretty happy--but former dealer that I am, all I could think about was, "I wonder how much HE paid for it?"

The question part is this: Now that I have it, what do I do with it? It's HUGE! I tried willow branches in it, but it would need tree trunks to look to scale. It's too much the same color of my walls and carpet to keep it where it is.It would actually be a good height for a small table with an added glass top, but I don't think that would be attractive. How about an umbrella stand next to the front door? It's too heavy for me to lift, and The Engineer's patience won't allow more than 1 more move, so I've gotta plan this right. Ideas?

While on the subject, here's a peek at a couple of recent bargains I picked up at a consignment shop (brass lamp for $37.00, and a Red lion antique mall's Michael Garman aviator figurine (paid $16.00, selling on ebay for $120.00!) I love it all! The old oil lamp in background is a garage sale find from years ago--$5.00. I had it restored, which did cost a bit. It was already converted to electric (probably in the '30's) or I would have left it in original condition.

Next question for you crafty types: How do I glue the edge of the black shade back down without making a mess?

Small brag here--both of the pieces of furniture in the background were made by The Engineer. The fall-front desk was made with wood from a cherry tree in my grandparents' front yard. Precious memories!

Guilty Pleasures

2010-03-25T21:29:00.000-07:00

Okay (you're a taxi)--I am confessing publicly.

It's not just Dancing wt Stars and American Idol. I watch (actually TIVO it!) Dr Drew Pinske's Celebrity Rehab. Also Sober House, which follows the people from the rehab show as they progress to a different level of supervision. I call it Research.

If I'm going to be a fiction writer, my characters can't always be nice, caring people such as my family and the friends I am lucky enough to know. What's fabulous in real life is boring in the literary. Characters must have flaws in order to be believable. What better place to see flaws close up? I mean, these reality show people are oozing every imaginable permutation of screwed up, starting with the agreement to have a camera shoved into your face while you puke into a bucket. I'd hate to have to undergo all the trials and tribulations of an addict just so my plot and dialogue ring true. So, yes, I am a voyeur, but all in the name of My Art!

Did you buy that?

Dead at Last

2010-03-23T20:53:00.000-07:00

This post is in the way of a follow up to the previous smoke alarm rant. (And I do appreciate you allowing me to indulge.)

I managed to stretch out my day's agenda so that I arrived back home shortly before my Engineer. When he arrived, I was upstairs on the phone with Comcast, going through a multi-step exercise in futility meant to restore cable TV function. More on that later. I heard a lot of chirp-chasing going on below, which eventually arrived upstairs. (Did you know chirpers are ventriloquists? The piercing "CHIRP!"s echo off walls and play hide and seek. "Bet you can't find me!")

The Engineer was diligently testing all batteries, which were fine. THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL CHIRPING? Did you know that, even when the alarm is removed from the ceiling and the battery is totally out...it still CHIRPS? They're like the undead--Zombie Smoke Alarms cannot die! Eventually, even the undead have to rest, so we now have a blissfully silent house once again. Tomorrow is another day, during which I will visit Home Depot and buy all new alarms.

Now if Comcast will just come and fix my DVR/Cable box.Because of my class, I missed American Idol tonight, and last night it quit during the season opener of Dancing with the Stars. I do get cranky when deprived of my lowbrow guilty pleasures.

CHIRP!!

2010-03-23T07:55:00.000-07:00

I am going insane. I will have to flee the house soon, or risk the temptation of burning it down or blowing it up. My smoke alarm in this new house is driving me around the bend with its incessant chirp, chirp, CHIRP!

It started with a soft little peep: "Excuse me? Will you please consider changing my battery?", which I asked The Engineer to do last night. He did so, and I thought the problem solved. NOT.

This morning the peeping has increased in frequency and volume. Assuming the replacement to be faulty, I tried to figure out how to put another battery in, but that is so not my department. I'm too nearsighted and short to read the instructions on the unit, even standing on a chair. I see where the battery IS, just can't make it come out to be replaced. While up there, I swear I hear another alarm sounding somewhere else on this floor, but after a neck-craning tour, the ghost alarm can't be located.

The alarm has now become more than annoying. It's progressed from polite peeping to "CHIRP, DAMMIT!" volume. If the purpose of the alarm is to clear a house in event of a fire, then I applaud the inventor. This one's driving me out without even a whiff of smoke.

Bye bye!

Flying While Fat In My Future?

2010-03-22T10:12:00.000-07:00

The Engineer and I fly to Florida in just a few short weeks.

Oatmeal cookies and coffee does not count as a healthy start to the day, I fear. Spring has officially arrived, so I can no longer blame my carb-craving, exercise-avoiding, living-in-denial tendencies on The Winter Blahs. Either I have to come up with a dandy new excuse for these or get up from computer, change out of nightie (at 1:00 p.m.), go to gym, and hit Giant for some healthier alternative calories.

Or maybe I could just go shopping for a bathing suit with stronger lycra and more skirt.

Intimate In My Own Way

2010-03-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

“Intimacy with God” ...theme of retreat

I’m troubled. I’m holed up in my very nice hotel room with the windows open as wide as they’ll go, visiting the absolutely beautiful day that I am missing by being inside. What I’m not doing is participating in what’s going on downstairs at my new church’s Women’s Retreat. I was there for the first session last night, didn’t much care for the speaker, but decided that I would get more out of it once she warmed up. Instead, I was so uncomfortable this morning that I slipped away at the “spend-a-penny” break and am retreating in solitude, firing up my laptop—which, of course, does not have internet connection. When will I learn not to assume that wireless is everywhere? You will see this Sunday, but this takes place Saturday.

To keep this post from seeming too personally negative, I will refer to the young woman who is this weekend’s speaker as LW. She’s not at all what I expected, but I have to examine myself and my preconceptions and expectations carefully. I also have to consider something-- am I jealous of the fact that LW has written several books and been published in the New Yorker? All right, little bit, maybe. But I don’t covet her life—chaste and single-- at all, at all. After strict consideration, I truly believe my discomfort in her presence has more to do with what she says than how she says it, or that she gets paid to say it.

I find her affected and unpleasant. (I’m allowed to say this about a fellow Christian, aren’t I ?) I began squirming in my seat this morning from more than my usual sitting-too-long-and-stuff-hurts reason. We began the 9:00 session with 15 minutes of worshipful song, and then LW took over.

She currently teaches at a divinity school and her speaking style is to lecture. She stalks back and forth, her lone microphone- free hand aflutter like a wounded bird attempting flight, and guides us through a “new kind” of prayer. It begins in silence. A scripture passage is read three times, an account of the woman with an issue of blood healed by the mere touch of Jesus’ garment. We are encouraged to close our eyes and imagine ourselves there with them. Okay. I feel the press of the crowd, call up the stink of the streets, and hear the bleating of the lambs being led to sacrifice. Now she reads the passage once more and we’re told to go deeper into that scene, adding detail-- the dust clinging to His feet, the rumble of a cart perhaps. Now she reads the same scripture for the third time—we’re to go even more deeply, still imagining ourselves in the scene. When our eyes open at last, it’s as if we surface from an alternate reality.

Contemplative, worshipful prayer is good, and there is a proper place and method for such things, but my spirit was telling me that LW was leading this group of about 200 women into dangerous territory. It verged on (and felt to me as if it trespassed into) the New Age practice of Guided Imagery. Like traditional Yoga practice, (surprisingly for a Christian retreat, offered here early this morning—but quite possibly a diluted, sanitized version.I wouldn't know because it took place at 7:00 a.m.!) Yoga is a physical and mental technique meant to facilitate travel outside the limitations of our bodies, to achieve a different, higher, spiritual plane.

LW prefaced the imagery session with a prayer that we be protected from demonic forces. But my point is this: Doesn’t it make more sense to avoid practices that leave us open to such invasions, that invite (even in ignorance) the possibility?

I’m just sayin’.

It’s 2:00 p.m. and I’m still playing hooky. Maybe a nap would be nice. I could contemplate the inside of my eyelids; maybe even safely dream of a town in Nazareth whose cobbled streets echo with the ring of a carpenter’s hammer.

Sunday afternoon postscript:

Guess what the Sunday morning woship service featured? Yes. Again.

A tradeoff

2010-03-18T15:48:00.000-07:00

Did you all notice how pretty the "new" blog is? I am learning (yes, I am, Flamingo!). However, in the process I seem to have deleted the list of the blogs I follow. How to get it back? I have no idea. But I do know I love that feature on others' blogs. I can spend all day randomly searching my fave's favorites. I meet the nicest people that way!

And, apropos of nothing at all under this topic, my heart is breaking for Sandra Bullock. Go back and watch her speech, the part where she says her husband "has my back"...yeah, and it has a huge knife sticking out of it. What were you THINKING, Jesse? This isn't how this story was supposed to end.

Is It Any Good? ( Or is it even poetry?)

2010-03-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

Broken

Near brambled path

shade-painted crock

flung broken, useless.

Yet

Mossy depths

shelter quiet wren’s

secreted nest,

and

two small pearls,

replete.

Sarah, you're a fine poet. Be kind, but honest. Shoo says it ain't. Izzit?

Four Generations

2010-03-17T21:09:00.000-07:00

Family birthday parties are wonderful! Especially when my baby girl, Nonna, (on the right) shares her March 16th birthday with her Uncle Donderoo. D.'s daughter and grandson on the left and Gram (my Mother-in-Love) in the middle, all 4'11" of her (including the hairdo!) She looks pretty hot for 85, doesn't she?

The only problem with this party was that we were not included in the crowd. Nonna and SIL were in FL for a visit, leaving the farm in capable hands. The Engineer and I are here and wishing to be there. Oh, well--next month it's our turn!

Note to Self:

2010-03-17T15:46:00.000-07:00

Self, your writing class is a CLASS, not a 2-way convo between self and teacher. .

No matter how excited you get

How to Write a Novel, etc.

2010-03-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd bring you up to date with a quick post about my aforementioned class.

It was FUN!

Our teacher has no degree or exalted academic position, he just knows how to write stuff that people will buy because other people want to read it. Excellent qualifications! He has about 32 books under his belt and a bunch of "graphic novels" (which we who are old used to know as comic books--but now with cussing.) His genre of choice is horror and fantasy, which couldn't possibly be any further from my own. But he's a blast in class--funny and quick, and he's promised us we will learn our butts off. (I wish!) There's even going to be a field trip to Borders! I haven't enjoyed a class this much since 11th Grade English with Sister Sharon. And that's saying a lot. Some day I'll tell you about her.

Further updates to follow.

Windfall

2010-03-15T18:09:00.000-07:00

Windfall.

A much nicer word than, say...

AUDIT.

Our taxes are complicated this year. Due to our extended journey from Williamsburg to Red Lion with a job in Hunt Valley, three states are involved, plus Uncle wanting his cut.The Engineer and I truly had no clue about how much we were going to owe. Last year was even worse, as we were closing out our business, so we continued to pay the megabucks to our business' financial service for their expertise and familiarity with our situation. Thousands.

This year we went with Fred, his office in a little hole in the wall strip mall, who did our taxes for under $300 (with coupon). We closed our eyes and crossed our fingers, hoping we'd have enough to cover what we would surely owe. Shockingly, Fred found us enough legal deductions that we not only do not owe a penny, we actually get some back. Thousands!

Windfall--the word gained its meaning (an unexpected benefit, an unearned reward) from what happens when a tree in full fruit is shaken by the winds. Its bounty is loosened and falls, waiting for a lucky recipient to find and enjoy.

But think about it...Who brings the wind? Who made the fruit? Ah, yes.

Thanks.

SIXTY FREAKIN DEGREES!

2010-03-08T04:50:00.000-08:00

There are tiny fingers of green poking through the thawing soil. Can daffs be far behind? Bring on the seed catalogues!

I'm totally stoked.

Riverdance Rocks!

2010-03-06T20:18:00.000-08:00

Flamingo Mama has correctly pointed out that I did not follow up on my recent whining about weather and missing "Riverdance" last weekend.

As it turned out, our "seven inches" threat fizzled to a mere one inch of fluff, thanks be to God. The Engineer and I were able to attend after all, enjoying the show at the Strand Capitol Theater (gorgeous!) from our 4th row center seats. It was magical, moving, and made us want to go back to Ireland as quickly as possible. Our trip to Cobh 4 years ago was one of those mountaintop experiences, 10 days of sheer bliss, during which we both fell in love with the Emerald Isle and its people. Riverdance rekindled the romance. Faith, 'tis true!

P. Allen Smith Has Feet of Clay

2010-03-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

P. Allen Smith and his Garden Home.

Okay, now... what was your first thought when you read this? (And if you're thinking "P. Allen WHO?", stop reading now or risk being bored to stupefication.) Was your initial reaction all warm and fuzzy? Do you have him Tivo'ed? Me too-- and then I met him today during the Mid-Atlantic Garden Show in York, PA.

Allen's picture had been splashed all over the papers as the big draw for the show. The chance to pretend for a few fleeting hours that spring has arrived would alone be enough to draw a crowd. We're winter-weary and eager to sniff daffodils' evocative scent, walk on green turf, and admire colorful azaleas in bloom...even if all this is in a giant room.

We arrived late for Allen's 11:00 a.m. packed-out lecture, a slide tour of the Garden Home, so found myself standing in the back, not close enough to the screen to see in detail, but I was able to appreciate the gorgeous swaths of color and form. I was near enough to see Allen, and among many others, I must have been wearing my "worship-from-afar face", a goofy half-smile that goes along with the tendency to respond with sycophantic laughter to anything the least bit funny. Charming man, boyish haircut allowing a blonde lock to fall artfully on the forehead, tan Dockers worn with a baby blue shirt (matching his eyes) and dark blazer...oh.he had us all enthralled.

As the lecture went on, Allen whipped the crowd into a frenzy of competitive greed. Allen would point with his laser to a blob of color on the screen and ask, "Who knows what this is?", and award potted plants or bare root roses to those who answered correctly. I (who, stuck in the rear, could neither see the screen nor hear the incorrect answers) was swept up in the avaricious spirit and waved my hand around in hopes of being noticed.

Right about then was when I sensed the change. Though hardly a sudden Jekyll/Hyde transformation, Allen's folksy delivery and collards'nfatback accent took on an edge as a snarky side emerged. "No, that's NOT candytuft--for the 7th time!" he snipped. Someone mercifully identified it as nemesia, received her prize, and we moved on to the next slide. My waving hand was finally noticed and I was sure the blob he indicated had to be swiss chard, but evidently not--the digusted look on Allen's face told me my guess was wrong before he did. Not one of us in that crowd of embiciles knew it was actually black mustard. I 'd had enough, and drifted away. Allen lost my interest and my admiration when I discovered that the Garden Design God P. Allen Smith was a bigger fan of himself than I would ever be. And furthermore, after seeing him close up, I suspect he's had some work done.

Oops--maybe that was a little snarky, too.

Chosen by a Horse

2010-02-25T12:16:00.000-08:00

I have done nothing all day except read a book and get dressed, and now, thanks to a tearful afternoon, I will have to wash my face and reapply my makeup before I can go to the grocery store. Maybe I was crying because Katherine had another seizure this morning, this one a little more severe than the last. It lasts only seconds, but suddenly she is no longer a healthy dog who does not look or act her almost 15 years of age. I see the blankness of the eyes first, followed by twitching of her ears and head, and then the collapse of her right legs. If she had not been standing next to a cabinet, she would have fallen down. I wonder if I am watching her die. Five seconds, start to finish, enough time for my heart to gallop out of my chest, then she pulls herself upright and returns to her agenda of taking a treat from my hand, a treat she chews slowly, as if she is savoring every bacon-flavored morsel. Dogs live in the moment, and they're blissfully unaware of their own mortality. Sometimes I wish it were the same for humans, but that is the curse that comes with sentience.

I'm really not much of a weeper as a rule. Sure, I get choked up and misty at Hallmark commercials--I'm easy that way--but out-and-out sobbing is a rare occurance. I think that's a mistake, to be honest. When emotion gets dammed up behind a shaky barrier, it's all the more overwhelming when it's finally released. Like a horse, grief can be wild and fractious when not regularly exercised. For me, that exercise (or is it exorcise?) was today. I'm so glad I was alone and didn't have to explain that nothing terrible happened, I'm just crying over a book, Chosen By a Horse.

It's a memoir, the story of a woman who due to an abusive childhood was emotionally shut down and mistrustful, but who was brought back to life by the love of a horse. Susan Richards thought she was rescuing Lay Me Down from cruel and inhumane treatment, but in truth, Lay Me Down and Anne saved each other. Sometimes an animal's unconditional love is able to touch places deep and painful, places so fearful that they have never been addressed and given the chance of healing. To watch a stony heart soften and open is a rare opportunity, but we the readers are allowed to walk with her and witness this very touching transformation. Perhaps I was shedding tears for Susan and Lay Me Down, but I suspect they were more selfish than that.

I believe I cried for all the sorrows and losses of life...those in the past and for those still to come.

How Cute Is That?

2010-02-24T08:51:00.000-08:00

From where I sit with my laptop, I can glance up, look through the double French doors to see my deck and the woods beyond. The sun is shining and doing its thing on the last five remaining inches of snow. It's shrinking and receding faster than did Andre Agassi's hairline. I see scalp! Katherine seems excited to have a place to pee that doesn't involve squatting in cold white stuff.

Already there is televised muttering about the next blast of nor'easter to come--Thursday and Friday, which happens to be the day for which I bought tickets to Riverdance, so long ago that we actually have fabulous seats. We are told to expect "only" 7 inches or so.

Just when I am feeling most sorry for myself (oh, I am so to be pitied here in my warm house, clutching a mug of hot coffee, the crumbs of cinnamon toast on the plate beside my new computer) my mood is turned around so fast that emotional whiplash is likely. What precipitated this abrupt switch? Nothing big; it was quite small, in fact.

A tiny chipmunk scampered across the snow.

Tidewater Virginia doesn't have any chipmunks. In the mountains they're referred to as "ground squirrels" and are fairly common, but not where I came from. Rationally, I do realize that chipmunks are RODENTS, but instead of wanting to beat it to death with a shovel, I wanted to pick him up and put him in my shirt pocket. I mean, how cute can you get? Furry cheeks stuffed with crusts of toast, compact, striped little body so featherlike that he leaves no footprints in the snow...and best of all, no slithery, hairless tail following along behind.

I admit it freely--when I saw this sight, I squealed like a 6th grade girl. It made my day, and it's not even noon.

Don't Give Up On Me, Baby!

2010-02-20T21:38:00.000-08:00

I am blogging to explain why no blogs lately. Real Life gets in the way of my Blog World. of course, not having quite crossed to the Dark Side of BW yet, this seems like a good thing.

The Engineer and I have been out of town for a little visit with our boy at college. Benjo asked his dad waaaaaay back when if he'd come and be the guest speaker at his Baptist Collegiate Ministry group. The first time he was scheduled to go he had to cancel because of a business trip to Switzerland that came up suddenly, so we were very happy to be able to make it this time. The turnout was low, they said...just about 75 students. Low? In the past, The Engineer was occasionally asked to pinch hit for the pastor at Dandy Baptist Church, a tiny little church in a flyspeck of a town, where on a very good day there were about the same number of warm bodies in the pews as the original apostles. No problem with 75.

The topic was "Walking the Extra Mile", and The Engineer managed to fit an interesting history lesson as well as a heartfelt evangelistic message into the allotted 15 minutes. The audience seemed stunned with the brevity of the talk (turns out he was the only one all year to have paid attention to the 15-minute rule!) and very appreciative.

Two things stood out for me that night:

My husband has a spiritual gift for teaching, and it was wonderful to see him exercising that gift. He's been sitting on the bench for two years, and that night the Coach played him again. It was touching to see how much he enjoyed it.

I was doubly touched to see how proud Benjo was of his father.

Misting up here, sorry.

Anyway, we're back and Real Life and Blog World can coexist again. But for now, it's past midnight and I am falling asleep in the keyboard. But don't give up on me--I'll blog more soon!

Nighty night.

Post-it Philosopher

2010-02-12T08:03:00.000-08:00

As Found

2010-02-11T15:32:00.000-08:00

Most weekends we take a little jaunt to somewhere--no real itinerary, just exploring the area, deliberately getting lost, then punching up the GPS and trusting it to get us home again. On a recent drizzly winter day, we headed down Route 30 towards Gettysburg.

On our trips, The Engineer brakes for surplus stores and my eye is always alert for antique store sightings. Many years ago I was a dealer, but I eventually burned out, sold out, and stayed out of stores for a very long time.

I've found the old adventurous love for the hunt returning lately, and I enjoy poking around at yard sales, flea markets, and shops again, but these days I consider myself to be a collector, not a dealer.

Now that I'm not shopping for resale, I'm drawn to objects that aren't necessarily perfect. Some of them look well used, with a chip here, a crack there, each flaw with its own story to tell. An oak table's scarred top bears witness to a thousand meals, a patina of dark gold reflects the decades when it sat next to the wood stove, absorbing smoke and the aroma of biscuits. A high-necked, vintage lace blouse is in pristine condition except for a small, yellowed stain on the left shoulder--just where the head of a baby would rest.

On this day, my find was a large wooden grain scoop, painstakingly carved from a solid piece of poplar. It was smoothly polished from many years of use, the rich depth of color attesting to substantial age. It bore a tag that listed the price, and under that in large, bold print, a disclaimer: "As Found!". The edge of the scoop had apparently been damaged in use early on, but had been cleverly repaired. A large missing chip and raw wood marked the place where it had recently splintered and failed at its weakest point.

To me, a fault like this just added to the character, and I could already picture it as mine, displayed with some maple butter paddles in my grandmother's dough bowl. This bowl, once used daily, has a large semicircular indentation in its lip. Starving mice, attracted to half a century's embedded lard, had gnawed it during that last cold winter Grandma was hospitalized. I bought the scoop for next to nothing and brought it home.

I've been thinking that there's a lesson in this purchase that I don't want to miss: None of us make it through life without damage. For the fortunate, it's just a few shallow scratches, or the faint ghost of a stain. For most of us, however, the scars are clearly visible and deeply disfiguring. Others...well, like my scoop, they wind up missing whole chunks, or are even completely shattered and beyond any hope of repair. Who would ever want to dig through the trash and buy such a thing, even for a pittance?

There is One who sees us clearly as we are and yet was willing to pay a king's ransom. When you're broken and feel you have no value, when you think the stains of the world have made you worthless, remember that someone wanted you and has bought you at a great price.

It's not as if our Father didn't see our scars...

He saw them and they made us more precious.

Jesus is ready and eager to take us As Found.

Snowmageddon Part Two

2010-02-10T17:53:00.000-08:00

Good Lord--there is an insane amount of snow out there. Another foot and a half on top of the two feet from a few days ago. The Engineer and I ran out of gas before the snow blower did and just had to admit defeat, retreat to the warmth of the house and watch it pile up. Scary snow. Unnatural,biblical, like an icy version of the Egyptian plagues.

On the plus side: We still have power, food, and cable. I am, however, out of coffee creamer. No snowplows yet, so I'll have to learn to like it black. Oh, I am suffering!

However-- I actually earned some money today! I did a phone interview and wrote up a 1300 wd piece on exotic birds rescue.

Maybe being snowed in will be good for my wallet.
Maybe I'll even make enough for a ticket to California.

Nah.

The Famous Bobcat (plus two barn kitties)

2010-02-09T15:05:00.000-08:00

Slouching Past 40: The Way of Things

2010-02-08T11:38:00.000-08:00

I don't believe in commercials on blogs, so I'll try not to sound like this IS one. I'll just say, "If you go here and read her, you'll be happy you did." When I read Sarah's blog, I'm caught between inspiration and intimidation. Stunning.

Slouching Past 40: The Way of Things

Nonna's Reply

2010-02-08T09:33:00.000-08:00

"I had to pull two cars out of a snowbank today with the Bobcat. Then I got stuck in my own driveway, of course! How do Canadians live? This snow SUCKS!"

Poor baby--a Virginia girl no matter how many years you live in Pennsylvania. Spring is supposed to start in February, right?

Hero (ine) continued...

2010-02-07T12:18:00.000-08:00

Part II:

Picking up when Nonna gets the news that she must go out into the blizzard again and drive big machinery.

When you think to yourself, "Thank God for those insulated overalls my husband gave me for Christmas!", you know you are a Farm Woman. On go the overalls, multiple socks, boots, three hats slapped on wet head, parka, and two pair of gloves. She wades through hip deep snow to the back of the property and surveys the Bobcat in its lair. Adding to the challenge is the fact that this particular woman had never driven this piece of heavy equipment before.

Hubby on cell: "What do you mean you don't know how--you drove it before."
FW: "ONCE, and only in reverse to pull your tractor out of the mud! You have to tell me step by step what I'm supposed to do."

This poses a problem, because Hubby has a handicap--ADD. Asking him to slow down his brain , visualize, and give coherent, orgianized instructions would take a year's supply of Adderal to accomplish. I will skip the yelling part and cut to the chase.

Farm Wife is finally on the beast, with a pallet in its claws.

(Hubby: "Be sure to pick one of the pallets where the slats are closer together so when you load the generator on it, it won't slip through."
FW: "You do realize that they're all buried under the snow, right?")

FW now attempts to load the generator on the pallet. It's too heavy, of course, so it gets stuck. I will also skip the part where she throws things and screams all the words I used to wash her mouth out with soap for saying. Back to the barn for boards, with which she makes a ramp and gets the generator aboard at last.

Hubby on cell: "Now take it in the back door of the greenhouse."
"Uh, Babe--there is a snowdrift completely covering the back door."
"Well, then, you'll have to take it in through the store."
"WHAT?"

Making a long story short, Nonna drags the generator through the store, hooks up the heater, fuels it up and turns on the blowers, ensuring the survival of the tender annuals...and of the business. The day is saved.

I cannot tell you how awed I am by the resilience and strength I see in this woman. Aside from her shaky victory over prafanity, she showed a grace under pressure and an ability to do things I quake to think of. My hat (Polarfleece) is off to her, and Hubby as well. People who work close to the soil learn lessons in self-sufficiency and tenacity that soft city slickers like me will never know. Mama's so proud, Sweetie!

Snowstorm Redux

2010-02-06T20:43:00.000-08:00

Snowstorm Redux

Thank God for snowblowers and husbands who know how to use 'em! The Engineer spent hours scraping up what Mother Nature deposited overnight. About 18" fell, as far as we can tell, with drifts considerably higher in spots. It's gonna stick around since the temperatures will dip below freezing all week...and they call for more snow Wednesday. Holy crap--that's a lot of white stuff! French toast, thick-sliced bacon, and hot coffee rewarded my hero.

Got a call from Nonna this morning and she is my other Snowstorm Hero. She is a true Farm Wife Extraordinaire--she single-handedly saved their entire crop of spring annuals which are growing in the greenhouses

Her husband, my SIL, has a great business just outside of Pittsburgh, a greenhouse nursery, retail store, and landscaping service.They live on the property and also have a barn, Nonna's business. (Some day I will tell you her story of attending a class on "collecting" a stallion, but that's for a later time.) Not much action during the winter, so SIL doubles as a snowplow operator. This means he leaves when the first flakes fall and is not seen again until after they stop.

The saga begins Friday night with Nonna in the shower, washing the barn crud off, She has just lathered up her considerable amount of hair when BOOM!...the lights go out. Quickly, before the water in the tank runs out, she rinses, wraps a towel around hair and another around body, finds phone, and calls Hubby.

"The power's out."

"CRAP!"

"Yeah, my hair's still wet--no blowdryer tonight."

"Well, the plants will freeze unless we [notice the marital 'we' here] turn on the portable heater. You'll have to down to the back of the property and get the Bobcat, pick up the generator and move it up to the greenhouse"

"WHAT?"

Yeah, I can't come home. I have a flat tire."

"WHAT?"

More tomorrow...stay tuned.

How to Write a Novel

2010-02-03T19:55:00.000-08:00

If you're reading this hoping to mine shiny nuggets of wisdom about novel writing made simple, expecting a quickie recipe for publication to universal acclaim, stop now. I have no clue how to do it. I have, however, ponied up $175.00 to learn.

The course York College is is offering is called "How to Write a Novel and Get It Published". Now, that seems like a pretty ambitious claim for an eight week course, doesn't it? I've never written anything longer than 3,000 words (I don't count my unfinished collaborative efforts with Earl the Pearl--that was a sprawling marathon.) I don't know if I am capable of sustaining a topic (and a reader's interest in it) for hundreds of pages. It seems like such a huge undertaking, one that might even consume me under its weight. I suppose what I expect from this course is to light a fire of purpose under me and stoke it well enough to get me going.

The idea for this novel has been in my mind for years. It's based in reality, and actually happened to a relative of mine, so it's not as if I can just pull it out of the air and have it go wherever I please. No, it's going to take research, digging, interviews, groundwork, and perusing of journals.I only know this great story has been rumbling around and reminding me of its presence more urgently of late, and, like a bad clam, eventually it's gotta come out. What I'll be paying for isn't just knowledge, it's impetus, sort of like a personal trainer. Kick my butt until words come out of my brain--please!