Crossing the finish line at 8:59 p.m., November 26, at 50,068 words

By Margi Washburn

This was my fifth year to try and become a novelist in one month. I failed four times.

There were reasons, or excuses, for the times I didn't make it. Most of them were because I didn't have enough faith in myself. The story stunk, I hadn't prepared an outline, that sort of thing. It was never because of a lack of support, that's for sure. I can't imagine a more enthusiastic guy than my hubby. True, he has an ulterior motive; he seems to think that any book I write will become a best seller and we'll be able to retire with more money than we'll ever spend. He's too cool.

This time around I met with fellow scribes Susan, and her daughter, Emily. We wrote at McDonald's and the Pizza Hut, and we had a blast. There were few rules for our one-month odyssey, but one strong suggestion was to refrain from surfing the Internet in order to concentrate on the journey ahead of us. Susan and I tried, but when both places offered free Internet service, we couldn't help but jump into cyberspace for a few minutes. We called it research, a vital ingredient for any good novel.

Sometimes we sat and watched customers, and unashamedly eavesdropped on their conversations. It helped if the man, woman, or child was acting silly or was dressed a tad freaky; it added more padding to our starving stories and we took advantage every chance we got.

The first Saturday was dreary, windy, and cold. I forgot my CD player, and I spent too much time admiring Susan's new laptop. I couldn't help it; that was the coolest computer I'd seen in a while. I wanted to know if she'd had it built especially for her, and she had.

I did much better writing away from home. Maybe it was Sarah the pup, or the imposssible-to-ignore reruns of Law & Order, but I had to get away from the house. Once in a while I went to the library, but being around so many newspapers, magazines and books can be distracting. Besides, the library still doesn't have a coffee shop and I simply cannot write a novel without boatloads of caffeine. I'd hate to be the one and only patron kicked out on their rear for smuggling a thermos of coffee into the stacks, though a candy bar or two has made its way in from time to time.

The usual distractions for November came up, and some that were anything but usual. At the beginning of the month, the most vulnerable time to start something as time-consuming as this, our family lost one of its own, and we stopped to grieve for over a week. Thanksgiving came, and we took the time to celebrate, although this year was far different than any that came before. For one thing, instead of turkey, we had meatloaf and potato salad, two of my specialties. We gathered around a small kitchen table and gave thanks, sincerely and with a few tears.

Even though Susan, Emily and I only met twice, we continued our novels on our own, whenever we could find some spare time. It doesn't matter how much time we spent together, only that we did. They and their family had the usual and unusual interruptions too, and yet they continued the journey.

Last Sunday night I was at a little under 46,000 words and it was around 7:30. Normally, I don't head to bed until around 10, but I had to ask if it was all right to go up early and work on the book. Hubby didn't bat an eyelash at being saddled with Sarah, so I headed to the computer with the secret determination to finish that night.

When I sent the finished novel up to the verification site at 8:59 p.m., and the words, "you won!" appeared in front of me, I burst into tears and couldn't see the computer screen for a few minutes. I kept wiping my eyes, but they would fill up again. A certificate for the winners was available with a click of the mouse, so I printed a couple of them. They will be framed, but I had to bring one to show to the newsroom here at the paper on Monday.

Oh, the title of my novel is, "Old People Shouldn't Adopt Dogs", and it's a page-turner. The main character, a baby-boomer, tries to maintain her sanity despite being surrounded by a multi-generational dysfunctional family. She experiences a variety of jobs, all of which include a number of memorable bosses and co-workers.

The hard part is done, the writing is mostly over, and now the revision process begins. I just wish I could bottle the feeling that came over me so completely Sunday night.

Maybe I'll try to capture it again, next November.

Sometimes all you can do is sit by the window and wait

By Margi Washburn

I was cleaning out one home office and stuffing things into the bigger one when I found a quote that used to hang on the corkboard near my computer. It reads, “One of the oldest human needs is having someone wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.” These words, attributed to Margaret Mead, offer an insight many of us often overlook.

Those of us who have children can identify with wondering where our kids are, especially after they've reached a certain age and that usually continues until they've become responsible adults.Once they have kids of their own, or if they meet that special someone, then they suddenly understand what we really meant when we wanted to know where they were going and when they were coming home.

In the pre-teen and teenage years, the nights and weekends can seem unbearably long. Who are the kids with? What are they doing? Have they tried drugs? Alcohol? Has someone talked them into doing something stupid? The questions are as endless as the night, and sitting by the window staring into the empty driveway can bring the worst kind of scenarios to mind.

Children do eventually grow up and become responsible, but while we wait, we age a bit. As a humorous aside, I found out recently that according to one important source, I am listed as ten years older than I really am. I could be getting my coffee a lot cheaper at restaurants if that was true, but hey, 63 will come soon enough.

Worrying about our loved ones comes too naturally, don't you think? We don't assume they're all right; instead, we imagine the worst. Hubby's mom and some of the family were making regular trips out of state to visit a relative, and without fail, we would hear nothing for days. People would tell me that if anything bad had happened I would have heard about it. That didn't do a thing for me, except make me want to slap them and keep on wondering when the phone call would come.

I guess it doesn't matter how old our kids get, and it makes no difference if deep down we know better, we love our families and friends so much we can't help how we feel.

While on our way home the other night, hubby and I saw an Amber Alert for a missing child on a marquee on Main Street. My mind started down a path and before I knew it, I was asking myself how does a mom and dad deal with a missing child? What kind of thoughts run through their minds?

There is a huge difference between your son or daughter going out for the evening, and you're wondering it they'll hit a party or two before they return safely home. It's another matter entirely if they suddenly disappear and leave no trace. As someone who strings words together for a living, I have none to describe how this must feel.

Wait, there is one thing I know for certain.Wherever that child is, no matter their age or yours, there is something they must surely know and that is this: dad, mom, brother, and family everywhere do wonder where you are. We wonder, we care, we love you beyond measure, and some of us still sit by the window every now and then just in case. It's something we need to do, as much as you need us to. Margaret Mead was right about that.

She told us not be a-scared of the dark and to go on home

By Margi Washburn

I sat in church that Sunday morning and couldn't help but notice how the sun highlighted the child's hair. She was busy arranging papers and crayons before the service started; she had been coming for some time and she knew it would be time to be quiet soon.

When the time came for the children to come forward for their own mini-sermon, she skipped up to the front with at least a dozen other kids. I don't know how much of what was said sunk in, but the little girl was dutifully respectful while the pastor spoke. After their prayer, she walked back to sit with her parents and you could tell she was almost losing the urge to run. Kids love to run, you know, unless it's time to go to bed or to the doctor. But this young lady did not forget: no running in church.

I couldn't help but wonder that day about kids and their ability to forgive and forget. Okay, they don't always forget but it's different somehow. For instance, when hubby and I were visiting his mom one night and our niece was there, we got ready to leave. She's only three years old and as beautiful as they come. She also has that sweet gullibleness reserved for kids that age.

“You going home now?” she asked.

“Yup. It's late and we have to get to bed,” said hubby.

“But it's dark,” she said, her eyes wide as she looked from the window to the two of us.

“Oh, no, we'll have to stay here all night,” hubby said, as he sat back down.

Well, that was going to be a problem because our niece was spending the night there too, and now she wanted to know where we were going to sleep. We could see the worry on her little face so we assured her we would be okay. Coats on, we started for the door.

“You'll be okay,” she assured us. “Go home now.”

A few nights later we were getting ready to leave again, and you can guess what we heard. “You going home? You're a-scared of the dark. It's dark outside,” she said.

She didn't forget, and what she was thinking was written all over her face. At a mere three years old, our niece knew what it was like to be afraid of the dark and she cared enough to remind us.

I guess I can't stop wondering when kids stop caring, when forgiving and forgetting aren't a part of their makeup any more. I wonder when they remember one another's weaknesses and begin to exploit them, to turn against those they care for and instead use what they know to hurt one another.

It doesn't happen to the same degree with every child. And some kids simply refuse to hurt others; instead, they'll suck it up and try to work through the pain on their own. Sometimes that works and it teaches empathy. Other times it creates wound after wound that builds too many scars.

If all schools don't teach classes on a topic such as this, I wish they would. I've heard that some do because it's been reported that the technique used is similar to play-acting. A scenario is given and students act out both sides of a hurtful behavior until, hopefully, empathy is learned.

I have an idea about who could teach such a class. Actually, there are two little girls just perfect for the job. You've met them through this column and you won't find anyone more qualified. They know how to make the sun shine all the time, trust me.

Time to check out those cupboards, basements and attics

By Margi Washburn

A month or so ago hubby and I went to a holiday party. There was the familiar white elephant gift table with pretty, wrapped packages piled high and most of us were curious as kids about what was inside certain ones.

It was fun watching the unwrapping, then we would groan or gasp and watch as folks decided they wanted what someone else had. You remember how it is on Christmas morning with kids and their toys, only we were better-behaved than that. Really.

Hubby ended up getting a leather satchel which I promptly claimed for myself. I held onto it with both hands and kept a look on my face that I hoped would discourage anyone from wanting what we had.

I don't think anyone wanted my satchel. One of the most popular items was a George Foreman grill. I tried to understand why that was such a big deal; after all, we'd received one for Christmas a few years ago and I wasn't really impressed. (Gee, I hope our youngest isn't reading this.)

Maybe I should explain. If one fries burgers in a skillet, you wash one round surface. You put the pan in the sink and let it soak. It's easy. With the grill, I made a mistake. I let it cool down and it got all crusty. It seemed to take forever to clean it, so after I was done, the pretty, white oversized appliance went to live with other seldom-used items in my cupboard.

A week or so ago I happened to talk with the lady who won the grill at the party. She loves it. And she told me how she cleans hers, which is exactly how I'd heard you're supposed to. After you finish cooking and the grill is still warm, you wipe it with a damp sponge. Easy.

So, on a weekend with hubby watching, I dug out the grill. It was beautiful, all shiny and white. Miraculously, the cord was attached so I hadn't lost it. But the booklet was missing.

Ah, another miracle. I found it and guess what I learned? The grill was bought for me in the year 2000. The like-new appliance was five years old and it looked like we'd just taken it out of the box. Hubby just smiled and I knew why.

Throughout the years I have begged for and received a lot of things I thought I desperately wanted. An easel, a new steam iron, an iced tea brewer, a bread machine, a popcorn popper and I'm sure there are others. In fact, as I pulled out the grill I noticed a shiny silver thing with holes in it. Hubby was standing near the counter, so I set it there.

“What do you suppose this is?” I asked him.

“Don't know,” he said. He picked it up, turned it over, set it back down and shrugged.

“Think it goes in one of my pans?”

He nodded, then looked down at the collection of nearly-new pans. I pulled one out and the shiny pot fit nicely inside. A glass lid completed the ensemble.

“Why would that go together so perfectly?” I asked. We both looked at what I'd put together, then at each other.

Hubby laughed; there was no need to bring up for the umpteenth time that I'd bought something I would likely never use, so I took the pans apart and put them back in the cupboard.

The grill is sitting out now just waiting to be used. I'm making hamburgers tonight and I promise to fight the urge to use my favorite skillet. Besides, I just entered a contest to win an outdoor grill. I've always wanted one of those.

He lived in a silent world, and he filled it with laughter and love

By Margi Washburn

One of my favorite people in the world is an uncle on hubby's side of the family. Uncle Marvin looks an awful lot like Willie Nelson, lives in Georgia, and rarely makes it back to Kewanee. I miss seeing him driving around in his pickup truck on his way to a paint job, or stopping by forcoffee at his sister's house. You almost never see him without a giant coffee mug.

I may be the only one in the family who gets by with calling Uncle Marvin by his first name. To everyone else he's Uncle Rich, known by many and loved by us all. And no matter who it is you love, an uncle or aunt or cousin or friend, it affects you deeply when they get bad news.

We don't want our loved ones to get sick, lose their job, or worst of all, lose a child. That's exactly what happened early last Sunday morning.The first thing that went through my mind when we heard the news about our cousin Richie's untimely death, was how it had affected his dad. He was too many miles away to hug, and there wasn't anything we could do to comfort him over the telephone.

A steady stream of people came to Richie's calling hours, so we sat nearby and let old friends pay their respects, give hugs and shed tears. Even with all of those people around, I wanted to stand next to Uncle Marvin and be there for him in case he needed someone. It wasn't necessary because he was surrounded by Richie's brothers, sisters, and other family.At the funeral, even more people came.

Some wore suits and shiny shoes, some dressed in leather jackets and dusty cowboy boots. Some spoke in whispers, others cried, and a few communicated with sign language.All of us knew that Richie was born deaf, and as the pastor noted, he lived in a silent world, but one that he learned to adapt to. When someone couldn't understand what he was signing, he would write a note. He must have written a lot of them, because quite a few people laughed when that was mentioned.

Before pastor spoke, though, the first few notes of the song, “When I Get Where I'm Going” began playing and the tissues came out. The lyrics tell us, “don't cry for me down here” but most of us did anyway.We all found out some things his family shared with pastor. He had lots of friends, and a few of them did some strange things. For one, they painted him green on St. Patrick's Day. They also painted his shoes gray, but Richie just painted them black again and wore them anyway.

You know, Richie couldn't hear music but the selection for his funeral couldn't have been better. The second song was called, “Don't Laugh At Me” by Mark Wills. It's too easy for us to look at people who are different and if we don't laugh on the outside, maybe there's a chuckle inside. These lyrics should remind us how unkind that is: “I'm fat, I'm thin, I'm short, I'm tall. I'm deaf, I'm blind, Lord ain't we all.”

After pastor was finished, the last song was played. It's a familiar one, and it reached deep inside us and made us hear every word. “Jesus, Take the Wheel” played as we made our way past Richie one last time and out into the bright sunlight of an uncommonly warm fall afternoon.We drove slowly to the cemetery and it made me smile when I saw an elderly man on a bicycle waiting patiently for us to pass.

Just before we turned into Pleasantview, a young man on a bicycle saw us coming and rode on ahead. I found out later that his family couldn't make it because they were stuck in traffic, so they sent him to record the rest of the service on video.

It seemed inappropriate to speak the words, “what a beautiful day” when we were gathered together for such an occasion, but Richie would encourage us to say just that. Besides, I believe with all my heart that just as some of us were really hearing those songs for the first time yesterday, Richie was too. He was a special guy, and he had to have been a terrific friend to lots of people to have so many come to say goodbye.Looking out over that crowd, I'd have to say it really was a beautiful day, in a lot of ways.

When the story trips my tears, it's time to change the channel

By Margi Washburn

They say that the reading of scary books soars during troubled times. The same goes for the phenomenal success of horror and suspense movies. I am paraphrasing here, but Stephen King has said that we look to this kind of entertainment to take our minds off of what's happening all around us. We see what awful things are happening to fictional characters, believing that something that frightening could never happen to us.

I always thought my love of the macabre came from my mom. She brought sis and I up on scary stories of all kinds, but I think my sister tends to shy away from that kind of thing. Plenty of people think I'm a bit odd because I love cloudy days, storms of all kinds, horror flicks and books; it's been that way for me for as long as I can remember.

As hubby and I were settling down to watch television the other night, it was about time for the local news. The headlines for upcoming stories were given. Hubby had the remote control, something that's allowed in our home now and then, when we heard that the upcoming news would be about the retrial of Sarah Kolb. Click.

The next channel started in on an inside investigation at a Quad City pet store. We heard puppies yelping and I threw my hands up. “I can't watch that. Sorry.” I began to get out of my chair.

“Well, if you can't watch it, neither can I,” said hubby and he changed the channel one more time.

The lead story this time was on the Baptist church arsonists. At the time of this writing, there have been ten such unsolved fires. My heart broke – again.

Along with the above, stories were coming about rampant fraud with Hurricane Katrina money, a mom who mutilated her baby, another mom who left her child in a car that caught fire, and a husband and father who killed his wife and child. It was more than enough.

“Let's watch Seinfeld,” I said, with a catch in my throat.

I'm not ashamed that we ran away from the truth to watch a Seinfeld rerun for the umpteenth time. We've seen these shows so often we can say the lines before the actors do. But Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer seem like old friends. We even like Newman because he makes us laugh.

We do watch dramas, or comedy-dramas like Boston Legal. Who wouldn't want a lawyer on their side like Alan Shore? James Spader, in our humble opinion, is superb as an attorney for the underdog. We loved watching him get Betty White's character off for murder and for robbing convenience stores – with a gun, no less.

I love to watch Still Standing because the parents are so awful that I know we've done a much better job raising our own kids. Ghost Whisperer and Medium are fun, spooky escapism; besides being creepy, the shows depict loving relationships with family and friends.

As I get ready to leave for work after the nasty storm we had this morning, I notice that my book of choice is a suspenseful story, likely full of murder and mayhem. I'll read it knowing that there's nothing in my life nearly as bad as all of that.

I guess what it comes down to is this: I want to choose my drama. I don't like it to be so personal, so tragic to real families and friends and little puppies and kittens. I want people to make it their personal goal to be kind to one another, care for each other and look for the good in everyone. Let writers use their imaginations to come up with the bad guys and gals. We don't need any more reality television in our lives, do we?

A snowy, cold, windy and beautiful night for a birthday

By Margi Washburn


By now it's Friday and I'll bet most of you have forgotten what last Saturday afternoon and night was like.

The wind blew, the snow fell and driving in that stuff was a bona-fide nightmare, especially if you have a car with no front-wheel drive.

There are probably many families who throw one party a month to celebrate multiple birthdays. Lots of kids have several sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and other loved ones who buy gifts for them throughout their birthday month so they're pretty cool with having their party a little later. Just don't try and skip it altogether because they know where you live and they have your number.

It was dark when I got off of work Saturday. It was also one of the nastiest weather days we've had and we hadn't bought the gifts yet. Before we could do that, I had to throw in some supper and gulp it down. My phone was in my purse so I didn't notice that the grandkids had called three times to ask us where we were. I called to let them know it would be about half an hour.

Really dumb move.

We set out for the store to get a football and a soccer ball. There were two grandsons and a niece to buy for. You can probably see where this is going.

The snow came heavier as we left the house – in the car with no front-wheel drive. “Should we take the little red car?” I asked.

“No, I think this one'll do fine,” said hubby. I hung onto the door handle and prayed.

We slid our way to the store and I sent him to buy the sports equipment. I headed for coffee creamer, gift bags and birthday candles. He was very proud of his find and showed me the bargain he'd made – a football with a pump, just like our grandson wanted, along with the soccer ball his brother had asked for. I tried fitting the toys into their bags and it looked like everything would work.

We checked out, slid our way to the car and I noticed we should have picked up the kids five minutes before. And the snow was coming down harder. I felt a bit of panic as I dusted snow off the car windows.

As we made our way around the S curve, I almost asked The Question. It wasn't necessary. “You think we should go home and switch cars?” he asked.

I made the call to the grandkids. We got home, unloaded the trunk and put the gifts in the other trunk. Little Red was out of gas so we stopped to get some before picking up the kids. One of them was chipper, the other little guy looked like he'd been ready to call it a night.

We told him that his cousin was looking forward to seeing him again since it had been a while. “Yeah,” he said, “she'll probably tackle me like she did last year.” Who knew that eight-year-olds had such good memories?

We got to their great-grandma's house and while grandpa wrapped their gifts in the car, the kids caught up with one another. The gifts were brought in and placed on the counter and that's when it hit me: we forgot our niece's gift. I had a blank card in my purse; the money went in it and it went into the pile.

The kids decided after opening gifts and eating cake and ice cream that it would be fun to play outside – in the dark and the still-falling snow. Out they went with the new soccer ball and football. It didn't take long for the youngest to come in and stare at us with big sad blue eyes.

“My ball is lost,” he said.

Well, if you're going to play with a soccer ball in the snow, in the dark, you're likely to misplace it for a while. But grandpa found it and all was well.

A few minutes later, our niece came in with snow all over her hair. “Why didn't you wear your hat?” I asked.

“I don't have one,” she said.

“It's hooked to your coat.”

She smiled. “I like snow in my hair. It makes it look all glittery.”

I could see that.

Eventually the kids found their way back to the kitchen where we were gathering up things to go home. We said our good-byes, gave hugs and piled into the car. We dropped the boys off and we thought that this had been just another party, no big deal, until I heard the oldest birthday boy say,

“Hey! Grandpa got me a football and it has a pump!”

It was a beautiful night after all.

Sometimes a cheap turkey can be a pain in the neck

By Margi Washburn

Wednesday was a surreal day. Leaves were falling by the hundreds, the buzzy things most of us call ladybugs were out and about and in our hair, the sun had warmed us up to over 70 degrees and there was a sale on turkeys.

Halloween was over, Thanksgiving is looming and the media is freaking everyone out about bird flu. Hubby decided I should run out and grab turkeys before they caught a bug and made us sick. I’d just healed my aches and pains but went out and got a couple of gigantic turkeys to stick in the freezer.

As I type this my back is making funny twinges. I did something similar when we lived in Tucson. Back then I had a short fuse and the day came when turkeys were on sale for something like 29 cents a pound. I ran into a really big grocery story after work and headed for the meat department. It wasn’t hard to spot the sale.

About half a dozen women were gawking into the freezer where the turkeys were waiting. They all looked the same to me, but the lady shoppers seemed transfixed by the mound of cheap poultry. I lost my patience, or I never had any and I reached through the middle of the crowd, yanked a turkey out and slapped it in the cart. I’m sure I said something too, and I’m glad I don’t remember what it was.

The next day as I got ready for work I noticed I could only lift my left arm so far. Strange, but I got dressed and went on to work.

The range I could work my arm got less and less and the pain worse, so my supervisor took me to the emergency room. The doctor asked me if I’d recently moved anything heavy or lifted something I shouldn’t have. Nothing came to mind, but he gave me pain pills and we went back to work.

Well, I don’t take many meds so these hit me pretty hard. As a customer service representative, all I did was wear a headset and talk to customers. It became obvious that slurring my words wasn’t reflecting well on the company so I was asked to do some filing instead.

I giggled as I filed and before long, co-workers and my supervisor noticed that I wasn’t being serious about following the alphabet. Someone decided I should be given a ride home.

In the back of my mind I kept wondering what it was I did to bring on the pain. As often happens, when we’re not trying so hard to figure something out the answer comes.

I’d lost my temper, yanked the turkey and now it was turning into an expensive lesson.

That happens a lot. We get wrapped up in our jobs, our problems and in other peoples’ business and it ends up costing us. Our health suffers, so do our friendships. Sometimes we lose dear friends because we ignore them or we make promises we can’t keep.

My day had started early and was filled to the brim with running around and trying to accomplish things. Thankfully the memory hadn’t faded from the lesson learned in Tucson. I made it a point to enjoy the moments, the time spent with family, talking with friends and listening to what they were really saying. Don’t fool yourself - people know when you’re paying attention to them and when your mind is on other things.

This is the perfect time of year to slow down and look around. You will hear the opposite advice if you listen to the commercials that urge us to buy, buy, buy and hurry before it’s too late. I’ve done that, so you can learn from me. If you’re not careful, you could end up with a pain that no medicine can touch. You’re much too wise to let that happen, I’m sure of it.

Think more of others than you do of yourself

Just as I was about to nap, my muse gave me a swift kick with an idea for a column. Actually, I already had one, and if I do say so myself, it was a doozy. Hence this piece on narcissism.

The original idea was a rant on a utility company, and let's face facts: almost all of us could contribute a colorful soundbite on that subject, but that's not going to happen. These folks have bazillions of our hard-earned dollars, they want many more, and they have a yacht-load of lawyers, so let's just talk about them behind their backs. That's what the local coffeeshop is for.

On the way to the computer, I passed the ever-dwindling windowsill at the top of the stairs. There is less of it, thanks to Sarah the pup, and since she tore off half of the curtain and all of the rod last Saturday, there is only a shade there now.

Back to the subject, though, which is actually something we are all guilty of at one time or another. And there are some who practice this trait pretty much all the time. To put narcissism in the simplest of terms, one could say it's about oneself.

For example, say that friends have taken a trip out of state and you find yourself waiting for a phone call from them. Did they arrive safely? Are they having fun? When are they coming back?
Alas, the phone never rings. Never. You stew and fume and talk about how inconsiderate these friends are; after all, their lack of phone courtesy is ruining your life. Ah, there it is. It really is about you and how their behavior is making you feel.

Were you really concerned with their safe arrival and whether they were having fun? Maybe at first, but as the days crawled by, anger and frustration replaced whatever worries you had and by the time your friends get home, you're ready to punch them in the head. That is, if you're still speaking to them.

It doesn't take a trip away from home to set off this attitude. Haven't you run into someone from Kewanee you haven't seen for months or even years? You live in the same small town and it takes a chance meeting at a store or, more likely, our Hog Days festival before you see one another. Each of you are thinking the same thing: why haven't they called me? Maybe you really are different, though. Maybe you are simply happy to see a friend you haven't laid eyes on in a long while.

There is another example of this behavior that happens all too frequently. I see it as two people who both suffer from the same affliction in different ways at the same time. Stay with me here.

We get busy beyond belief with our job, family, a health issue or two, and a sudden emergency. The days go by and we haven't contacted close friends or even some family members because time got away and though we thought about calling or stopping by, we just couldn't fit it in.

Everyone needed us at once, and the hours turned into days and those turned into weeks.

The neglected person has gone from worried to hurt to angry. You have run yourself ragged, and when it dawns that you've neglected a loved one, your first feeling is guilt. Then you rationalize that so-and-so should understand; after all, you're close friends. Now you've got a good excuse and a sound reason for your behavior, so you shove the person from your mind and carry on with multi-tasking and feeling like no one understands what a busy person you must be.

What a bunch of hooey. One is hurt because they've been ignored. The other is hurt because they're overworked and no one understands them. Each is focusing on how someone else is making them feel when they both should care less about themselves.

When we can get to the point where we put another's welfare above our own, and leave it there, we'll find it doesn't matter whether we get that phone call, visit or e-mail. The only thing that will matter is how well we treat others, not how well they treat us.

It's kind of neat how our puppy knows that it's best to make those around her feel loved and wanted, even if now and then she falls from grace and eats things she shouldn't. Even a dog knows it's not all about them, it's about unconditional love.

Only time will tell with a decision made with the heart

By Margi Washburn

What were we thinkng?

It's understandable when a child reacts emotionally to an upset in their world, but as adults we're supposed to know better. Sometimes we don't.

I think we've always had a dog. Or a dog, a cat and a guinea pig. We may have had fish at some point. Once we even had four dogs and four cats and I've no idea how we managed but nothing comes to mind that makes me think it was anything other than ordinary.

We're both older now, yet none the wiser. That would explain the yellow lab-mix by the name of Sarah who now lives with us and who has turned our world upside down.

This four-legged menace has even caused a strain in friendships, mostly because of where she came from. I've no clue as to why that should matter, but to some folks it does.

What concerns me is that I didn't do my homework. There have been times when I've done so much investigating into an issue that it drove me and those closest to me completely bonkers. When it came to finding a pooch to fill the hole in our hearts, hubby and I threw our collective common sense to the wind and operated purely on emotions. That was beyond stupid.

To make matters worse, I brought home an armful of books from the library and read all I could about labs. They're supposed to love water; Sarah yelps when the slightest mist touches her fur.

If we'd known that labs have a bottomless pit of energy, we would have turned and walked swiftly away from that woeful stare at the shelter. She seemed so calm, and she never opened her mouth to bark. What a performance she gave that day.

Sarah outgrew a borrowed kennel so she had to have a new one. She eats well, and she loves Kong toys, an odd-shaped piece of red rubber that I stuff with treats and peanut butter. I'd been told to freeze this concoction because it would take longer to get the goodies out of it. Sarah finishes it off in less than ten minutes, then brings it to me. She drops the slimy, hairy thing in my lap, sits back and waits for me to refill it.

Hubby and I had a quiet home for a few days between dogs, but that's gone now. Sarah sounds like a herd of cattle as she romps around with squeaky toys in her mouth. We know that our home, big as it is, just isn't big enough. We've opened doors so she can run up and down the stairs to burn off some energy, but she still wants to go for a walk about every half hour or so. That kind of behavior can put a serious kink into one's life, and it has.

There are no more naps in the recliner. Even if the dog is taking a rare snooze, the moment you slip into la-la land, she will suddenly appear at your side. Before you can fully awaken, she'll give you a nose-butt until you sit up straight and await further instructions. To top things off in the oddest way, Sarah has developed a wildly hilarious bark and she especially lets loose with one whenever we say the word “Sandy.”

We've been watching the Dog Whisperer, a profoundly misnamed show if there ever was one. Cesar Milan has been invaluabe, helping the both of us reclaim our title as pack leaders of our home. Sarah walks better on the leash now, though once in a while she wrenches my arm but good when she sees a bug, squirrel, rabbit, tractor, garbage bag, bird or fire hydrant.

It's exhausting having a puppy in our lives. She slobbers, requires too much of our time and energy (let's not even talk money here, please), and she's getting bigger by the minute. We have been told that after a year, she'll calm down and be the best dog ever. Then we were told it would be a year and a half. The last prediction was three years, and I think we both nearly cried on the spot.

I know I should have done my research first, and maybe we should have looked into getting an older dog instead of a pup. But the thing is, we went with our hearts and I think that deep down where it really matters, hubby and I are certain that we did the right thing. The three of us will have to live with our decision and hope with every fiber of our beings that the time comes soon when Sarah turns into the best dog we ever had.

Leon

Leon
by Margi Washburn

He must have been all of three feet tall. Blond, shoulder-length curly hair, chubby cheeks and wide blue eyes - a small boy with bare feet who was our neighbor in Tucson for too short a time.

Leon was his name and he was a corker. We met the little guy shortly after moving into our first apartment in Arizona. I always use the state motto about this far into the story: “It’s a dry heat” but this time around I’ll just say, “Ick.” I’m sorry, but if you think the desert, rock landscaping and cactus are cool then, well, ick.

Our first home away from Kewanee was an apartment complex with at least a hundred units that looked exactly the same. (We misplaced our black cat Spike there once and it was a hoot trying to find him). Trick-or-treating was fun, too; we couldn’t remember where we’d been so we tapped some nice people more than once.

Leon and his parents moved in across from us one day. It was impossible to miss their arrival because we all had sliding glass doors that faced each other. The odd thing about Leon and his family was that they had no furniture. In fact, he seemed quite impressed when he found there was something to sit on besides the floor.

He invited his little self inside our place one early afternoon. Not a bit shy, this boy of four, and he had the cutest dimples. “I live over there,” he said with a smile, and he pointed to his place.

“What’s that?”

Hubby and I grinned at each other. “It’s a couch,” I said. He pointed at a chair and asked the same question. This was a bit of a puzzle, but we went along. Leon stood for a minute, his thumbs hooked into his bib overalls.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked. That was all it took, and it sure made him happy. His little bare feet swung back and forth as he squirmed around, seemingly amazed that we had furniture.

It was hard to ignore the fact that the family across the way had an empty home. At night, when the lights were on it was easy to see that they had only blankets and pillows on their floors. We found Leon at our door, hands cupped around his eyes as he stared into our apartment several times a week.

There were days when he would pad barefoot over to our place, knock loudly and wait with his face pressed to the screen. He would ask for the boys first, and I would tell him they were in school. That’s when he’d ask for hubby to come out and play. Well, he was at work. The next request would be to come in and sit on the furniture. In he would come and as he sat and we talked, I could see the delight in his eyes at the most simple of things - Leon had a place to sit.

Then, an amazing thing happened. Leon and his family got furniture late one afternoon. They moved in beds, tables, chairs, a couch and more. If only we had some clue what would happen next.

Morning came and the apartment manager came riding up on her golf cart. She knocked on our door and pointed a thumb over her shoulder at Leon’s place. “Have you seen ‘em?” she asked.

Hubby and I looked over and were astounded to find the place completely empty. No furniture, no people, no blankets and pillows. No little barefoot boy.

Turned out that the family picked up and moved in the night, and they must have been quiet about it. We didn’t hear a thing.

A few weeks later, I was walking with one of the boys when we saw a familiar little figure coming toward us. Leon! He was alone, and walking along the sidewalk. The sun was starting to set and it would be dark soon. When we met, he smiled up at me.

“Leon, where have you been? Do you live in a different apartment now?”

I can’t forget how he looked down at his feet, hands in his pockets as he shook his head. “We live in storage now,” he said.

Storage? I tried to find out more, but the little guy said he had to go. He walked away, and he never looked back.

Leon must be a tad over 20 years old now and one wonders how much he remembers of his younger years in the desert. If he ever stops by, we’ll look straight into those wondrous blue eyes and invite him in to sit down and catch up on old times.

Come on Wheel, mama needs a car

Come on, spin that wheel – mama needs a car
By Margi Washburn

We've been sitting around the kitchen table, night after night watching Deal or No Deal, a new game show that has us all wondering what we would do if we won a bazllion bucks. Actually, the family and I are going after the ten grand that's offered every night.

We dutifully phone in our guesses as to which lucky case holds our booty only to find ourselves disappointed once again. Shortly after that most of us are looking for some chocolate to drown our sorrows in. (Note to mom: get some chocolate – just in case).

It's kind of neat to have the show send us a multitude of text messages on our phones. It makes us feel important even while we tally up the cost of sending and receiving those messages.

The Deal or No Deal craze isn't the latest pie in the sky dream to hit us lately. Remember the $365 million lottery prize won by a few co-workers in another state? Incidentally, I probably wouldn't be writing this piece if I was related to one of those lovely folks. Well, maybe I shouldn't say that in print; the other people I work for might get the idea that I'd skedaddle in a big, fat hurry if I won a few bucks.

Let's face it. Money isn't going to drop in our laps, we're going to have to work for it. There's a satisfaction to working hard and getting paid a good wage. It feels good to pay our own way, and it feels even better if we have some left over to share with others who are going through their umpteenth bad patch.

I guess I'm wondering how to balance the idea of wishng for a windfall and the pride of making our own way. And it's not just the above-named game show we're becoming addicted to. Wheel of Fortune has the Spin ID thing going.

I set up the numbers for myself and for mom. We catch the show whenever we possibly can because now there's a chance to win a trip and a car. I used to want the contestants to win just because it seemed the right thing to do. Now I find myself yelling at the screen, “Come on! Mama needs a car!” And when they don't get guess the puzzle, I'm ticked off. If they get the answer but the prize is cash and not a car, I get ticked off. There's no Spin ID winner if the prize is cash, so what good does that do me? None, that's what.

It really isn't as bad as it sounds. I'm still working two jobs, and I love them both. But let's be honest; if you love the work you do would you stick around if you won a boatload of money?

That's what I thought.

I know that hubby's mom has always wanted to go to Hawaii. Maybe one of us will win that trip tonight on Wheel of Fortune. If we do, I promised the rest of the family that mom and I would be sure to send them a postcard. Aloha.

Small towns, memorable Octobers

Of small towns, crisp fall leaves and memorable Octobers
By Margi Washburn

I think it’s finally here - fall, that is. The searing heat is gone; the farmers are clearing their fields and deer are running amok. Coyotes aren’t much smarter, it seems, as hubby nearly ran one over the other day.

The fog is hanging around too, making it seem spooky and Halloween-like. My mom had a saying for a foggy evening: “Nice night for a murder,” she’d say. That alone pretty much guaranteed sis and I weren’t going to slip out of the house and get into trouble.

During the latter part of October, I start getting the movies ready. It’s not Halloween unless we watch the movie of the same name. I know they made sequels, but this one is my favorite of the bunch.

There is the obligatory small town, the innocent babysitter, the even more innocent children, lots of pumpkins and brilliant, falling leaves. Throw in a menacing monster of a man who refuses to die and you have the perfect mix for movie night. I still watch some parts through my hands, but so what?

Another favorite for October is “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” This is the movie based on the Ray Bradbury book by the same name. Take a small town, a library, a young boy and his dad, a young boy without a dad, add a late-October carnival with a mysterious crew and an evil leader. This would be plenty, but I love the mournful sound of the train whistle in the dead of night as it chugs toward an unsuspecting town full of hurting people. It’s a touching story full of chills, surprises and brilliant performances.

Do you think back on what Halloween was like for you as a kid? If you lived in town or around these parts you probably had all kinds of weather to deal with. That was a given and we didn’t get all bent out of shape if the forecast was too this or that - we just dealt with it. And for a blessed length of time we could collect candy and other treats and eat them without having them checked out first. I miss that.

Lots of us made our own costumes. We put a lot of thought into who or what we wanted to be - there weren’t so many TV and cartoon characters around to deaden our creativeness. We dressed up one of the boys once as a newspaper reporter with a Superman tee-shirt peeking out beneath his dress shirt. He stuck a press pass in the brim of his hat and won first place that year in the costume contest.

I was going to say that it takes more to scare us today than it used to, but I’m not sure that’s true. The early-morning news people have become addicted to giving us news “hot off the wires!” Trouble is, it’s the worst possible way to start your day. You leave the house for work with fresh new worries and that’s not good for any of us.

We’re being bombarded with the promise of gargantuan power bills pretty much every day. I wondered aloud to hubby about what would happen if folks just started jumping out of windows out of sheer fear that they wouldn’t make it through the winter. I pictured the news announcer saying something like this:

“We have breaking news hot off the wires, folks. People all over the midwest are hurling themselves out of their windows over the cost of heating their homes. We’ll keep you updated on our top story.

“Now, let’s see what the weather will be like for the weekend. Eric? Does it look like rain as we end the work week?”

Yeah, something wicked this way comes all right. But it isn’t a late-fall carnival with an evil merry-go-round and it’s not a monster of a man who refuses to stay dead. What we have to be afraid of on these foggy moonless nights are the swirling thoughts of never-ending doom that our friendly news people are putting inside our heads.

Let’s all do something completely outrageous. We’ll turn off the TV and the radio, call up a friend or two, pool our gas money and take a leisurely drive. The leaves are changing, some are falling and covering our lawns. What a beautiful world we live in; just look around and see for yourself. Laugh with your loved ones, go out for coffee and pie or a bowl of homemade soup.

Grab a good movie and snuggle up with a bowl of hot, buttered popcorn and turn out the lights.

You have the right to scare yourself - if you want to. It’s almost Halloween, and I plan to have a really happy one.

The perfect writing table

The perfect writing table has to be out there somewhere
By Margi Washburn

I love to browse furniture stores. Some of my favorite pieces are desks and tables. Okay, I like chairs, too, but not the ususal kind. Office chairs are the best because they go with the desks. If I had my way, there would be a desk and office chair in almost every room.

Please don't bring up this subject with my hubby. He'll probably tell you that our home has exactly that and he would be right. I never hear the end of it when he's right about something. Besides, he might insist that I stop snooping around office-supply places and other furniture-type stores.

The thing is, I have yet to find the perfect writing table. There is a difference between a desk and a writing table. The former usually has drawers and a limited amount of space beneath it. One can't roll up and down the floor without hitting their legs under the desk. With a writing table there are fewer restrictions. I like that.

On the popular sitcom Seinfeld, Elaine worked for J. Peterman and she had the writing table I've been looking for. I'm guessing it was between five and six feet wide, and maybe two or two-and-a-half feet deep. It was perfect, but I haven't been able to find one like it anywhere. I've settled far too many times, which explains why there is a different type of desk or table in nearly every room in our home.

Hubby and I like to go out and browse, so I talked him into looking at the office furniture section at a local store. I found a beautiful, huge desk that was marked way down. To be perfectly frank, it was so big I had no idea how anyone would get it into the house but that didn't stop me from falling madly in love with it.

I sat down in the cushy, expensive leather chair and placed my hands on the desk. I rubbed the gleaming and somewhat scratched surface and smiled. Then I spread out my arms, put my head down and sighed happily.

“Get up,” said hubby. “Now.”

I couldn't. The mammoth desk was only $500 and I wanted it. It looked nothing like Elaine's, but I was willing to settle – again.

“Come on,” he whispered, “you can't have it. You have desks all over the house now.”
Well, no argument there. I got up, and walked slowly around the desk while trailing my hand around the edge. What was I thinking?

A few months later I found myself in the same store, in the same section. Maybe the price had come down and I could surprise hubby with a bargain. It was a surprise, all right. The price was still $500, but now there was a new feature: a nearly foot-long gash across the top. That should have been good for a discount, but I didn't ask for one. I left, wondering if I would ever find Elaine's desk.

Today I am alone, for the moment, and there is a furniture store down the road a ways. They're having a huge sale, and I'm feeling the familiar pull toward that elusive bargain. Hubby is nearly 50 miles away and completely unaware of my plan. I can only hope he doesn't find the sale flyer I left on one of the desks. I wouldn't put it past him to give me a buzz on the phone just to tell me, “Get up. Now.”

Remembering our wolfpuppy, our Max

Remembering mom, lilacs and a beautiful doggy named Max
By Margi Washburn

Kenny Chesney has a song whose first line goes, “sunny days seem to hurt the most” and when I first heard that I thought, finally, here's someone who gets it.

It's hard to be considered weird just because you prefer cloudy days. But there are more of us than I realized. We've discovered that part of the reason we feel this way is maybe because there are things going on in our lives that make it impossible to live up to what a sunny day expects of us.

Take this past Mother's Day. I started celebrating a couple of weeks before when the lilacs bloomed. Their delicate scent always brings my mom to mind, and I never pass up a chance to find a way to get to a lilac bush every spring. Hubby bought me one a couple of years ago and it's getting bigger, but it has a ways to go before it can match the one mom had.

That gorgeous bunch of lavender would swing and sway in the wild and windy spring storms we get in Illinois That would send a fragrance through our home that no one has ever been able to duplicate. Lilacs and mom – two beautiful creations that were here for too short a time.

I kept the small bouquet from our own plant until it withered, dried up and its petals dotted my kitchen table. I finally threw it away last Saturday.

The day before, our wolfpuppy Max started feeling a bit under the weather. She's always had a touchy tummy, and we'd been through this before so we just kept an eye on her while we went about our business. She appreciated that because she needed her space, as most dogs do.

On Saturday I treated myself to a few hours at a bookstore. It was fun and relaxing, even if I didn't get a lot of work done. Just being in a coffeeshop surrounded by books and magazines is enough for me. If you remember, and how could you help it, the weather over the weekend was perfectly lousy. It was cold, rainy, windy and generally unpleasant.

One would think that I would be happy with that, but that isn't true. I really do prefer sunny days now. It's fun to smile, laugh and enjoy life. It's hard to do that with cold rain drizzling down your open collar.

By the time I drove home in the monsoon, I was a bit discouraged. It was an odd feeling, kind of like when you know something isn't quite right but you don't know what it is.

Max was not eating, only drinking, and she slept a lot. Usually she is up in our faces, getting tidbits and the last bite.

Sunday came and we went to breakfast. We came home and Max greeted us, her tail wagging a little less than usual. I was finishing the Sunday paper when she got really sick, so we headed for outside. Once there, she went into a seizure and hubby and I went a little crazy.

Surprisingly, Max popped up from the step and waited for us to bring her inside. We did that, but headed straight for the veterinarian. Suddenly it didn't matter if it was Sunday or Mother's Day; all that mattered was Max.

A preliminary outward check showed that things looked okay. We agreed to blood work, and left our Max to stay the night so she would get the proper care.

It had to be awfully painful for the doctor to make that call on Sunday evening. Max had passed away, he said, and he was sorry. I sat, stunned, and wondered two things: how could such a gentle man, who loves animals as much as he obviously does, deal with this type of work? And, how would I tell hubby that his little buddy was gone?

These last few days have been unforgettable, though I pray that will change. Funny, laugh-out-loud memories are inside of all of us who knew Max and someday we'll bring those out to share. For now, though, we'll try to get through each day until the pain subsides a little.

Gary Allan has a song, too, that I can relate to. It's called, Life Ain't Always Beautiful” and the ending goes something like this: Life ain't always beautiful, but it's a beautiful ride.

I'm going to remember that. Well, that, my mom, lilacs and Max. Three beautiful, unforgettable pieces of my life that were here for too brief a time.

Sarah Jane joins the family

Floppy ears, long legs and beautiful brown eyes
By Margi Washburn

I wonder when it started, that smallest of urges to seek out another furry friend. Whenever it was, it had to be too soon because the tears still came at the mere thought of our last dog. She was gone too soon and too suddenly, but the fact remained and we had to live with it.

As the shock wore off and my mind began to wander and wonder, the idea of a fuzzy, fat-faced puppy began to appeal a bit too much. I knew hubby was going to be hard to convince; maybe it would be impossible.

The thing is, our house was too quiet. I don't think either one of us wanted to come home from work or errands or visiting until we absolutley had to. We would turn the television up to drown out the silence, and we would avoid looking toward the toy corner where she kept all of her empty soda bottles.

I began to mention little things, like how much I loved the idea of starting out with a fresh, new puppy, one we could train to ride along with us, go for walks, attend ball games and maybe go visiting. I got a warning look from hubby, but he didn't tell me to stop talking about it.

I kept hinting and last Saturday we picked up his mom and off we went to Galesburg. There was an adopt-a-thon going on at the mall and I had already set up a meet-and-greet with one of the Guardian Angels folks to check out a beagle. It had been less than a week since we lost Max, and I was afraid my heart was in no shape to be looking at pups. I have to give hubby credit; he trusted me even though I know it must have taken up most of his faith that day.

I headed straight for the pets and couldn't believe what happened next. I was speechless, but not because the dogs were so cute. It was because not a single one appealed to me. This was completely out of character for me. I was left alone to decide, but my heart refused to budge. It just wasn't going to happen.

The sweet caretaker and I hugged, both of us in tears. She was understanding and wished us well in finding a new puppy someday. As we turned to leave, her friend spoke.

“You know,” she said, “there is a yellow lab mix at the shelter. It's a pup. But they're not open for another hour.”

Every picture I'd ever seen of a yellow lab ran through my mind. I saw a fat puppy face, a precious ball of fur sitting in my lap on the way home.

We found the shelter, and made our way to the puppy area. A tiny black puppy yipped and growled the entire time, but the other pup was quiet. She walked slowly up to the gate and poked her nose through. She licked my fingers and looked up at me.

We opened the gate and she went straight for mom. She put her paws on mom's shoulders and looked her in the eyes. After that, she hugged hubby in the crook of his arm. When we left, she walked slowly back to her blanket and laid down, hope slowly fading in her eyes.

I named her Sarah, and we picked her up today. She weighs 30 pounds and she's only four months old. She is lean, has short hair and a skinny face with floppy ears. One of her new favorite places is the veterinarian's office where we stopped on our way into town. She hugged everyone there, too, and she will go back in a few days for a follow-up visit.

Oh, before I forget, Sarah has a new expression already. Her eyes light up, and there's a bounce in her step that wasn't there before. She's in her crate now, stretched out and sleeping peacefully. I think we'll keep her.

Compassionate friends, cool neighbors

Compassionate friends and cool neighbors make the heat easier to bear
By Margi Washburn

As I write this on a sultry Thursday morning, I remember that the weather forecast called for cooler temps, a refreshing change from the mind-melting heat wave we've been stuck in for too many days.

I'm not mad, just disappointed. My hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and the air conditioning we're using is making some power company stockholders very happy.

Like many of you, our power went out at three in the morning today and it must have come back on while I was out enjoying someone else's cool air. None of us knew exactly why others had power and we didn't; we were too tired from trying to sleep in stuffy houses.

Did you ever notice how eerily quiet it is when there is no electricity humming through our homes? With overcast skies, our house offered little in the way of light so we made our way carefully from room to room.

On this day, there was no coffee for breakfast. Actually, there was no breakfast either but many of us will gladly settle for a cup of joe. We didn't want to open the refrigerator or freezer and risk spoiling the food inside.

Hubby found it light enough to shave his face, and using the shower wasn't a problem. But the absence of light has a profound effect on a person if the situation doesn't reverse itself quickly. I feel a bit embarrassed to say that I walked the dog, fed her, then left to find a more pleasant place to be.

I have to admit, though, that we live in a great neighborhood. Those on either side of us are some of the nicest folks we've known, and the most understanding. On Saturday I decided to mow our lawn at eight in the morning and no one complained. We have a push mower and a huge yard, so I broke it up into sections because the heat got to me after about 20 minutes and I would have lost my breakfast if I'd had any.

The next day I decided to try and mow the rest even earlier, at a little after seven. That was a bit nerve-wracking because I was afraid that was going to wake a few people, but I mowed as quickly as I could. The heat wasn't nearly as bad at that hour, and having good neighbors made the job easier.

Experiences like these, being without power and having good neighbors, makes me wonder about those who aren't as fortunate. I made some calls and found out that there is no state law or company policy that prohibits folks from having their power turned off for nonpayment during the summer. That scares me.

As kids, we got used to losing our power nearly every July and August. The bucket truck would rumble down the street and we'd be making trips for ice cubes to put in an ice chest to keep the bologna and margarine cool. Mom, sis and I slept by the glow of the street lights and we learned to appreciate the silence.

It's not an adventure today, though, with so many 90-plus degree days and only one official cooling center. I can't thank the hospital enough for offering their place, and I wish more would have jumped at the chance to relieve those who were suffering.

That does bring to mind the phone call I received from a friend who was worried about us and wanted to let us know we were welcome to come and stay with her if we needed to. She contacted a dozen people to extend the same invitation; that's an example of compassion we could all learn from.

I'm guessing that every once in a while you imagine what you'd do if you won the lottery. Hubby and I do that, but I have this one dream that never changes. I would find all of those who needed help keeping their power on and I would pay their bills. I would do it for the little ones who have no choice in the matter, and I would do it for the elderly who are torn between paying spiraling power bills or out-of-control prescription costs.

My thoughts turned to these folks during this too-quiet morning when it was impossible to sleep, and I had the opportunity to put myself in the place of someone in Kewanee without power because they couldn't pay their bill. Maybe the weather will change and they can get some relief from a cool breeze. It won't change the fact that they have no fans, air conditioning, refrigerator, television, radio, washer, dryer or anything else they rely on to live a normal life.

But as I learned when I was a little girl, you take what you can get and pray that someone will come along and see that you won't have to wait too long for what you need.