Living for just a little while in my imagination

Footprints in the snow. They tell a story, but you have to take the time to figure out what that story is, what it means. But it's worth it, trust me.

First, I’d like to send out a big “Hello!” to Carol. I know she checks in pretty much every day and although I’d like to have the time and talent to write in this blog more often, I just can’t do it. Too much stuff on the calendar. Maybe you could pop in once a week or so and I should have something up then.

Okay, that’s out of the way and now for what’s on my mind today. It’s been rainy, cold and windy for two days straight. That kind of weather can wear a person down (and a certain big, yellow Labrador named Sarah Jane gets awfully restless stuck in the house). Plus, I thought I was coming down with something but it just went away all by itself. There was a lot of sneezing for a couple of days, and a general yucky feeling but after a little over 24 hours, I feel pretty good except for my knees but that’s manageable.

Have you been checking out the holiday commercials? There are certain ones that can make me cry every time. Anything with the voice-over about “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” gets me. And there’s another with a mom showing her daughter the home improvements around their home. She thinks the daughter is off somewhere and they’re communicating with laptops and video cameras. When mom steps outside to show off what they’ve done there, of course her daughter is standing on the porch and they end up in a big hug.

But the one that really turns on the waterworks is a Folger’s commercial. Every year they do one with a child who returns home early one morning around Christmas. Seems like it’s always a son, and he lets himself inside, makes coffee and before you know it, his mom and dad wake up, tiptoe down the stairs and by then I’m crying too hard to see the rest of it. You get the idea.

There is one other commercial and I think it showed up again last year. It’s the one where a little girl approaches a Marine who is standing at attention. She walks over, looks up at him and asks him if he’s Santa Claus. For a few seconds, nothing happens, then he puts out one white-gloved hand to take her list. Just thinking about that one brings on the tears.

Not all commercials about Christmas touch my heart, but I cherish those that do. And at least one of them gives me hope that maybe this year, hubby and I will wake one morning to find our oldest son has come back home. I let my imagination go, especially this time of year, as I imagine him sitting at the table, petting the dog and sipping a cup of coffee.

It’s been too long—for all of us.

The toxic power poles made me do it

One of my desks sits in front of our big living room window where I have a view of a ginormous blue spruce tree that hubby planted almost 20 years ago. The tree is beautiful and a home to birds of many kinds and a haven for bunnies. Doves love it there.

The tree provides much-needed shade from the hot summer sun, and a wind break from chill winter winds.

But I haven’t been watching the action in the tree lately because my attention was diverted by work crews in the process of relocating electrical and other types of wires along with really really tall poles from the west side of the street to our side.

Our driveway has been partially blocked for several days and it’s been hard to get out to run errands or, even more important, to go to work. Plus, there is some kind of chemical smell on the poles that’s stinking up the neighborhood.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with my mind—I’ve been subjected to some kind of toxicity that scrambled my brain cells. How else can I explain what’s happened lately?

See, I belong to our local group of Red Hat ladies. They’re such a fun bunch with never a dull moment during our monthly luncheons. I volunteered to be the one who sends out birthday cards and I love doing it. I get to make up unique cards for each woman on her special day, and I look forward to that. I try to be careful not to miss a single birthday.

One day I was perusing the list when I came across the next recipient. Thing is, I thought this lady had passed away so I put the list away and thought nothing more about it. That is until I was having breakfast one Sunday after church and that’s when I saw her—alive and enjoying her eggs and toast.

I had to tell the family around the table what I’d done. Some friends were with us, and I’m afraid my stature went down a few notches as soon as I told them. “What’ll I do now?” I asked. “I’m sure her birthday has passed by and I was supposed to send her a homemade card. She’s not dead, she’s sitting right over there!” I was mortified.

After breakfast I headed home and looked at the list again. Aha! I still had time to send the card after all, and that made me feel much better. I sat down at the computer, made my fellow Red-Hatter a special card, stuck a stamp on it and mailed it the next day.

A couple of days ago while our little group was gathered for our monthly luncheon, I mentioned mailing the birthday card and that’s when one of the ladies popped up her head and gave me an odd look. “You know she’s passed, don’t you? It’s been a while ago,” she said.

I felt strange and bit out of it as I shook my head. “You mean she really is gone? Then who did I send a birthday card to?”

I was afraid and embarrassed to look around the table that had suddenly gone quiet. “Don’t feel bad,” said the sweet lady to my left. “You know, they say we all have a double. Maybe you saw her double that day.” She patted my arm, conversations resumed and I sat there feeling like an utter idiot.

I think I will blame that whole mess-up on those toxic power poles. Sounds better than the alternative to me.

Seeing the future versus faith and strength

Do you ever wish you could see the future? To know whether you’ll get promoted or lose your job, whether a major decision will bring you peace or turn out to be a big mistake, or whether your friend will turn out not to be sick after all?

Could you handle knowing what the future holds? Yes or no? Are you sure?

I would have loved knowing whether the Yankees would win their 27th World Series. Sure, the TV would have been tuned into the games anyway but it might have been fun to know from the get-go. And I suppose I’d like to have a heads-up if my job is ever on the line so I could prepare ahead of time. No one likes or needs those kinds of surprises.

I’d love to know if our dog will ever stop having seizures, though we’ve stopped calling them that. I just say, “Look. She’s snapping at the air again.” Then I call out her name and (thank God) Sarah Jane turns her sweet gaze in my direction. Sometimes she looks like she’s trying to tell me she’s sorry, she doesn’t know what came over her but she just can’t help it.

I’m not sure I want to know how long I have with my hubby, or he with me. We joke about it now and then, both of us swearing we’d never get hitched again. In the early conversations I used to get angry that he said that because he punctuated his remark with an eye roll. I thought that meant that one marriage to someone like me was plenty, thank you very much. But now I think it’s because he knows he could never find a gem like me again, so why bother? Well, that’s what I tell myself and I’m sticking with it. As for me, it’s true. There is no one on earth like the man I’m married to so I won’t bother looking.

I would love to know if my book will be published, and if it is, will it be a bestseller? Will it make people laugh and cry and identify with my life? Or will my efforts be a waste of energy and time?

I’d like to know many things about my loved ones and myself, but that isn’t going to happen. I have to wait and watch and pray and cry out just like everyone else. I’m not psychic, nor do I want to be.

All I really want is unwavering faith, and the strength to handle whatever the future holds, without folding like a cheap tent.

I’ll take those things over seeing into the future any day.

Two messages, 16 faults and, finally, understanding

Life is a journey.

The message below was recently sent to me by a friend, and I have to admit that the timing was perfect:

“People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support; to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.

Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done.

The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on.”

This is just a portion of the message, but it was the part that applied to me at the moment so I kept it in case I needed to read it again.

I’m also reading an unauthorized biography of author Stephen King, and it’s been an eye-opening experience. The other day while reading I was astounded by some things, so I grabbed pen and paper and began making a list. Then I waited for hubby to arrive in the kitchen.

He poured his coffee and sat down at the table. “Let me read you something, and you tell me what it pertains to,” I said. He looked slightly interested, so he gave me his attention.

I read: “Two kids. Single mom. Mother was a worrier, and she worked several job. Kids were told to keep their fears and their thoughts to themselves. Kids watched lots of scary TV shows. Their fears grew to include a lot of different things. Relatives looked down on the small family, didn’t want them to hang around, which created a fear in the kids: What would happen to us if mom left us/got sick/died? One child was considered ‘sickly’ and that one read books—a lot. Family was very poor. One child had very poor eyesight.”

I finished reading and saw that hubby had an answer ready: “You’re talking about yourself, your mom and sister,” he said. As he stood to leave the kitchen, I said, “Nope. That was Stephen King’s childhood.” He could have replied that this explained a lot but he wisely decided to let it go.

The two instances above—the email about friends, and the insights into King’s childhood (and my own)—have had a profound effect on me over the past few days.

I had a friend for a few years who just recently pointed out all of my faults to me in an email that was four pages long (and there were 16 faults listed—I counted them.) I was told, for example, that although this person knew I had traumas in my life (who hasn’t, really?) and that those experiences make me who I am, it was clear that I hadn’t dealt with those rough patches very well, or, at all.

I was tempted to respond to each fault in detail but for probably the first time in my life, I kept silent instead of sending zingers. I’m kinda proud of that.

So here’s a heartfelt thank-you to the sender of the first email that explains the reason for some friendships. I’m also grateful to have found King’s biography. The jury is still out on whether or not I appreciate the list of all of my shortcomings, but I believe we can all benefit from constructive criticism, especially if we learn from it and don’t let it send us into a depression.

So, here’s a collective “thanks” to one and all. It’s been an education, to say the least.

Happy birthday, son

Dad, Clint and Mom in your Grandma Fran's kitchen


Has it been 36 years already?

I can remember exactly what I was doing when I went into labor that October in 1973. (I can’t recall what I had for supper last night, but hey, that’s what happens when one gets older!)

My mother, your Grandma Tony, passed away a couple of weeks before you were born. When I get in the mood, I sometimes imagine what you would have learned from her. You both missed something there, I’m sure of that.

After over 30 hours of labor, you came into the world on October 19, 1973. If that was a Saturday, that may have been the year your birthday fell on the Sweetest Day.

During my pregnancy I dreamed that you were going to be a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. You turned into a handsome brown-haired, brown-eyed son who was the spitting image of his father.

There was this cold, early winter afternoon (you were two years old) when you came inside after playing down by the apple trees that bordered on Grandpa Washburn’s back yard. You walked into the kitchen, cheeks red from the cold and announced calmly, “God wants to talk to you.” I was stunned and speechless. Do you remember that? I hope I never forget.

Less than three years later, your little brother came along. He’s not so little now, but I remember when he was and how the two of you played together. You two were quite the team; what one didn’t think of, the other one did. Both of you kept us and your grandparents busy.

One of your favorite things to do was to ride on the tractor with Grandpa. I think you would have done that all day long. You, your brother and Grandpa were great buddies and you spent lots of time together. I’ll always be thankful for that.

The years have passed by so quickly, and all we have now are memories and pictures, and in my opinion there aren’t enough of either. We’ve all missed you over the past seven years and we never stop believing—even for a moment—that we’ll see each other again someday.

But what a gift it would be to us all if it was today, October 19, 2009. Happy birthday, son.

Love,
Dad and Mom

Journaling our way to the truth inside

Our giant yellow Lab let out a long snore, and hubby asked, “Was that you or the dog?”

See, he tells me that I snore—loudly. One Saturday afternoon I was sleeping on the couch and he claimed he heard me snoring through the ceiling and into the room above the living room, also known as The Bat Cave, or his man cave. A lot of guys have those.

Hubby and I have been married for 36 years. We’ve been through a lot together. During our marriage my mother passed away, as did his father. There have been, in my opinion, far too many sad times but in spite of them (or maybe because of them), we grow closer every day.

Humor gets the two of us through a lot. We both have a warped sense of what’s funny and that alone has helped us through many a serious moment. (If it wasn’t for my sense of humor, I would’ve clobbered him for the remark about my alleged snoring.)

I’ve kept track of much of our married life by keeping journals. It’s eye-opening to go back and read about what happened decades ago. When our youngest son was hospitalized for six months after his birth, I kept a daily record and those notebooks are boxed away in our attic. I’ve not read those since 1978, but one of these days I plan to sit down and read about Luke’s life again.

Every now and then I pick up a journal from three, four, five or more years ago and remind myself about what was going on then. Themes repeat themselves, like family relationships, friends that come into our lives, then leave, and the rare friend or two that will more than likely be around until one of the two of us passes from this world.

Pictures are nice and we have plenty of those. They tell stories too, but the writing down of what was in my heart at the time I wrote it is precious to me. Some folks write in journals but destroy them so that no one will know what they really thought and felt. That’s sad, in my opinion, because those words are insights into our true selves.

I still keep a journal and though I don’t write in it every day, it’s better than not having one at all. When I’m gone and the kids and grandkids read through the words, they’ll come to realize that maybe they didn’t know me as well as they thought.

And that’s something that bugs me in a big way: I wish there were more people in my life who I felt comfortable enough with to be myself. I can be who I really am with about three people, and that may not sound like many but they’re lifesavers to me.

That gift, and I believe it is a gift, should ideally go both ways. I need to be the type of person who allows her friends and family to be who they are and not who I wish they would be. It means overlooking faults and flaws and seeing through to the heart.

That reminds me of a Bible verse, and though I can’t remember the words exactly, it goes something like this: “For out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” That tells me that whatever I allow to stew around in my heart and mind will eventually make it out of my mouth and maybe hurt someone.

It’s a constant struggle to push away negative thoughts and feelings, I know, but it’s worth the effort. And when I do mess up and shoot off my mouth it’s nice to have hubby, my sister and my friend Anna around to let me know that they still love me. Time to put that down in my journal before I forget how blessed I really am.

Paw prints on the heart

There's that face....


I can’t believe it took me so long to love my dog.

When I fell hard for Sarah Jane back in 2006, I had no clue that she would turn into such a challenge. I’ve written about her various health problems (kennel cough, mange, an expensive worm, and now seizures) but there was more.

Sure, she pulled me through a doorway and I fell and broke my right pinkie finger. And she got excited sitting next to hubby one night and her head popped up and knocked out one of his teeth. Still, I was feeling much different about this dog than any we’ve had.

Hubby and I have never owned a Labrador. We’re older now, and Sarah is probably the last dog that’ll own us so we should have been more careful. It never occurred to me, however, to investigate the breed of a dog before we adopted it.

The reason I fell so hard for this pooch is because she seemed so resigned to her fate in the steel cage at the shelter. She was reluctant at first to come up to us, and she was so much more reluctant to return to her ratty blanket and ripped stuffed frog when we had to leave. Her eyes haunted me every minute until we picked her up and took her home less than a week later.

Fast forward over three years and we still question our sanity that warm spring morning in May of 2006. Although hubby is retired, he keeps plenty busy with house, lawn and garden repairs and maintenance. I’m busier than I want to be with my job and starting a new online publishing business in addition to pretty much all of the housework I’ve always done. Throw in an overactive Labrador on meds and you have a prescription for lunacy.

We used to ask how long this would last—the seemingly never-ending bid for attention and affection, the eating of all things nasty and forbidden and downright stupid (rocks? Sheesh!) Lab owners would tell us that Sarah would settle down at a year old, and others said it would be more like two, three or even five years. I just heard today that one woman’s dog is giving her fits after 12 years. Oh, my goodness.

I realized after about a year into having Sarah around that I still was not connecting with her with my heart. Sure, she’s cute and she makes me laugh but more often than not, at least then, she was making me say swear words I don’t normally use. She seemed oblivious that I had turned into a ranting she-wolf; all she wanted was for me to take her outside every half hour or so simply so she could sit at the end of her leash next to her master’s leg and stare into space.

Now, though, those trips are fewer though no less untimely. She usually requests my full attention once I’ve finished work for the day and I’m ready for some rest. I’ll plop down on the sofa, settle in and start to relax when Sarah uses her cold wet nose to nuzzle my hand. Then she’ll put her chin on the arm rest and stare up at me until I look down and that’s when it’s all over. She has the attention she wanted, and now it’s time to get up and take her outside so she can sniff the air, gaze at the park across the street and rest up against her master’s leg.

I can’t pinpoint when it happened, but one day as I was petting Sarah, I found myself saying these words: “I love you, Sarah Jane, you sweet thing.” I do remember that she leaned back into my hand, and closed her eyes.

It was like she knew she had finally claimed my heart.

The fine art of shunning is alive and well

It's lonely walking the road alone, but sometimes we have no other choice.

The weather matches my mood today.

As the rain continues to fall, so do my hopes of finding out what makes some folks tick. I think an explanation is in order.

Families can be strange and wonderful. Some can be cruel and unfeeling, and some are so full of unconditional love that everyone feels welcome and no one wants to leave.

In April of 2002, I fell out of favor with a member of the family and seven years later, the grudge against me remains. Some in-laws, cousins and others have taken sides while some choose to sit on the fence.

Invitations to birthday parties and other celebrations eventually dried up, and at first that bothered me but really, it’s easier to stay away from such celebrations when some spend most of the time glaring at or avoiding one another. What fun is that?

To this day, no one will tell me what it is I’ve done to cause the strained relationship. It may be that I did do or say something, or maybe it’s something I didn’t do that I should have but no one will give me a chance to either defend myself or apologize, or here’s a thought: maybe I would be able to honestly deny the accusation. Maybe, just maybe, I’m not guilty at all. Only God knows, I guess.

As if being the black sheep of the family for the last seven years isn’t bad enough, I can now add two former friends to the list of those who have chosen to shun me.

I found out about the one guy when I walked into a favorite fast-food place a couple of weeks ago. I saw him with a group of his friends, laughing and joking and drinking coffee. I must have tried a dozen times to get his attention from a mere six feet away but he nearly swiveled his head off of his shoulders to avoid looking at me.

What had I done? What hadn’t I done? I tried chalking it up to my wild imagination, and I (almost) let it go. A couple of days later I stopped in again and the same thing happened. Now I was really angry. This former friend had ruined a favorite spot of mine simply by shunning me.

Yesterday I popped into a local grocery store and while I was waiting in the checkout line, a long-time and much-loved family friend walked by. She was within a few feet of me, on her way to another checkout when I suddenly realized that she was pointedly ignoring me. It felt like a punch in the stomach.

What I find most disturbing about all of these scenarios is one simple thing: Every single person referenced above—the family member, the two friends, and me—all profess to be Christians. Most of us attend church, and we’ve been involved in Bible studies over the years too numerous to count. We’ve prayed for one another, cried with one another and now we shun one another.

As most of us who live in town know, there are physical barriers to get to some of our favorite places to shop and eat. I would gladly maneuver around and through those just to get to where I want to go. It’s the emotional barriers I no longer want to deal with.

Not everybody has to love me. Not everybody has to like me. But I want to know what it is I’ve done to cause some folks to turn away the smiles that used to light up our eyes at the mere sight of one another.

I’m not at all sure that the folks I want to see this post will actually see it, or if they’ll recognize themselves. But if you are one of those who have suddenly taken a dislike to me, would you mind letting me know why? Life is awfully short, and throughout our brief time on Earth, it would be nice to know that we can count on one another, no matter what.

Shunning is cruel, and it hurts something fierce. Please think about that before you put someone through that experience. On second thought, just don’t do it.

Little pieces of Heaven

I remember where I was the day I knew I wanted to be a writer.

A friend and co-worker had loaned me a paperback novel by Stephen King. If you’re at all familiar with King, then you know about Cujo, the story of a Saint Bernard whose descent into doggy madness after contracting rabies made for one heck of a horror tale.

This book had it all: A troubled marriage, a little boy trying to make his parents love one another again, another troubled marriage, a boy and his dog, a broken down car and mind-numbing desperation. I was enthralled.

And when I turned the last page of that novel, I said to myself, “I can do this. I can write like this.”

That was back in 1984, and I’ve been writing ever since.

I thought the joy would be in publication, and it is. And I thought that having folks come up and tell you how much your words meant to them would bring happiness, and it does. But the deepest love I feel for writing is the journey itself.

Tomorrow, September 21st, is Stephen King’s birthday. My birthday is two days later, but I love birthdays (and as hubby says, especially my own) so I begin the celebration a week ahead of time.

Maybe we should have gone to Borders yesterday when it was sunny and in the 70s. Instead, we drove off into a virtual downpour and we made it just fine. There were lots of people out and about, getting wet and not seeming to mind it.

Hubby dropped me off and I walked into one of my favorite places on earth. Writing magazines in hand, I made my way to the coffee café, ordered a chocolate coffee, found a table and settled in. “This is what Heaven must feel like,” I thought, as I sipped the perfect hot drink for such a day.

The voices of children, moms, dads, grandparents and more rose and fell around me. Friends chatted in hushed tones, people with laptops surfed the Internet and some were writing. The readers were there, too, deeply engrossed in the written word and watching them gave me hope that my words could have that effect someday. Someday, that might be my book they’re reading while they shut out the world and become engrossed in the story I created from my imagination.

The trip to and from the bookstore was almost as enjoyable as the time I spent reading and writing today. Going places with my husband is always an adventure. Even after almost 37 years of marriage we find things to talk and laugh about, and we grow closer every minute we’re together—yet another example of what Heaven must be like, a place where we spend our time with those we love the most.

Once home, the dog greeted us as if we’d been gone for four years instead of four hours. To see the love in those eager brown eyes makes my heart melt every time, and it makes me wish that we, as humans, could be as loving and forgiving as these four-legged furry friends. Heaven has to have dogs—after all, Sarah Jane and those who came before her have given us a glimpse of what it’s like to be loved unconditionally. Everyone should have the chance to feel love like that.

The sun is out now, and the raindrops are glistening on the trees. The dog would rather stick nearby than be outside alone, and hubby is taking a well-deserved nap. The week ahead is a busy one, but for right now, this minute, I wanted to take the time to reflect on a day that brought a little bit of Heaven to earth—even if just for a few hours.

Cell phone furniture and other necessities

Cookie Monster watches over my cell phone as it rests in its own bean-bag chair.


I love gadgets and gizmos. I have my share of things I thought we couldn’t live without; some I’ve given away, some I’ve sold and others sit unused and nearly new inside dark cupboards and closets.

Sis and I were raised by a single mom who cooked and tended bar for a living, so we never had much. Food, shelter and hand-me-down clothing—those were the essentials, and mom saw to it that we had most of what we needed.

When I got married, I thought I hit the jackpot. Gone were the days of counting and accounting for every penny. Hubby never ever asked me to explain purchases and it felt both wonderful and weird. Eventually, though, I got used to buying what we needed and many things I wanted without having to jump through hoops.

Years passed and mistakes were repeatedly made, and before long I could see that maybe I wasn’t the best in the household finances department. Lessons were learned the hard way and my mistakes caused others to suffer, so I did a 180. Once in a while, though, I slip off the rails and make little boo-boos. Hence the photo at the top.

Apparently I’m still influenced by those around me. I saw a Staples button that, when pressed says, “That was easy!” It cost $5 and part of the proceeds went to a charity I believe in, so I justified the purchase to hubby by using that reasoning. Well, I tried to convince him but he just shook his head. That stupid button is around here somewhere, no doubt covered in dust.

Thing is, I love the expensive gadgets as much as the cheap ones. Computers are at the top of my list, and so is anything that has a computer chip in it. I have a so-so cell phone, but that’s OK. Someday I hope to get a BlackBerry or an iPhone (ha!), but until then I have a PDA (personal digital assistant) full of information I carry with me at all times. Hubby argues that a small notebook would serve the same purpose and cost about $97 less than the PDA did.

Also on board in my purse are the following: A digital voice recorder, a digital camera, extra batteries, cords for the camera and PDA, plus, of course, notebooks and pens.

I thought I was doing pretty well with reining in my spending until I saw someone at work with an itty-bitty bean-bag chair that was designed to hold his cell phone. It was adorable. And I had to have one.

Instead of showing off my $3 purchase, I took the sack from Staples to work with me, placed it on my desk and rested my phone on it. That ritual lasted about a week before I began to forget the newly-purchased phone furniture. The chair sat there for a few months, the phone traveled and stayed inside my purse, until one day when I grabbed the chair and took it home.

One of the many things I love about my husband is his comic reaction to some of things I do. This was going to be fun. I put the phone chair on top of the chest of drawers, placed my cell phone on it and invited hubby over to check it out.

“What is that?” he asked.

“It’s a chair for my phone,” I replied.

He slapped his forehead. “Unbelievable,” he said, as he walked away muttering to himself.

At least it was only $3. I’ve come a long, long way but I can always do better. We’re never too old to learn, right?

Clever dog and a bargain-happy hubby

Let’s catch up with Sarah Jane and hubby, shall we? And check out our new-ish ceiling fan – a real bargain at $17.50!



About a week ago I was refilling the napkin holder when I ran across a small yellow tablet with a “to-do” list written in familiar handwriting. Hubby had optimistically jotted down almost a dozen projects that needed attention. Some required small repairs; others were your start-from-scratch variety jobs.

I innocently placed the tablet on the kitchen table, and when Mr. Fix-it came downstairs for his first cup of coffee he glanced at the list, then without missing a beat he put the offensive paper back where I’d originally found it. Not a word was spoken, but I can take a hint.

So here we were on a Friday morning when the announcement is made that the ceiling fan in the living room needs to be replaced with the one purchased about a year ago at an auction. I have to say that my husband gets some of the best deals at auctions that I have ever seen. We have a TV that works beautifully, and it cost a mere $7. The living room television was a tad more expensive at $17.50. Our like-new (and sometimes outright new) ceiling fans now twirling in three rooms cost anywhere from $.50 to $17.50. The man is a wonder, I tell you.

I’m guessing here that the one slated for the living room was a used fan, and I’ll let you know why a bit later.

First, though, let’s start with Sarah Jane. We realize that our pooch is probably going to need her seizure medication for the rest of her life. To say that she’s getting bored AND clever about taking her pills would be a gross understatement. Sarah used to gobble that meat-covered med in a second, but now she’s grown tired of the whole thing. She’s found clever ways of eating the meat and pt-ooing the pill straight out of her mouth.

I was in a hurry to get to the office, but the dog needed her pill so I prepared the usual, stopped by the sofa where she was stretched from end to end and I proceeded to hold out the tempting treat. She turned up her considerable nose at the idea and we had a stare-off. I sighed, went back to the kitchen and stripped the meat off. I took out the cheese, cut a small chunk and shoved the pill inside. That seemed to meet with Her Highness’s approval, but there was a small movement of some sort and I half-wondered if she had dropped the pill again. I had to go to work, so I didn’t stop to check.

A few hours later, hubby was preparing the ceiling fan switcheroo. He bent over and picked up some round, white squishy-looking thing that may have once been a doggy pill. Sarah was now about three hours overdue for her medicine and I freaked a little. I grabbed some more cheese, dug another hole and pushed in a new pill and gave it to her. I swear she looked pleased with her bad self.

It was on to business, so Sarah was blocked from the living room while the ceiling fans were exchanged. Here’s a brief scenario:

• Bring rickety wooden ladder up from the basement and put it under the fan
• Bring tools and many other “things” downstairs to help switch out the fans
• Bring the newer fan downstairs – the blades, globes, etc.
• Look for and find duct and electrical tape; tape down the light/fan switch
• Remove old fan, swear a little, take a cigarette break (OK, take three of ‘em)
• Put up newer fan, test lights (they don’t work), stop and think whether this was a good idea
• Cigarette break
• Re-wire fan to see if lights work. They don’t. Swear some more because now the fan part makes an awfully scary noise
• Re-wire fan knowing the lights won’t work but the fan part will
• Cigarette break
• Remove ladder, check the carpet for dropped screws so the dog won’t eat them, and take away the rest of the tools, etc.
• Stare up at the newer fan, nod, and, yes, time for another cigarette break


Throughout the above two-hour ordeal, I helped hubby pick up numerous dropped screws and other doo-dads so that Sarah wouldn’t find and eat them. A pill she’ll spit out, but give her a rock, a coin or something else she shouldn’t have and she’s all over it.

Hopefully I’ve caught you up on Sarah Jane and hubby, at least for now. I have more stories to share and I promise I’ll do that – in another week.

See you next Saturday!

I'll be back - really!

Sarah Jane was wondering: Where have you all been?

Ah, dear reader, it'll be good to be back!

On Saturday, August 29 I'll return with the first of my weekly columns. The first one will be about Sarah Jane, our sweet pooch who has been battling odd little seizures since May.

Many folks have stopped me while I was out and about to ask about Sarah. They were concerned about her well-being and they also let me know in no uncertain terms that they missed my Friday column. That did my heart good!

I love sharing the happenings in my family with you and yours. It's kind of like getting together for coffee once a week, and I've come to know so many of you through the words I've penned for the last few years. I miss you!

One of the neatest things about this is that I'll be able to post color photos. That means you'll get to see Sarah at her best (and maybe her worst!) The possibilities are many, and I intend to take advantage of the opportunity to share my world in photos and words.

Until Saturday, then. Oh, and please pass the word - I'd love to see all of you right back here in a few days.

Come see what Sarah Jane has been up to!

Margi

Flappity flappity flap and other stuff

It’s been a little while now since I’ve written a column for our local newspaper. I had the Friday slot and in general, I had a great time sharing tidbits of life with a retired husband, our gigantic yellow Lab, family oddities and whatnot. But budget-cutting became the In Thing, so work hours were cut to the bone (and then some) which meant the column got kicked to the curb.

Yesterday as I was pulling out of a primo parking spot at the local Big Box store, I happened to catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Where did those two women come from? I mistakenly thought that I’d almost run them over, but not so. Thank goodness.

I rolled down the car window and one of them leaned in asked if I was Margi. Yup, I was, and that was when she asked what had happened to my column. I explained things as tactfully as I could, she told me what she thought of that, then she asked me about our pooch, Sarah Jane.

In the last column published, I told how our saved-from-the-shelter dog was doing (her seizures seem to be subsiding, though no one knows why she has them or if they’ll ever go away.) Sarah’s on medication, and that’s the best we can do for her for now. Well, that, and love the stuffing out of her – she’s a beautiful dog with a beautiful, sweet soul.

Now, let’s get to what hubby’s been up to. First, I should explain that I have awful osteoarthritis in my knees. I get through the day with store-brand ibuprofen. Hubby has a knee that gives out on him now and then, but being A Guy he just pops that baby back in and goes on about his business.

Well, that didn’t happen a week ago when he was fixing the hot water leak in the bathtub/shower. Apparently he wrenched his knee a good one coming out of the bathtub and he doesn’t really feel like it’s gone back in yet.

See, just like so many of our fellow human beings we are going through a rather common phenomena: we’re strapped for cash. Instead of getting a professional to fix the seemingly never-ending leaky faucet, we’re doing it ourselves. There’s no money for that sort of thing, what with the dog and the husband being on a variety of medications for probably forever, along with the ever-rising cost-of-living expenses.

Once we realized that ordinary painkillers weren’t going to do the job for his knee, I was finally told to call the doctor. Ka-ching!

The doctor sent us to the hospital for an x-ray. Ka-ching!

The verdict: ordinary, old-fashioned, age-related degenerative knee problem that should be solved with ibuprofen and rest.

So, let’s sum up: Leaky faucet? Check. Doctor bill? Check. Bill for x-ray? Check. And finally: Cranky hubby? Check, and check!

And that husband got crankier than ever today because instead of following doctor’s orders, someone is out and about helping a family member with their yard work. That would be bad enough, but I had to call him back home.

I was working on an article (OK, so I was playing Spider Solitaire – but just for a couple of minutes) when I heard noises coming from the laundry room. It’s not uncommon for hubby to say he’s leaving, then come back inside a time or two or three because he forgot something. It happens far more often than not, so I just figured he was back there getting some tools.

I realized the dryer had stopped, so I moseyed on back to fold the clothes. I opened the dryer door, folded one pair of underwear and stopped cold. What was that? It sounded like, “flappity-flappity-flap!” I slowly turned toward the noise and that’s when I moved very very fast for a woman with arthritic knees.

I couldn’t believe a bird inside the house would have that effect on me. It’s not like it was a raven or a vulture or anything. It was actually kind of pretty but I wanted that sucker out of my house and now.

Seconds later I was talking to a husband who really knows how to sum up the matter in few words, but I won’t share what those were. He made it home, opened the back door and the bird flew out. Sarah Jane had a blast watching the whole thing.

Everything is almost back to normal now. Hubby went back to not resting, and I’m trying to stay away from my favorite computer game. There’s a fresh, red ripe tomato calling my name so maybe I’ll take a break to make tomato burgers.

Ahhh, lunch with hubby, the dog, and no birds flappity-flapping around.

It’s a good day.

Remembering Luke Anthony and his grandma

He would have been 32 years old today.

Our youngest son was born July 28, 1977. I remember how scared I was; after all, he wasn’t due until October 5th, a long time away. The difference between summer and fall meant the difference between life and death to our little (and I do mean little) guy.

I recall most of that rollercoaster ride in our lives. Hubby and I discussed what we would name the baby if it was a boy. That part is easy to remember, but for the life of me I can’t come up with what we decided for a girl’s name.

Luke Anthony was a cool name, I thought, and there was meaning behind it. It’s not important now but it mattered to me then. I do know that my mom would have been quite impressed that I was thinking of her and the men she loved when I put those two names together for her third grandchild.

Mom never met any of her grandchildren. I can only imagine the impact she would have had on them with her vocabulary, and one has to wonder if the kids dodged a bullet here. That may sound cold but hey, mom cussed a blue streak and those words still bounce off the walls of my memory every now and then when I get really, really angry.

I can’t imagine mom even being a grandma because she doesn’t fit the image I have of one. She had a cynical view of life and people, especially her own family and some of that has filtered down through her daughters. Sis and I fight that feeling as needed, which is quite often these days. World, national, state and local news almost always brings messages of doom and gloom. Come to think of it, mom would’ve gotten quite a kick out of living in these tumultuous times.

I wonder sometimes how different our grandkids would be today if they’d known their other grandma. Would they be influenced by her, or vice-versa? Would her love of the dark and scary things in life have a negative effect, or would they get a kick out of a grandma who wasn’t quite like everyone else? We’ll never know.

Maybe I shouldn’t say that. Think about it: Mom and Luke Anthony are together now. That’s my belief anyway, and I’ve often daydreamed about how they’re getting along until we join them. I bet mom knows how her grandson got his name, and I’ll also wager she hasn’t taught him everything she could have. Thank goodness!

Mom left us on a stunningly beautiful fall morning, and trust me on this because I was there: She cussed all the way out. I thought she was just muttering in her sleep but the nurse informed me that she was not coming out of it. I was embarrassed for the other patient in the room because there was no mistaking that mom was making her feelings known about the whole situation.

Luke left us on a stunningly beautiful winter morning. Puffy blue clouds floated in a bright blue sky, and the sun glinted off of snow drifts. In contrast to his grandma, the little guy simply stopped breathing as I held him in my arms in a room full of family and friends.

I have to say that I’m glad the two of them are together to keep each other company. I’m guessing each one has taught the other a thing or two about Life.

And I hope they both know how much I miss them.

Because I'm God, and you're not

(This photo was taken Saturday afternoon, just before the storm hit. This picture mirrors what I sometimes feel when the pressures get to be a bit much.)




I have a confession to make. My prayer life has suffered a bit lately, and I know why.

When I prayed for a friend’s cancer diagnosis to be negative, it came back positive.

When I prayed for my job to continue as it has for quite some time, the answer came in a firm declaration of reduced hours.

When I prayed for the healing of family relationships, the answer was a stony silence.

When I prayed for our dog’s seizures to cease, the answer came back No.

And when I prayed for medicine for myself to ease the anxiety that the above “answers” gave me, the reply was, once again, No.

I had an argument with God the other day about these things. I pointed out that back in 1978, hubby and I had faith that our youngest son would make it out of the hospital and come home with us. Didn’t happen. Two weeks after Luke died, I had a long, drawn-out angry yell-fest with God. If I remember correctly, and I think I do, I mentioned something about hoping He’d taken enough from me, and could He please start answering my prayers – now?

In 2002, we saw our oldest son for the last time. We don’t know where he is, or whether he’s alive. Many friends and most of the family know about this; still, no one asks about him anymore and for some dumb reason, I was blaming that on God too. Every birthday, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, holiday – or any day, really – brings our son to mind and heart and it hurts like you wouldn’t believe. Where IS he and why hasn’t God brought him home?

A few days ago I was talking with God. I was a bit angry. “Nothing seems to be going right,” I told Him. “I’m afraid to ask You for anything anymore because all You do is give me the opposite.” I had a sudden fear that I was causing more harm than good with my prayers, and that carries a whole new category of guilt.

Then today, I turned on TV to watch church. I could see the family members whose weeks’-long silence has befuddled, frustrated and saddened us. I was hoping the sermon would speak to them so they would see the error of their ways and contact us.

The pastor preached on faith. The title was something like: “When our faith seems to fail us.” Well! Maybe I was finally going to get some answers.

I did.

We were told that there could be three reasons why our faith seems to fail us. One is that God simply doesn’t exist.

Well, strike that one. I know better than that. We’ve lost one son and one is missing right now, so in my experience as a mom I have to say that this is one of the worst, if not the worst thing a parent can experience. Still, I never for once entertained the thought that God doesn’t exist, at least not for more than a few minutes. Hubby and I want to see our little guy again someday and we have faith that we will. Period.

The second possible reason for our faith failing us was this: that God’s plan is so far from ours, and because of that, it feels like He’s not listening. This is a reason I can hang my hat on, but that doesn’t mean I’m in love with it. It would help a whole lot if God would just drop me a line and explain what I’m going through instead of watching me try to walk a maze blindfolded.

Then our pastor reminded us: “Have Thine own way, Lord. Thou art the Potter and I am the clay.” I’ll try to remember that. Pastor also reminded us that we can’t put blinders on and tell God, “Unless You do it this way, I don’t believe You exist.” I’ve been doing that a lot lately, though I don’t have any doubt He exists. I just feel like He says No…far too often.

The third reason our faith seems to fail us is that we may have sin in our life, that maybe we have to make some adjustments. Perhaps, our pastor suggested, we need to pray to God that He search our hearts, and that His Spirit let us know what is standing between us and God.

I loved the analogy pastor gave about this. He said, as if he was talking to God while holding a big bucket over his head, “I’m in need of some blessings, God, and if You love me, if You’re paying attention, and if You’re not distracted, could You please fill up my bucket with blessings?”

Pastor noted that God’s answer might be that He can’t fill our bucket because there are too many holes in it. That maybe our hearts need changing, and until that happens any blessings poured into the bucket would be wasted as they leaked right out.

I took in the words and let them find a place inside me. The message moved me enough to write about it, but the real test will come the next time I pray. Since I send missives up throughout the day, that could happen at any time.

So far, I’ve not heard that the diagnosis has changed, my next paycheck will be short, the family never made the call to join them for breakfast after church, the dog is resting comfortably – for now, and the best I can do for my anxiety is, you guessed it, to pray.

And when I don’t get the answer I want, I think I’ll remember this one thing as I imagine His answer to my question of Why?

“Because,” He’ll say, “I’m God, and you’re not.”

I really can’t argue with that.

Dad

(Father's Day. The day that means something different to almost everyone, but I can't speak for others, just for myself. The following touches briefly on the life of a man who left a profound impression on me, and boy am I thankful for that.)



Gosh, I miss dad.

Granted he wasn’t my biological father; he was my husband’s dad and he was one in a million.

I first met Cody (a name I never called him – he was simply “dad”) when he and his family moved into a new home behind mine. I lived in the old rental house behind his with my ill mother and younger sister. Since I was the oldest, I did most of the chores and that included mowing the huge lawn every summer.

My future father-in-law and I met up one summer afternoon beneath the apple trees that grew along our property lines. He had twinkling blue eyes and I found out later that he thought my blue eyes were just beautiful.

Eventually I met his oldest son, we dated for three months and as of this moment, hubby and I have been married 36 ½ years.

Shortly after that meeting by the apple trees, I began watching more closely what was going on behind our home. This beautiful new house was coming together, and there were lots of men and a few women working around the place. My mother showed little interest in the new neighbors until after the home was built, moved into and the young kids made too much noise with their garage band. That’s when she did the neighborly thing – she called the police. I was mortified.

After some months passed and hubby won over my mom, I left home a married woman with a life of my own. My little sister, then 15, had to take over as caregiver.

I grew to love hubby’s family, but I had a special relationship with dad. My own father had walked away from his wife and baby when I was three weeks old. I only saw him once after that, for a couple of hours, so we never knew one another.

Maybe that’s why dad meant so much to me, but I know that’s not the only reason – not by a long shot. Dad taught me to be true to what my heart was telling me. I graduated from high school and even attended our junior college, so the head knowledge was there and I often tried to make things make sense before I came to a decision. Dad led with his gut, and I admired that. I also learned from it and more often than not, it’s how I live my life.

Dad’s last job was as a plumber-pipefitter, but he held lots of jobs throughout his life. This last one, though, paid enough for him to build his wife a home (mostly with his own hands) that she would have for the rest of her life. He wanted her to be able to live there as long as she wanted, even if he went on to Heaven first. Dad made sure the house was paid off, and it stayed that way – for a while.

Throughout the years, all four of dad’s sons married and had children. Grandkids visited often, gravitating toward their grandpa and strong relationships were formed. Dad was genuine, the Real Thing and they knew it.

Faith in God was a big deal for dad. He and I had lots of conversations about God, doing the right thing, speaking the truth and standing up for oneself. He gave me the gift of self-esteem, but he gave me so much more: respect as a person of worth. Dad loved me for who I was and that is a rare and wonderful thing.

In early 2001, dad became ill and later developed shingles. That developed into post-herpetic neuralgia and the father that I loved fought the pain for as long as he could. He passed away in March of 2004, and the family he held together for decades has drifted away from one another.

Still, one thread will always connect brother to brother, mother to sons, and grandchild to grandchild. Dad was a part of all of our lives and every single one of us can say the same thing and mean it with every fiber of our being:

Gosh, we miss you Dad.

It's a gas, gas, gas

(The U.N. might want to think twice before taxing this cow....)

Weird things happen all the time, and this past couple of weeks proved that point.

Hubby and I heard a lot about gas.

There was the outrageous report on, um, cow gas; the odd line item on our natural gas bill; and the daily climb for the price of gasoline at the pump.

Let’s do cow farts first.

I was watching Fox News one morning when a distinguished-looking gentleman appeared to discuss the proposed new taxes on cows and pigs. This man looked like a town banker, which made his four-time use of the phrase “cow farts” all the more hilarious. Naturally, I was fascinated. (I’m such a child.)

Turns out that the U.N. is accusing cows of producing 18 percent of the world’s greenhouse-gas emissions, and they claim that that’s more than planes, trains and cars combined.

While some believe that most of the methane is coming from the cow’s behind, others say the largest percentage comes from cow burps.

A suggested set of taxes on our cow buds went something like this: $125 per head for dairy cows; $85 per head for beef cows; and $20 per pig. These would be annual taxes.

Little alarm bells were going off in my head. If this tax went into effect, how long would it be before we couldn’t afford to consume dairy and meat products? What am I saying? As it is, I often window-shop at the steak counter of the grocery store before reality hits and I saunter to the cheapest ground beef and load up the cart. Looks like we’ll be replacing that protein with beans.

And there you go with another whole group of gas jokes.

Now, let’s take a gander at our latest utility bill. Seems as though AmerenIP is asking for yet another rate increase – this time, they say, it’s for delivering our energy to us. And, they point out with a wagging finger, they wouldn’t even have to ask us for more loot if they’d gotten every penny they asked for last time.

I’m one of those folks who actually reads more than the Total Amount Due on their bills. I want to know what we’re being charged for, and I sure found out.

Under “Total delivery services” (what it costs to deliver the gas to our home), the cost was $23.81. The amount of gas we used was $20.53. It cost more to deliver our gas than the product itself. As for the electricity portion, it cost $25.03 to deliver $33.32 worth of the product – a bit more balanced, but not by much. How much more will we all be charged to deliver a product none of us can do without?

That leaves the price at the gas pump. We’ve all heard that the prices have risen there for over 40 days in a row. Speculators, some say. Others opine that it’s summer blend, summer demand, low refinery output, and on and on. All I know is, we have less money to work with than before but we’re expected to pay more than ever.

I don’t have any easy answers. My job has been affected by the economy, so there’s less coming in, and with hubby on a fixed income that leaves wide open the almost-certain likelihood that one or both of us will have to take on a second, maybe a third job.

We both realize we’re in good company, that there are others worse off than we are, but sometimes that’s little comfort. As we try to sleep at night, our thoughts race and upset us to the point that we wake in the wee hours of the morning, our minds a-whirl with worst-case scenarios. For the umpteenth time, we huddle together over coffee at the kitchen table and scrape our budget to the bone, trying to find what else we can live without.

It’s enough to give one gas, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Friends, dogs and prayers at 3:30 a.m.

(Sometimes early mornings are great. It's quiet, and I like that. But sometimes, it's the perfect time for The Worries to attack and once they do, it's almost impossible to stop them.)


It was 3:30 in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep.

The dream I’d been having wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t rise to the level of a nightmare. I’ve had those, and this wasn’t Steven King-ish in the least. Still, I was plenty upset at that early hour and sleep wouldn’t come so I resigned myself to the thoughts that sat waiting for an invitation.

First up was a review of the dream. I was driving behind a semi-truck that decided to back up without warning. I jumped out of the car and the truck kept coming and before I knew it, the front part of our Mercury Marquis was smooshed against a gray brick building. Hubby was going to be furious.

As I watched the truck change direction and drive away, I knew the next step was to call the police. When I grabbed the cell phone from my purse, it fell apart in my hands. It was totally useless.

In this dream I’d been at a house where a few family and friends were gathered, along with all of their dogs, including Sarah Jane. When I walked in the door to find someone to help me with the wrecked car, I noticed one thing immediately: there was undeniable proof that no one had bothered to let the pooches outside to relieve themselves. It was then that I woke up.

The next thought came quickly and I knew it was because the news had come as such a shock a few weeks back. A good friend, a talented and compassionate friend is facing a life-altering change that has rocked her world and the world of those who love her. I’m sure I’m not the only one who goes to bed and wakes up thinking about what’s happened and wondering what will come next.

I checked the bedside clock and noticed that a half an hour had passed. At 4:01 a.m. my thoughts turned toward Sarah Jane. There had been more seizures, more fear and worry, and the feeling of utter helplessness that turns me into a basket case.

On a late afternoon while hubby was away from the house, Sarah came to the side of my chair like she often does. She sat, and after a minute or so she went into a fly-biting episode. She was in a place I couldn’t go; she was all alone and I sat helpless while she tried to find her way back to me. Eventually, she did.

An appointment was made at the vet to draw blood, and I posted Sarah’s condition to a special place on the Internet that’s devoted to our canine companions. Within an hour, she had over 20 e-mails from her doggy friends around country. “Paws crossed in prayer,” most of them read, and I cried. More e-mails arrive daily, and I’m thankful.

Still, we won’t have the results of Sarah’s blood tests until next week, and the waiting is nerve-wracking.

By the time I was done maneuvering the minefield of thoughts that morning, it was close to 4:30. I woke for the day at 5:15.

Those early morning worry times are hard on a person, and I know many of you out there go through the same thing. How could you not when we’re all bombarded with crises that are out of our control? When there’s nothing at all you can do to change the situation, when all you can do is watch like a spectator in the stands?

Besides prayer, which is a big thing to me and something I practice throughout the day, there is one other thing I do to relieve the stress of those early-morning freak-out episodes. I try to remember to go to my Happy Place – a special part of my heart and mind where I keep pleasant memories. Those include hours spent in a bookstore, writing with a friend, meals out with hubby, chasing Sarah through the house, time at work with colleagues who never fail to make me laugh at least once a day – memories that help keep the monsters at bay for a little while at least.

Turning a hot temper into cool action

(At least dogs can take their playful aggression out on us humans. The rest of us try to maintain our composure - well, most of the time I guess.)


The earliest memory I have of completely losing my temper was when I was 10 years old. Sure, I got angry lots of times as a kid; after all, I had a younger sister who was a tattletale and a show-off. Plus, I knew that mom loved her best.

I got a glimpse of how hot my temper could get when some school kid punched my little sister in the stomach and made her cry. I lost control and ran after the offender with my lunch pail raised above my head. I was a very good runner, yet I could see I wasn’t going to catch this girl so I threw the pail and missed the moving target.

I cried in anger and humiliation, found my sister and headed toward home. We never told mom what had happened; it was one of many secrets we kept over the years.

There’s not much that makes me angrier than bullies picking on the weak, those in power lording it over others, or other similar examples. Problem is, I tend to take up someone’s cause, they welcome the help, then long after they’ve given up and gone about their business, I’m still fighting away. It’s one of a few faults I’m working on.

I remember another time I lost it. We were living in Arizona and I worked for a gas company. Customer service was a fun place with wonderful co-workers. Our bosses were terrific too, and the pay and benefits were the best I’d ever had.

My duties included working with customers on payment arrangements, scheduling turn-ons and turn-offs, sending technicians out on gas leaks, that sort of thing. The first day on the job went swimmingly until late afternoon.

An experienced rep worked with me that memorable day and I have to say that the training I had up to that point did not prepare me for an out-of-control, irate councilman.

I answered the phone politely, gave my name and the next thing I knew the rep and I were blasted into outer space with the expletives and demands coming from the mouth of our city’s government official. He was one angry dude.

Seems like the guy was getting ready to attend a fancy-schmancy affair and, as he put it, just as he was putting on his tuxedo jacket he heard a loud protest from his children that their outdoor pool water was cold. Apparently, some stupid schmo from our company had turned off his gas.

Once I got over the shock, I looked up the guy’s account and found that he hadn’t paid his bill in over three months, hence the wrench upon the gas meter. We were instructed to send someone out immediately to remedy the situation, and no, he wasn’t planning on paying up until he had the time. He was, after all, a very busy man.

I was giggling inside somewhere because I just knew this guy wasn’t going to get his way. Boy, talk about being naïve. A technician was dispatched pronto, apologies were made, and an extension was given, along with a note on the customer’s account that pretty much guaranteed that this awful misdeed would never be repeated. It was explained to me that sometimes a utility must appear before the city council, and to put it succinctly, the two sides needed each other.

The respect I had for those in charge nearly evaporated, but something else took its place. I promised myself then and there that once I knew how to do my job well, I would help those who, in my opinion, really deserved it. It was inevitable that I would get fooled a time or two, but I learned and the system worked well for a few years.

I never got tired of helping those who were struggling from paycheck to paycheck, who would have no hot water or heat (yes, it does get cold in the desert during the winter) unless they were given just a few more days to make their payment. The relief in their voices often made my day.

I still love to help those who are having a hard time, whether that involves speaking up for them or doing something more. I can’t chase folks and throw things at them these days, but my time is never wasted when people get the help they need.

Life will never be fair, and we’ll have to accept that. Still, let’s keep looking for ways to even things up a bit. It’ll be fun, trust me on this.

Here's to the pebble in my shoe

(Wouldn't you know it...we're gathered together (once again) for a memorial, a passing on of two people we all loved. Shouldn't we gather more often to celebrate while we're still here on Earth instead of waiting until it's too late? I'm just asking....)


Last Friday at around 5:30 a.m., I woke up knowing I had a full schedule. Work, meeting with a business partner, grocery shopping and some other agenda items I can’t recall at the moment – all of these were waiting for an enthusiastic and sharp-witted person. I’ll admit to the enthusiasm part; after all, I love my job and I’m thrilled to be involved in creating a new business. The grocery shopping was a ho-hum thing but necessary.

Let’s just say, I was going to be busy.

I’ve come to hate the word “busy”. Too many relationships have fallen by the wayside simply because folks have declared themselves to be too “busy” to call, drop by or contact me by any means available. What they’re saying, in essence, is that I am no longer important enough to spare even 300 seconds (that’s five minutes out of the 1,440 in every 24-hour period). Nice. No wonder there are so many fractured families and former friendships in our lives these days.

Oh, and I’m one of the guilty ones.

As I grabbed the purse, laptop and a briefcase Friday morning, I noticed that there was a sharp pebbly-type thing in my shoe. Instead of putting everything down and taking care of the problem, I wiggled my toes to move the annoyance around and headed out.

Work at the office went smoothly that morning, except for the pebble periodically making its presence felt. A toe wiggle and the pain went away. Time to meet with the business partner.

We spent most of the time sitting, talking and typing. She headed out the door first and I followed, with much more on my mind than I arrived with plus one more thing: the pebble was front and center once again. And I was too busy to mess with it. I gritted my teeth and headed for the grocery store.

As I wiggled my toes and perused the aisles, I wondered why I didn’t just take the time to take off my shoe and get rid of the tiny rock. The answer, I guess, was that I’d get to it when I got home. I could stand it until then.

I made it to a few more places before pulling into the driveway. I hauled in the bags, plus everything I’d taken with me that morning. A look at the clock told me I’d been gone over five hours. Not once during that time did I take a few seconds to stop, take off my shoe and shake it. I was too busy.

It’s no fun to admit this, but it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that I took care of the problem. I think I was fighting the pebble throughout the day just to show it who was boss. And now I know.

The story of the pebble in the shoe is real, and it did happen last Friday. But long before that, I could use that analogy to describe relationships that we let fall by the side of the road of life simply because we’re too busy to maintain them. We think the other person will understand; gosh, we have so many commitments! People are counting on us to do this, that and the other for them so, they’re sorry but you’re just going to have to wait until they have time for you in their life again.

But here’s the kicker: what if we wait so long, what if we let our hectic lifestyles kill off what really matters? Will those people still be waiting for you, or will they have turned away for good? You’ve got to know that you can only ignore loved ones for so long before they simply give up and go away for good.

The sad part of this story is that some will read it, see themselves and vow to change. They’ll promise to make that phone call and ask their brother, sister, aunt, niece, uncle, nephew, cousin or friend to lunch but they’ll fall flat on their face as soon as someone or something comes along that simply must have their attention.

Others will read this and not see themselves at all. Or, they’ll think it’s up to the other person to contact them and the inevitable march to a loss of closeness will continue until neither of them care one whit about the other.

As for me, I’ve made a list of those I’ve lost touch with. Thanks in large part to an annoying pebble in my shoe, I know better than to use the excuse of being too busy to ignore the most important part of life: my family and my friends.

Pebbles rock.

Doggone dogs we still love and always will

(Sarah Jane would have loved Cujo and Max and all the other pups we brought into our home and hearts.)


If you’ve owned a few dogs and cats over the years, and some of them have gone on to the Rainbow Bridge, you’ve probably seen a television commercial or two that brings back the memory of your dearly-departed four-legged buddy. We’ve seen a few ads lately that remind us of a couple of our lovable mutts.

One of our favorite dogs was Cujo, our Saint Bernard-mix. What a character she was, and not just because she was afraid of storms and firecrackers.

Hubby loved throwing food in the air just to see Cujo miss it. Sometimes it landed right atop her furry head, and most times she would seem unaware she had a piece of cheese just inches from her mouth. One of us had to pluck the food off her head and feed it to her. It never ceased to be funny.

With Max, our Malamute-mix, we had to be very, very careful. That long nose, sharp eyes and even sharper teeth were a lethal combination to any human hand that ventured too close while holding food. After she sunk her doggy fangs into hubby’s hand twice because he pulled a chocolate candy bar out of her mouth, we resorted to tossing her food from a safe distance for a while but I never gave up. Eventually Max could gently retrieve food from my outstretched hand. I felt like I won a prize.

Sarah the pup is another animal altogether. She is by far the biggest dog we’ve ever had. As she’s walked around the neighborhood, folks stop to talk to her and her master, drivers crane their necks to stare and one time a car full of young ladies yelled out, “Hey! Is that a Marley dog? It is! Hey!” I’m not sure what they expected Sarah to do, but she just kept her steady walking pace while sniffing the ground and trying to ingest whatever she could swallow before getting caught.

The weather has turned nice, so the dog is outside a good part of the day. That allows hubby and I to sit comfortably at the kitchen table and we’re able to eat slowly - our whole meal. Usually the pooch has her heavy head resting on our leg, staring up with sad brown eyes. Once she gets a bite from one of us, she immediately scurries around to beg from the other one. I’m sure we’re breaking some iron-clad rule by feeding the dog at the table but it’s our house, and our rules. Besides, if Sarah is nothing else, she’s loyal to those who let her lick the cold creamy part of a delicious Dilly Bar.

As we watch the TV ads that give us a glimpse at the pets we once had, I find myself wanting to try to replace Cujo and Max. This time, I’d want a dog that isn’t afraid of loud noises, and one who wouldn’t remove a finger or two as we offered food. But if we could have back the same ones we lost, who had the same idiosyncrasies, we’d take them in a heartbeat. After all, those are the dogs who stole our hearts in the first place.

Turning toward home on this Mother's Day

(A wish, a prayer, for those who may be far from home this Mother's Day - plus remembering my mom.)

That special day is the day after tomorrow. But it didn’t take a date on the calendar to remind me that Mother’s Day is this Sunday.

I knew all about it because of the scent of my favorite flowers floating through my open kitchen window. The lilac bush is tall and bursting with lavender blooms, and when I stand quietly, with my eyes closed I can almost see mom in my mind’s eye.

(As an aside, one of the weirdest experiences for me was when I couldn’t picture mom’s face shortly after she died. I was young, just 21, and I was having a severe memory problem. Turns out that’s not a strange thing at all – it happens to a lot of folks.)

That afternoon, after the sun warmed the air before it blew through the open window, I breathed in the memories of that house on Tenney Street with the lilacs just outside the living room windows. Isn’t it strange how a happy recollection can bring tears to your eyes and a lump to your throat?

I smiled as tears trickled down my face. There’s just something about a mom.

Those of us who hold that position too often believe we don’t measure up to what a mother should be. We measure ourselves against other moms we know, along with celebrity mothers. We think we’re too fat, too thin, not bright enough, too strict, too lenient. Some feel they can’t cook or keep a clean home.

I bet mom believed a few of those things about herself. As an adult, I now see that she had low self-esteem issues, yet I miss her something fierce. That means I loved her, no matter her perceived shortcomings. Those things didn’t matter; what mattered most to me were the life lessons she taught without knowing she was doing so.

Sis and I know how to make money stretch, we’re very good cooks and we’re kind to animals. We both fall a trifle short on housecleaning abilities, because most of the time we have other priorities, like putting relationships with family and friends ahead of dusting and washing dishes.

You know, there are some women who are mothers though not in the traditional sense, and I’m not talking about adoption. I have a dear friend whom I like to describe as a “mother to the world.” She has this uncanny ability to run across the poor or needy and she finds some way to brighten their world, to make them feel like they truly do matter. In my opinion, that’s how a mother acts – giving comfort, words of encouragement, and in some cases, finding just the right way to feed a hungry soul, whether it’s with a bouquet of flowers or a new air conditioner on a hot summer day.

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. I’m thankful that mom taught us the value of the word “no” because if she hadn’t, I know sis and I would have grown up thinking the world owed us whatever we wanted. There are some adults who have been given almost everything they asked for throughout their lives and now they can’t handle making their own way. Moms have a tough time denying their children whatever they want, and I’d bet anything that our mom struggled with that.

Being a parent is so hard sometimes. The worry never stops, arguments happen, and sometimes children will simply walk away from home without a backward glance. But someday that son or daughter may find themselves standing quietly by an open window, the scent of lilacs floating on a spring breeze and their heart will turn toward home.

That, dear reader, will be a very happy Mother’s Day indeed.

The winner is the wolf we feed

(No, this isn't a picture of a wolf, nor is it our beloved Max - though I do have a photo of her around here - this is Windmont Park in Kewanee. It's a peaceful place, and the fountain is pretty. Yup, this is a perfect spot to feed the "good" wolf).

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.

“One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

“The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

(From: A Motivational Story with Wisdom – Two Wolves Cherokee Wisdom)

A few weeks ago a friend e-mailed me the above message. She didn’t single me out; this was one of those mass missives, the kind I usually delete after reading the first sentence. But to paraphrase a famous line from the movie Jerry Maguire, she had me at the last seven words in the first sentence, so I kept the e-mail and re-read it over the next week or so.

No one wants to admit they harbor anger, envy, jealousy and the rest of the evil thoughts listed. I’ve been guilty of having every one of those awful feelings, and while I’ve dropped most of them, I find that anger and self-pity tend to stick around.

That isn’t to say that joy, peace, love, hope and all the rest of the good guys don’t have a home inside me. They do. It’s just that those other two tend to rear their ugly heads and demand to be fed regularly, and there seems to be an endless supply of, for lack of a better word, food.

Some may think I’m making up this next observation, but I’m not. I shared this quote with at least half a dozen people recently and without exception, each one zeroed in on anger and sorrow. They were angry with someone, almost always a family member, and they felt the sorrow that comes with the inevitable separation from those who once loved them.

The feeding of that wolf comes from the constant thinking and re-thinking of The Incident. It can be a new wound or an old, old one. Sad and angry thoughts intrude during the day and keep us awake at night. Close friends and co-workers often lend a sympathetic ear, thereby giving the wolf even more to eat as details are rehashed until there’s nothing left to say, at least until the next time.

As we shared our wolf stories, a common theme emerged. Anger and sorrow diminished somewhat as we shared what happens when we keep ourselves too busy to think about what brings us down. Taking a keener interest in work, volunteering, going back to school – those things and more have helped to starve the one wolf while nurturing the other.

The men and women around the table that afternoon had found ways to bring peace, hope, serenity and empathy to their lives, and for some of them, it had been too long a time. They laughed easily, and it was a beautiful sound. Though there were no rules among us banning discussion of troubles, no one mentioned anything negative. We went our separate ways, and promised to get together again soon.

I love this piece of wolf wisdom. Heck, I love wolves. Our dog Max looked like a wolf, at least to me, and one of the things about her that impressed me every day of her life was the look in her eyes. Somewhere inside of her, I could see just a hint of what looked like sadness. It was always there, even while her tail was wagging in happy anticipation of a treat or some other wonderful thing. I was never able to relieve Max of that look in her eyes.

I see that expression in the eyes of some of the people closest to me. They’ve been hurt in some way, and no matter how hard someone tries to point out all they have to be thankful for, the wolf inside is hungry and it demands to be fed.

My hope is that you are able to distinguish between the two wolves inside of you. You can pretend that all is well, like far too many people do, or you can follow the wisdom of the old Cherokee.

Life’s too short – feed the Good wolf.

Storytelling on a rainy Sunday afternoon

(A dear friend and fellow writer, unrelenting rain and wind, and the determination to speak our written words aloud - this is what brought us all together on a Sunday afternoon to the Galesburg Public Library.)

It's hard, on a bright sunny day like today to remember what Sunday was like. But I got soaked to the skin so many times that it's harder to forget that it poured all the live-long day. Any other time I would stay safely inside my warm cozy home curled under a blanket watching a tape of Corner Gas episodes and laughing until I fell asleep in my chair.

Thing is, I had to be at the Galesburg Public Library to receive the third-place winning certificate and ten bucks for my short story, Catching Up and Saying Goodbye. It was also expected that as a grown-up, I would read my work to the audience. Sure I would.

My friend and I left town an hour earlier than we needed to so we could stop at Big Lots to looks for Big Bargains. She found a few, and I proceeded to get sick. I never once thought to blame it on the weather because I knew the problem came from imagining reading in front of a bunch of strangers who would probably snicker, or worse, walk out as soon as I stumbled up to the podium.

We spent almost too much time at the store, and the longer we stayed the worse I felt. The rain was steady, and we weren't sure where the library was. Asking a clerk or two or three for directions didn't really yield the best results, so we headed out into the deluge.

As I pondered whether or not I was going to read or just pop into the library and grab my money, there was a knock on the car window next to my head. Some poor drenched woman was holding up a plastic bag. "Did you forget your paper plates?" she asked as she used the bag to cover her head. We thanked her, took the wet sack and I rolled up the window. Just then, another acquaintance waved through the raindrops and chatted for a couple of minutes.

We pulled out into traffic, and surprisingly we found the library rather quickly. There were no parking spots by the door, so I was dropped off with about ten minutes to spare. Once we got our bearings, we headed for the second floor to scope out the place. I would have to decide pretty soon, and that was enough stress to make me feel even worse.

The room was pretty big, with lots and lots of folding chairs, most of them empty. There must have been about 30 people or so, many of them young adults sitting at the front of the room. My friend and I headed to the back for cookies and juice. I grabbed a program. Maybe if I was listed in the top three to read first, I could get it over with and leave.

I found the thumbprint cookies (my favorite), poured some pink lemonade and opened the program. There I was alright - dead last. And there was an intermission. This was not going to work, and my friend knew it just by looking at the expression on my face. We approached the woman in charge, who apologized but said that yup, the program was right, I was last.

At about that time, it was decided that my story would be read, whether I did it or my friend did. Since she'd taken time out of her day to drive me there in her car, I hated to ask that of her too. And so we ate our cookies, drank our juice and listened to the other winners read their works. I couldn't be more thankful that we stuck it out.

The youngest were third, fourth and fifth graders and most of them were more than happy to read their poetry and stories in front of everyone. They posed for pictures, gave one another fist-bumps, and clutched their certificates and checks in their hands as they made their way back to their seats, grinning all the way. If they could do this, so could I.

We both were especially touched by the teen girls' poetry. One spoke of her grandmother, now in a nursing home, and she wrote with such heartbreaking tenderness that most of us were crying at the end, including the poet herself.

The two men who won first and second place were extraordinary storytellers. We won't soon forget the tale of the single dad and his two daughters, told by a man who had to have experienced this bittersweet tale. He wove word pictures that brought tears to our eyes. The second-place winner told a spooky story that was right up my alley, and I wondered why I hadn't thought of his topic.

I don't remember a whole lot about reading my piece except that people didn't leave or giggle at the wrong spots or even talk to one another while I spoke. They were all respectful and attentive, so it wasn't a horrible experience by a long shot.

When it was all over and the pictures taken, we took the elevator down, dodged raindrops and headed for a cup of coffee. We watched cars go by as we sipped and talked and tried to dry out. It was almost time to head home, and we were ready.

Those of us old enough to know better should realize by now that the anticipation of something is oftentimes far worse than than the event itself. That was certainly true last Sunday, and all I can do is give a big Thank You - to my friend for her support, to the judges for picking my story, and especially to the poets and storytellers that day who enriched our lives on that rainy afternoon in Galesburg.

Bravo.