Welcome to Margi's place

Christmas dinner, wonderful anniversary

2011-12-30T09:26:00.000-08:00

Our Christmas dinner hostess was competent and flustered at the same time. A family guest was plucking tender turkey from the roasting pan and placing it on a serving plate. Light brown gravy simmered on the stove; corn casserole and twice-baked potatoes were warming in the oven.

It was a surprisingly calm scene in spite of the fact the turkey was done an hour earlier than anticipated, and the rest of the clan was arriving in dribs and drabs.

The cousin I was looking for came bearing baked goodies, most importantly her crunchy-topped cherry pie. The two-crust version was made famous in the family by our Aunt Gladys, a woman we get misty-eyed over whenever we gather to reminisce.

After dumping the coats I rounded the corner and saw the prize sitting on the counter. “Ah,” I said, “that’s what I came for.”And that’s when I heard The Voice. “Step. Back. From. The. Pie.”

I swiveled and looked straight into the pretty blue eyes of one of the most loved of kindergarten teachers in town. Those same eyes bore through me, but with enough humor behind the warning to keep me from dashing out the door I came in just minutes before.

After the nearly endless placing of the turkey and all the trimmings on the tables, the prayer, and the passing of the food we all settled down to do some serious eating. The room grew quiet, even the kids as we enjoyed what has to be the best Christmas dinner ever.

Some of the women got up to stretch and clean the table, the guys headed for the living room and some serious sleeping, and the kids returned to their computers, games and music. Those of us left at the table hadn’t seen each other in a while so we caught up.We talked about those no longer with us as families do during the holidays. We talked about jobs present and past, our health, recipes, computers, dogs and lots more. Most of all, we simply sat and soaked up the enjoyment of one another’s company.

After a good while the men stirred, the kids wandered back in and we realized there was room for dessert. As I mixed a bit of vanilla ice cream with the cherry pie, I realized that the best part of the dinner had nothing at all to do with food. The best part by far was making memories with those I love.

Oh, speaking about love, today is the 39th anniversary of the day I married the man of my dreams in the chapel of the First United Methodist Church. Where have all the years gone? Happy anniversary to the best guy on Earth.

Five novels, two memoirs and other writerly stuff

2011-07-01T08:16:00.000-07:00

Just one of my NaNoWriMo winning certificates. I plan to be a part of the group again this November - something I look forward to almost as much as my birthday.

Have you ever found yourself in the middle of a big project and wondered how in the blazes you got yourself into it? I’m in one of those now and for the life of me I don’t recall how it all began.

In November of 2005 (I think) I wrote a novel of sorts for National Novel Writing Month (NaNo for short). Could be I started a year or so before and just never quite got to the 50,000-word mark but I do have a mound of paper with a story in it sitting on my desk, so there you go. An explanation: in order to “win” at NaNo you must write at least 50,000 words. You get a nifty certificate suitable for framing for your efforts, so it’s well worth it.

There are also novels for 2006, 2007, 2008 and 2009. I skipped 2010 simply because there was no time. Some stressful personal stuff was happening and adding a novel to the mix was not going to work. Thing is, by not writing in November like tens of thousands of others made for its own kind of stress but hey, 2011 is another chance to slap some words on paper again.

All but one of the novels has a working title, and every single one needs a massive amount of work. I’m not discouraged by this because basically these thousands of words could be called an outline, something I wouldn’t have had without NaNo.

There is a murder mystery, a family drama, a business-type story and the untitled piece is a mystery to me because I’ve not re-read any of them. Once I found them on the computer I printed them out and soon I’ll pick one to work on. It’s much easier to have a paper copy to edit than try to strain the ol’ eyeballs for hours at a stretch on a computer screen.

Printing hundreds of pages requires ink and paper, and I ran out of both on both printers. Some copies ended up on blue paper but that was fine; however, when you run out of ink that’s not so good. I made a trip to the store, got ink, ran out again and made another trip.

Lessons learned along the way included remembering to use single spacing (uses less paper, but not the best for editing); using the ink-saving feature on the printers; and for goodness sake, keep track of what’s already been printed so you don’t print the same novel twice. I may have wasted ink, which makes me want to slap someone, but I’ll use the other side of the paper for the other two non-fiction books left to print.

A big part of this job is finding all I’ve written, getting it organized and into a word-processing program. Everything is printed, then clipped to keep it in order. Oh, and another lesson learned: put page numbers on everything. I was planning to use a three-hole punch on each book and put them into binders, but that’s a waste of time and effort. Giant paper clasps work much better and take about two seconds to attach.

I know the reason for this work-in-progress, even if I don’t remember how it all began. There are more publishing opportunities for writers now than ever and since the conventional means hasn’t worked for many of us, we have to look for other methods.

One more thing, and it’s pretty cool. Looks like a new writers group will start up this month. I’m excited, and when there’s more to tell, I’ll let you know. Provided I remember, of course.

If I could pick friends as family, these two would be a part of ours

2011-06-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

Someday we'll meet again, as we all eventually travel on ahead of loved ones. The important thing is that we all reunite at the same destination.

There are some people who come into your life and leave a loving and deep impression. You may see them often or years could go by before you meet up again. They are the ones who make us smile whenever a memory pops into our head, and even after too much time apart it feels like no time at all has passed. They’re special, and when we lose them for good, at least here on earth, they are irreplaceable.

Donna was one such friend. She never forgot to send a birthday card, never looked at you without a smile on her face that went all the way up to her eyes and was always ready with a hug. She had a way of getting you to talk about yourself and making you comfortable doing it.

Her work ethic was unmatched. When we both belonged to the Evangelical Covenant Church, Donna volunteered to be its janitor. At one point I was doing the sanctuary cleaning—vacuuming, dusting, cleaning out the pews and such. But Donna did the heavy stuff. She cleaned the kitchen, the tile floors, the Sunday school rooms and nursery. She didn’t just wipe a mop across the floors and the steps; she got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed because, as she pointed out with that smile of hers, “You just can’t get ‘em clean in the corners when you use a mop.”

Not many saw Donna cleaning since the church was almost always empty then, but we saw the results. And she knew Who she was cleaning for and she felt honored to do it. Donna passed away last week and I’m going to miss her like I haven’t missed someone in a long, long time.

A few days ago I said good-bye to someone else high up there on my list of friends I’ll never forget. Hubby and I watched Pastor Bruce on television most Sunday mornings, and I almost always took notes. As soon as he’d hit a topic close to my heart I’d say, “I sure hope so-and-so heard that!” Then, without fail, I’d realize the message was meant for me. That never got old.

Late Sunday afternoon I was leaving the office when I caught the sound of a car idling. I looked across the street and saw Bruce walking slowly down the steps of the church, holding a cake. He glanced my way and called my name.

As the sun set and cars traveled back and forth on Main, we met in the middle of Central Boulevard and spoke briefly. “I’m going to miss you,” I said, feeling the deep sadness so many of us felt as we watched him preach in Kewanee for the last time that morning.

“I’m going to miss you too,” he replied. He carefully waved the cake as he added, “This is my home, and I’ll miss it.”

I don’t remember what else we said, but it was short and bittersweet. United Methodist pastors often are moved after four or five years, and we were blessed to have Bruce for nine. It’s going to feel strange for a while to not see him standing in the pulpit on Sunday.

It’s likely we’ll see Bruce again; after all, he and his family are only about an hour away. And here’s the thing. He’s that kind of friend I told you about, and when we do run into one another again we’ll pick up where we left off. I love that in a friend, no matter where they are.

Here's to the guy who makes it all worthwhile

2011-06-17T11:32:00.001-07:00

Here's my guy, out doing his favorite thing. He's the best--always has been, always will be.

Sunday is Father’s Day. And like wives who don’t expect their husbands to acknowledge them on Mother’s Day, the same holds true for guys (like mine) who don’t expect to be given gifts and mushy stuff from their wives on that special day. Sons and daughters should handle those two holidays; after all, their father and mother gave them birth, right? If not for them, they wouldn’t be here. (And no, I’m not ignoring adopted children. I just have no experience in that area.)

We’re bombarded with heart-tugging commercials, usually from Hallmark, prior to Father’s Day that show the perfect dad and his son or daughter. My throat usually closes up and my eyes fill with tears as I ask myself: Is this what fatherhood is all about? Eating Oreo cookies at one second after midnight on Sunday with Dad? Or hunting caterpillars in the garden and taking a splinter out of a small toe?

In my opinion, it’s so much more than that. And remember, this is my opinion so I could be wrong.

I believe fathers show they love and care about their kids by being good role models. They stay true to their wives and treat them with love and respect, know how to have fun, work hard, and teach life lessons (honesty, integrity, compassion and more.) I know I’ve left out a few things but I think you get the idea.

Parents make mistakes. Every single mom and dad out there has made mistakes. It’s how we own up to them that matters. I’ve heard “I’m sorry” come from my mouth and hubby has said those same words over the years. It doesn’t diminish us to admit we’re wrong; it opens the door for the recipient to practice forgiveness, another admirable quality in a father—or anyone.

In case the kids have forgotten what their dad has done for them and with them throughout the years, I have pictures and journals to remind them. I’ve done the same for our grandsons, and one day I’ll hand those over so they can relive an important part of their childhood.

We’re told we shouldn’t live in the past, though it’s fun and sometimes eye-opening to visit now and then. And we can’t count on the future because none of us knows for certain what’s in store. The present is where we should focus, and to me the reason we have such a blessed life now is because the man of the house worked hard, stayed true and lives his life as an example of what it means to be a great husband and father.

Yeah, I know. This is probably the mushiest Father’s Day note ever but I mean every word of it. If your dad is still around, please take the time to show him how much he means to you. Not just this weekend, but every day.

Let's not take one another for granted

2011-06-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to take people and things for granted and forget how lucky you are to have either? I have.

Even though sometimes I’m busier than a one-armed paper hanger I make the time to read. Usually I have three books going at once: one by the bed, one by my chair in the living room and one in a travel bag that goes with me out of town every Monday.

Someone at the Star Courier left two Michael Connelly paperbacks on my desk about a year ago and now I’m hooked on the guy’s stories. I finished a Connelly book, plus the crime novel in the travel bag and I wanted to leave the Murder, She Wrote tale by the bedside. The bookshelves didn’t yield anything interesting, so I sat in the living room and began to panic about having nothing to read.

Boy, you talk about a “slap to the forehead” moment. A glance to the right brought my Nook into view. There are no words to describe what I was thinking at that moment.
Not counting this week, there are over 150 books on my Nook. They aren’t all novels; I have cookbooks, biographies, memoirs and all kinds of other things, including Reader’s Digest. Almost everything was free or close to it. And here I thought I had nothing to read. How could I forget one of the best birthday gifts ever?

Something else got my brain cells going the other day. Both of the guys were gone for quite a while and I was home with just the sleeping dog for company. As someone who has never lived on her own, and I mean never (unless you count the time I ran away from home for less than 10 hours when I was a teenager), I thought it would be cool to have some time to myself.

As the door closed behind our son, it hit me: So, I thought, this is what it’s like to be alone. I didn’t like it one bit.

The hours stretched and I got little done. It occurred to me that, in time, this could actually happen. I’ll have all the time I need to get things done and there’ll be time left over to think too much about how busy and fun life used to be.

The other day we were talking about this and that and I don’t know how it came up, but hubby said he would rather have me around than a million bucks. We laughed, but he was serious. “I guess you’ve grown on me,” he said. “I’m kinda used to having you around.”

Then it hit me. I may take some things for granted and forget a few of them, but I’ll never take the people closest to me for granted. And though they’ve grown on me too, I want them to be around for a long, long time.

Oh, God

2011-06-05T20:17:00.000-07:00

Clint and his Army recruiter

Gary and I have been watching the AMC series, The Killing. The basic premise is that a young girl went missing, was found murdered and her body was found in the trunk of a car that is part of a fleet of vehicles owned by a politician. The show is sharp, fascinating and very well-acted by (for the most part) little-known actors.

Tonight's episode veered a bit and focused on the lead policewoman on the case. She was following leads on the murdered girl's whereabouts before the killing and was rudely interrupted when her own 13-year-old son went missing.

I watched closely as she went through an agony only those of missing kids go through. She was angry, freaked, in denial, scared spitless, then overcome with gut-wrenching relief when she found her son standing outside their hotel room door. The first thing she did was hug him--tight.

I haven't asked Gary but I know he followed every facial expression, every tear, every bit of emotion. And I realized something I probably already knew: my heart, our hearts, are far more ragged from not knowing where our son is than we ever realized.

We've been through the anger and denial and we've been going through gut-wrenching fear off and on for years now. The character in the show, the mom, heard about the discovery of a body of a young boy between the ages of 10 and 13 and she went ballistic. I check news reports EVERY SINGLE DAY and am thankful beyond words that I don't find Clint's name among them. But I know there are moms and dads out there who will go through hell on earth that day and I feel for them something fierce.

I know I post a lot about Clint, but no one has to read what I write. I just need to write about him. Family, my Christian family, stopped asking about their cousin, nephew, grandson and that's only hurt upon hurt. My sister and one cousin are the only two who continue to bring his name up and we are so grateful for that.

A part of me wishes I hadn't seen tonight's show, and another reminds me that would only be denial. I prefer to face this test head-on, and to do that I need to break down the area I've built up around my heart to protect it. God knows where Clint is and when the time is right, we will too.

Oh, God. Give us strength until that time.

Amen.

Everything we see is temporary...do what you need to do while you still can

2011-06-03T08:16:00.000-07:00

I took this photo on the way home from Cambridge one Monday afternoon. Instead of being frazzled and frustrated because I was stuck in traffic for a bit, I took advantage of the situation. Got a beautiful shot, and kept my blood pressure down. Win-win.

“If money was no object, and you could live anywhere you wanted, where would you go?”

My better half thought for a few seconds. “I’m not sure I want to live anywhere else but it would be fun to travel.”

Then he just had to add, “Traveling with you would be like hell on wheels.”

He’s probably right.

I have a problem with heights, sheer drop-offs, bridges, insects (especially spiders, bees, wasps and such), snakes, green scaly things, bats, open-back staircases. You get the idea.

A few months into our first year of marriage we visited some caves in Missouri. I had a great time except for wearing the wrong clothes and shoes. It was hot outside, but inside was no place for shorts and flip-flops. At one point during a climb or a descent the cave went completely pitch dark and I froze. It’s something I do in a panic and no amount of persuasion was going to get me to move, and that was after the light returned and I was told I was holding up the line. That may have been our last “extreme” vacation.

I read fellow columnist John Sloan’s vacation pieces with more than a tinge of sadness, simply because he and his lovely wife seem to have such a blast doing crazy, fun and (to me) dangerous things. In my mind they’re living life to the fullest, the way God intended.

Gee, on last year’s trip to Branson I was so freaked with the maniacal traffic I completely missed the scenery. I heard it was awesome.

These thoughts came to me after reading columnist Leonard Pitts’s piece on the reasons to live our lives to the fullest. He wrote, “Get done what you came here to do, give the gifts you were meant to give, do the good you’re able to do, say what you need to say, now, today, because everything you see is temporary, the clock is ticking and the alarm could go off any second.”

Wish I’d said that.

I hope I get done what I came here to do, but sometimes it takes us years to figure out just what that is. And the gift-giving part is easy enough because it can mean all kinds of things, material or otherwise.

Many of us try to do good but we all slip and fall in that area. The trick is to keep trying.

As far as saying what we need to say, now, today—well, that’s a toughie. Our words can get us into deep trouble, the kind that it’s nearly impossible to free ourselves from no matter how hard we try. On the flip side, we too often hold back what we really want to say, time passes, and before we know it, it’s too late. The relationship is beyond repair and we move on, hoping to never repeat what happened.

It’s true. The clock is ticking and the alarm could go off at any time. Maybe we should open ourselves up to new opportunities, new places to visit and/or live, keeping in mind that as far as anyone knows, this is It. We don’t get another go-round, so let’s make the most of it.

Now all I need is a wee bit of courage and a windfall of cash and I’m good to go.

Wonder what Mom would do

2011-06-01T15:47:00.000-07:00

Anyone out there? Hello?

It's been one of those weeks. Or two; I've lost count.

First the water heater went toes up, then we discovered a leak under the kitchen sink too late to prevent the linoleum from poofing up. And we knew we had at least three repairs to make to the "good" car but we put it off until the noises it made bothered me enough to do something about it.

Water heater installed? Check.

Leak under the sink fixed? Check.

And one item checked off the car-repair sheet.

But...the leak under the sink started up again, and the faucet became loose and unruly. The car started making a different sort of noise so it's going back to the shop Friday morning.

I get weary of moaning about stuff that happens because it seems like nothing more than a pity party. In this age of instant news, you don't have to look far to find someone having many more (and worse) problems than you.

Still, when it happens to us, it's important, at least for a little while.

I often wonder what my mom would have done if she was living today. And by "done", I mean would she have griped about stuff like a water heater and car repairs? I don't think so. Mom took care of things (for as long as she was physically able.) She'd get a determined look on her face and you could tell she was mulling over what to do about whatever problems cropped up.

I could learn a few things from her attitude. I wish she was still here because while I know she'd tell me to stop whining about some things, I have to wonder what she would do about something that's been bothering me for a while.

It would be a blast to show Mom the Internet and all it can do. She could have found her ancestors, sold things, stayed in touch with family and friends--all great things. But like just about everything else, where there are people involved, you're going to find stuff that bugs you.

I did.

I would ask Mom what she would do if she saw that her children or grandchildren or ANY children she knew were on places like Facebook and were running amok. Especially with their very young fingers typing out very nasty words dozens of times a day. Would she immediately call them on it? Would she tell their parents? Would she just sit back and put up with it?

There is but one thing Mom would do: she would go after the child, and she wouldn't give a rip if it offended him or her or mom or dad. That's the way she was, and if you didn't like it, tough.

I guess I don't have her backbone, but I do have a heavy heart as I continue to hide posts from kids barely into their teens who freely use coarse language and suggestive posts to get their points across, to shock their elders and to prove to anyone that they can do whatever they want, whenever they want.

Is anyone listening? Reading? In charge?

Anyone?

Bargain fits like the proverbial glove

2011-05-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

My favorite guy and his pooch chillin' together on the back steps. He's too modest to admit that he's the best bargain hunter in the world, so I'll do it for him.

I love a good bargain.

As winter came to an end a couple of years ago I found a killer sale on a pair of leather gloves. The original price was $30 and I picked them up for $5. I kept them in a safe place for months until I needed them, and they were the best gloves I’ve ever had, especially for driving.

Spring, summer and fall eventually followed and I kept an eye on those gloves. They were on a bookshelf in the downstairs foyer for quite some time and then, well, they weren’t.

I had nothing else to keep my hands warm so I went on a hunt. Ah, there they were but they didn’t look quite so spiffy anymore. Something was amiss. And, there was a tiny hole in the left one, in the palm area.

Turns out someone was carrying lumber from the deck to the basement and he couldn’t find his work gloves. Oh, he has some, but they’re all different and he could only find one of each. It would probably feel weird to wear mismatched work gloves, and with those nice-looking leather ones just sitting around it made perfect sense to put them to use.

When I freaked out a bit over the dusty exterior and the hole, I got this explanation: “I couldn’t find a whole pair of work gloves, and these worked great, and they saved me from getting a splinter. Were those yours?”

After I explained what a steal the gloves were, I think it must have sounded like, “Oh, they were only five bucks, no big deal.” But I was really thinking that a pair of $30 gloves just got a hole poked in them and now I’ll have to get new ones. I had a feeling I wouldn’t run into that kind of bargain ever again.

Boy, was I wrong.

Last Saturday there was an auction. Hours went by but eventually my husband and all the goodies he bought came home. We went through boxes of surprises, and I was thrilled at the good deals all over the kitchen. Then, we hit the mother lode.
“Oh,” he said. “Wow. Would you look at that? A pair of leather gloves.”

He put the like-new pair of brown leather gloves on the table. Then another, and another and another pair. Black ones, brown ones, white ones, red ones. All told there must have been almost 30 pairs of gloves, not all of them leather but most of them new. Cost of the entire box: $7. I had to sit down.

I think he knew I was going to be a pest when winter rolled around and I was going to hold him to his promise to replace my gloves. But neither of us knew just how many would replace that one pair.

I do love a good bargain. And this time I really believe we won’t run into a fantastic bargain like that again, but that’s OK. I think I’m set for a long, long while.

Looney Tunes and a new water heater

2011-05-23T07:06:00.000-07:00

I got Sylvester last Christmas, and he watches over me while I work upstairs. He's sporting a God Bless America button and his right paw rests on my printer.

I could hear his voice coming from far away as I worked on a story in the upstairs foyer Tuesday morning. Since it was impossible to make out what my better half was saying, I didn’t pay much attention until the words got louder and much more understandable. The bearer of bad news was standing in the front hallway looking up at me.

I’ll not quote all of what was said here; suffice it to say, though, something serious was going on.

“Well,” he said, “that’s going to cost us about $200. Maybe $300 or more.”

I hadn’t heard any explosions or odd noises so I looked over the banister and waited for the rest of the news.

“Looks like we’ll need a new water heater.” Well, of course we did. The old one was almost two years past its six-year warranty. Golly, it should’ve gone bad much sooner.

After I was through thinking really bad thoughts, I got busy comparison shopping. That took about five minutes and soon the old tank was out and the shiny new one was on its way. That’s when I decided to take a break from worrying about the giant-sized drain hole in the budget and go watch some TV.

I’ve discovered that Looney Tunes is back in action at 11 a.m. every weekday. How cool is that? I can’t get upset when I’m watching Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam fight to win a mayoral election only to have it end up with both fine candidates losing. Tweety Pie and Sylvester followed that with a tale of the poor cat joining a 12-step program to help rid him of his addiction to birds. That didn’t go well either, and I could sympathize a little bit. I’d fail any program that tried to separate me from chocolate. Not going to happen.

Cartoons ended and that’s when we gathered for a brief lunch. One of the guys was studying for college finals, and the other had a water heater to install. And here’s what I find so funny about this type of thing: The new appliance arrives, and you think you have all the parts and fittings and what-not, but you don’t. That will take maybe three or four trips back to the store (and with the price of gas, you can tack on even more money to the cost), and Voila! Ten hours later we had hot water and everyone, especially the plumber, was tired but happy.

I did find out a few things. One, cold baths aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Two, most of us take ordinary things like hot water for granted. And three, while having a water heater poop out on us wasn’t a good thing, it wasn’t the end of the world either.

One very special note: Congratulations, son, on your graduation today. Your dad and I could not possibly be more proud of you.

These ladies have class

2011-05-15T03:09:00.000-07:00

This picture was taken at Tremont and First streets in Kewanee. Our little group has traveled this road many times on the way to meet for lunch or breakfast. I'm blessed to have these ladies, and I do mean ladies in my life. They've taught me a lot, all good things, and I hope to keep learning from them for a long time.

Our little group of eight met this week for breakfast at a local place. We used to have more regulars; some have passed away and some have simply drifted away. It’s the kind of group where no one scolds you for not showing up once a month but we do let each other know they will be missed.

I’m the secretary and card-sender here, and honestly, though it’s a volunteer position they should fire me. I get caught up in work and other stuff and I forget to do my job. On this particular morning I even forgot the recording book. The leader just laughed it off and told everyone the next time I’d probably have to read a couple of months’ worth of entries. I think she expects me to forget it in June too.

We usually meet for lunch in town. We have lunched in Galva, Bishop Hill, Galesburg and at Tanner’s Orchard. No matter where we gather, most of the ladies have many things in common.

Looking around the table I noticed the matching clothes and jewelry, from earrings and necklaces to rings, bracelets and brooches. They wear makeup, including lipstick, and their hair is beautifully done. These women care about their appearance and it shows.

When we get together we talk about current world events, news around town and what’s happened to us or our loved ones since we last met. If you sit near us you won’t hear mean-spirited gossip or cursing because these gals have class.

I watched as they laughed and ate and listened intently to one another. It’s refreshing to be with people who don’t lament over the menu items and complain about what they can and can’t have. Orders were placed for eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy – you name it, and one of us probably ordered it. And we enjoyed every bite.

At our ages we’re well aware that time is precious. There are some that travel but most everyone finds a way to get out and about often. We’ve met in the dead of winter and on the hottest summer days, and once the weather talk is over we find other things to laugh and talk about and we leave feeling happy and full and looking forward to the next month.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I joined this Red Hat group. They’ve turned out to be some of the kindest and fun-loving people I’ve ever met. They have an inner strength and even when their world has been rocked, they don’t cower or complain. I found tender-hearted tough women here and I’m learning a few things.

I do like to throw them off base now and then. While we finished breakfast that morning I noticed a news story on the television across the room about a woman running down an interstate and the headline said she wasn’t wearing any pants. As their attention turned toward the story, I watched the news sink in and the laughter rippled up and down the long table. We left the restaurant that day in good moods, ready to head out and tackle whatever Life had in store.

I’m thankful for many things, and this group is one of them. Our leader said before we left, “We sure know how to have fun, don’t we?” Yeah, Marilyn we do. Thanks for welcoming me in all those years ago, and I promise you this: I will bring my book next time. But maybe you should give me a call, just in case.

Cleanup in aisle 7!

2011-05-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

Not sure why I'm using a barn to illustrate this piece - I just like it. Come to think of it, if Mr. Potty Mouth feels like lobbing more f-bombs he could just mosey on into the barn and let fly. That would be better than *bombing* the Easter aisle at Walmart. Just sayin'.

Gee it’s weird how some things just come together, even though I’d rather they didn’t.

I made out a small grocery list the other day with plans to shop after work. Well, work took a bit longer than usual so I rushed back to Kewanee to get food to cook for supper. (Note to police: I definitely was not speeding.)

It was a Monday, a real one, and I was exhausted. The thought of grocery shopping, then cooking. made me not only a tad cranky and kind of spacey. That’s the excuse I’m using to explain how I got side-tracked and landed in the half-off Easter candy and basket aisle. Which, by the way, wasn’t too far away from the Mother’s Day stuff and that connection will come up soon enough.

List in hand I stood glassy-eyed in front of marked-down chocolate bunnies. Seems like there were an awful lot of white and dark-chocolate bunnies left over, so I put them in the same category as those of us who never got picked first for sports teams in grade school.

My mood was lightening as I perused the sweet bargains in front of me when all of a sudden a bomb went off. I couldn’t believe my ears so I turned ever-so-slightly to my right and found the source of the explosion.

The type of bomb here is commonly called an “f-bomb” and oddly enough some folks are proud of their ability to lob them anytime and anywhere they wish. This guy would fit quite comfortably into that category.

I felt dark clouds gathering inside the store as my mood went south. Here we both were, standing in an aisle that was at least half dedicated to that glorious time of year that brings flowers, warm sunshine, candy, special church services and giant fluffy rabbits. If I was six inches taller I might have told Mr. Potty Mouth what I thought of his behavior but I’m not so I didn’t. Instead I put down the candy and wheeled to another aisle.

Well, what do you know? Two aisles over we met up again, and there were three more f-bombs. Less than five minutes later we passed one another again and the guy was spewing forth more foul language. (Actually, it seems the only swear word he knows is That One.)

When I got home I was not in a good mood. I ripped open a box of fish filets, dumped them on a baking sheet and shoved them in the oven. Eventually the mere presence of loved ones lightened my mood, and the dog did her best to help too. You can’t be around a sweet-natured Lab for long and still be a jerk; it’s not possible.

That night I saw a few commercials about Mother’s Day. I’m not a big fan of that holiday, but combined with the time spent in the store earlier made me think of Mom and how she could curse anyone under the table. Instead of influencing me to do the same, it turned me off completely. I guess in her own way, Mom taught me a valuable lesson.

If that guy has kids, I hope they learn there are millions of other words to choose from to express themselves. Since I met the guy, I’ve thought of a few dozen but I’ll keep them to myself.

Taking some time to just "be still"

2011-04-29T07:25:00.000-07:00

“When this world gets crazy/And tries to break me/And I had all I can stand/I can close my eyes no matter where I am/And just be still.” (From “Still” by Tim McGraw)

One quiet morning I sat alone at the kitchen table, newspapers to the left and fresh hot coffee to the right. No one else was up yet; even the dog was sleeping in.

Thoughts of the day’s schedule interrupted the solitude and no matter what I tried, they refused to go away. I reached for the TV remote and found the country music channel.

As I sipped coffee and read the latest news, music played softly but I didn’t pay much attention to it. Although I can multi-task pretty well, I chose to concentrate on happenings around the world. The news was enough to give a person a headache.

When I got up to refill my coffee I noticed the next video was from Tim McGraw. This guy is very easy on the eyes, so I squinted to see which song he would sing. Ah, time to sit back, shut the newspaper and turn up the volume.

The video opened with a train barreling toward its destination with a backdrop of racing clouds indicating time passing too quickly. Full trees shadowed in silhouette stood completely still as everything around them moved too fast.

Many of us have racing thoughts now and then. They can happen anytime—during the day, or, if what’s on our minds is too stimulating we can experience them as we try to get a good night’s sleep.

As my coffee cooled, untouched, I watched the memories race around McGraw. Fond memories of childhood, first loves and more flew by like the days, weeks, months and years tend to do. Once the song ended, I turned down the volume and waited for my own memories to surface.

I thought of the time our little family went fishing at Johnson’s Park, probably over 30 years ago. Our youngest was still in a playpen, and once he was safely inside it I took out the camera to get some pictures of the other two guys.

While his dad set up shop at the lake’s edge, our oldest came trudging down the hill holding a tackle box and a couple of fishing poles. I asked him to stop so I could snap a picture and I guess it took a little too long. As I fussed with the camera, he said, “Just take the picture already, will ya?”

That picture is around here somewhere and the expression on our son’s face says it all. He’s impatient to get on with his plans and he doesn’t have the time to stop for even a few seconds.

Time is precious, memory is fleeting and pictures are nice to have to remind us of our past in case we’ve forgotten a thing or two. I’m glad I had a few moments the other day to listen to a song that reminded me that it’s a good idea to take some time to just be still.

Easter, Mom and Sheffield, Illinois - beautiful memories

2011-04-22T06:15:00.000-07:00

That's Mom and me on the left. This photo of just the two of us has been uploaded to my Nook so I can see it every day. Makes me smile all over...I love Mom, and I wish I could have known her better.

She has a white scarf wrapped around her head, and it’s keeping her wavy black hair firmly in place, though a few strands have worked themselves loose to hang over her right eye. Mom is holding me in her arms, a little girl of about 3. I’m wearing a white knitted hoodie, my dark hair blown back by the wind that folded Mom’s gingham apron up against my leg. Short black pants, white anklets and white shoes complete my outfit. Mom wears a half smile and we both stare intently into the camera. At this time in our lives, my mother looks the picture of health.

It’s weird, but I think of her more around Easter than at any other time. The holiday beats her birthday or the day she left for good, so I’ve tried to figure out the reason why.

Today is Good Friday but holidays begin weeks ahead of time in our stores. Bunnies, Easter clothing and baskets, and candy have been around a while and I’ve had time to think about Mom and why she comes so strongly to mind now.

The first Easter I remember was when our little family lived behind the tavern on the highway as you come into Sheffield. Sis must have been asleep in her crib when the knock came on the door early that Sunday morning. Mom told me to close my eyes and turn away. She opened the door, murmured something to the visitor, closed the door and told me to open my eyes. She was holding a basket with more candy than I’d ever seen.

While I looted the goodies, a neighbor was outside hiding money and more candy all over—in bushes and around the yard. For me that first Easter set the standard for all those that would follow. It must have made an impression on Mom because she saw to it that no matter how tough times were, her girls were going to have an Easter basket every single year.

The last year of her life when Mom could no longer get around without assistance of some kind, she somehow found someone to bring baskets to the house while we were out. She spent a lot of her time sitting at the kitchen table, so she wanted to make sure the baskets were close when she told us to find them. We had to hurry, though, because their hiding place that last year was in our oven, and that was when a pilot light was always on. Melting chocolate might be messy but it was still delicious.

It’s been almost 40 years since Mom’s been gone, and that long since sis and I have had an Easter basket. It doesn’t seem right to buy our own and none of them would come close to the ones we got from our mother anyway.

The photograph described at the beginning of this piece was sent to me last year by some new-found family from my dad’s side. I scanned the picture into the computer then transferred it to my Nook e-reader. Every day when I turn on the Nook I get to see Mom holding me close and it makes me smile.

I wish you all a happy Easter.

Has it been five whole years already? I guess so. Wow.

2011-04-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite pics of Sarah. That afternoon she was bathed in a golden glow, and I had to get this shot of her before the angelic look turned into her true doggy self: rambunctious, needy, and almost always underfoot. I can't believe how much I love her.

I don’t know when it stopped bothering me to pet Sarah Jane every single night of the week as she sits beside my chair in the living room.

We usually begin by watching Wheel of Fortune, but most nights at that time Sarah and her devoted master are on their second walk of the day. Just before their nightly jaunt the dog gets the urge to “pray” by jumping up on the sofa. She inches close to her master, closes her eyes, bows her head and leans it against his leg. She won’t move until he says, “Well….”

At that point her head pops up (prayer answered again!), she descends to the floor and stands in front of her guy. Her whole body wiggles and her wagging tail creates the nicest breeze.

Once the two return Sarah takes her place next to my chair and turns her head around to look at me. The petting begins and it only ends when the pooch has had her fill, then it’s off to recline on her own sofa.

Side note here: Yes, the dog has her own sofa, and it’s the nicest one we own. We’ve watched others try to sit on it only to find a nearly 100-pound dog snuggled against them. It doesn’t matter if Sarah was on the sofa first or not, she simply doesn’t want any human beings using it. Eventually the massive paws in their face will cause the person to stand up and walk away.

The other night hubby asked me why I was petting the dog. I could understand the question; after all, I’ve complained about it off and on for a long time. If I’m watching a show, it’s not enough—I need to be reading a book or writing or talking on the phone. And if one hand is busy petting the dog, it’s hard to multi-task.

At some point it occurred to me that one day my hand will slide over the arm of the chair to pet my dog and she won’t be there. Don’t get me wrong; Sarah’s fine, but dogs don’t live nearly long enough for my liking and I’m going to spend as much time with our girl as I can.

This four-legged buddy is unique, in my opinion. I don’t know how she does it but Sarah can make each of us feel like we’re her favorite person. She gets what she wants and needs from all of us, and gives back even more.

Sarah has changed a bit over the last five years. She no longer counter-surfs, or rips the drapes (and rod) off the windows, and she stopped nibbling on the grandfather clock quite some time ago. But she hasn’t stopped barking at squirrels, cats, rabbits or other dogs so I guess she’s not quite perfect.

Those of you who are blessed with pets know what it’s like to be in their company. They light up their corner of the world (or sofa), and they are more than happy to share their love with us.

As for Sarah, we’re welcome anywhere she happens to be—almost. And that’s fine with us.

Connecting with the stories, the people around us

2011-04-08T07:13:00.000-07:00

I titled this A Man and His Dog. I've always admired guys who have a soft heart for animals, and my guy has that and more. After reading the column below, he told me he must be a 'morph.' But that's not true. Hubby is an 'empath' through and through...no doubt about it.

I’m reading a Michael Connelly novel called The Narrows, and the story reminds me of a favorite TV show, Criminal Minds. In both there is a department of the FBI that deals with profiling. Through one of the main characters Connelly describes two kinds of people who work within this department: morphs and empaths.

Morphs, according to the character, are people who are much like the people they hunt. They are able to move on like the serial killers they go after without letting the horror and guilt get to them. The agents could take those experiences and morph them into something else.

Empaths, on the other hand, took everything in and kept it in. These folks used their experiences to “connect and motivate, to get the job done.” In this character’s opinion, it was easier on a person to be a morph; eventually an empath will get worn down and out.

I’ve noticed these descriptions can apply in many areas. Think about it. I can see police officers, judges, those in the medical field—the list is long and varied. And I see newspaper reporters planted firmly within that list.

April is National Autism Awareness Month. On Saturday, National Autism Awareness Day, I met with another family impacted by this still-mysterious condition. This time I met with Dylan, his mother Chrissy and his grandmother Karen.

We decided to meet at McDonald’s. We didn’t think to mention how we would know one another, so just before 1:30 I walked in and began looking for a young woman with a four-year-old boy. What I saw was a very busy restaurant full of young parents, and boys and girls bouncing around, standing in booths and talking in loud voices. How would I find Dylan?

There was one woman standing in line to get a soft drink who caught my attention. She kept turning around and staring at a woman and child in an inner booth. I was to meet two people, so this was probably not the right person.

But it was. Grandmother Karen was keeping an eye out for me and watching her grandson. We gathered together and between Chrissy and Karen I got the story about Dylan. His story and the second half of Griffin Watson’s journey with autism will be published in the April 13 issue of Lifestyles.

You’ll get to meet Dylan and his family and find out what they’ve been through, from diagnosis to a profound lack of resources in our area to deal with autism. Griffin’s story continues with the arrival of his service dog, a yellow Labrador named Nokia, who is a huge help to the little guy and his family.

While the month of April was chosen to represent autism awareness, it’s simply not enough. We talked about how other diseases and conditions seem to be discussed all year long while some others get a month and after that there is nothing until a year later. It reminded me of being a kid whose mom was on welfare and we got a food basket for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas. Obviously we needed food far more often than twice a year, but we were thankful for what was given to us.

As I got ready to leave, Karen handed me a blue light bulb, another visible reminder to raise autism awareness. I took it, thanked them all, and left.

When I got into my car I couldn’t quite bring myself to drive away until the tears stopped. Guess that means I’m an empath. I hope that never changes; there are many more stories to tell and I plan to empathize with them all.

I imagined the possibilities and it was good

2011-04-01T15:33:00.000-07:00

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

The mailman came by early Tuesday morning and along with an AARP advertisement and a Netflix movie (Unstoppable, starring hunk Denzel Washington) I brought in a piece of mail that is undoubtedly going to change a lot of things for me.

My novel about a small town’s few surviving inhabitants making it through a natural disaster was accepted for publication by one of the Big Houses. I can’t tell anyone except a few chosen people just which publisher it is, but you’d know it if you heard the name.

I can see it now: My name among the now-famous authors already on bookshelves in libraries and bookstores around the country. Maybe there will be book signings and radio gigs, library talks and other appearances. I’m not good at public speaking but I’m willing to give it a try.

The book took almost two years to write, and another 18 months to find an agent, go through edits, then sell it to the publisher. It was hard to keep the whole process a secret, especially for me.

I can’t seem to stop daydreaming about other possibilities. What about the next book? I’m working on two, a novel and a memoir, and I’m guessing with all the hoopla there will be even less time to write. What if some big movie house or television studio wants to buy the rights? I can see I’ll need legal advice; maybe John Grisham is still practicing law and is available to help out a fellow scribe.

And what if the movie producers want to film the story in a real small town? I know they’ve shot some flicks in Iowa, and that wouldn’t be such a trip but what about someplace in Illinois? That’s where the story takes place, after all, but I’m guessing a first-time author wouldn’t have a lot of say in the matter.

Still, if a famous producer does decide to buy the book and make it into a film, he or she would need movie extras. It would be the icing on the cake if folks around here could be a part of the whole experience.

Now I’ve gone off and let my imagination run away from me. The publication date hasn’t been announced yet and here I am making a movie out of it. I think it’s about time to come back to Earth.

Oh, I almost forgot to give you the title of the book. Ready? It’s called, “April Fool’s Day”. (I really love April Fool’s Day.)

Hey, don’t blame me. Two of my fellow columnists have penned fiction and I thoroughly enjoyed both of their “stories”.

And someday, when my daydream does come true, I’ll tell you all about it. The book currently under construction could use a good-looking leading man like Denzel, or maybe Matt Damon would be interested. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

Where is he?

2011-03-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

This is Gary - many of you know him. He's the main reason I'm trying so hard to find Clint. His dad is gone now and we miss him more than ever. We couldn't contact Clint to let him know his grandpa was sick or that he had died. I just can't let this go until I feel there is nowhere else to turn. In this electronic age I would think there has to be something I'm overlooking and that's why I'm trying everything I can think of, hoping someday to see our son again.

The photo on the right is the one being used for a Clint Washburn Facebook page, a page many of his friends and acquaintances are associated with. We can't seem to find anyone who has heard from him or who gets an answer from him when they write.

I really did not want to write this entry.

A few months back a brother-in-law came home tipsy, not an uncommon occurrence, but something he said during a rambling moment cut hubby and me to the core.

We were sitting around his mom's kitchen table and the subject of our missing son came up. It was then that we heard this family member say that he and our nephew knew where our son "probably" was and that they knew he was fine.

I felt such a range of emotions I can't put them into words. I think my husband aged a year in that few seconds.

With one look from his mom, my brother-in-law shut right up and laughed off our facial expressions and unasked question: just WHERE IS OUR SON?

I'm guessing most of you would have physically jumped the guy and demanded answers, but in this family you don't do that. You keep your mouth shut and...pray. That's it. We're supposed to just pray about it and wait for an answer.

Well, I've had it. I DO pray - dozens of times throughout the day but I also believe that you have to sometimes take action.

I've written to ask the nephew for information, then I e-mailed him. No answer.

This family full of praying members has splintered, probably beyond repair, and we're as puzzled as we can possibly be. I cannot imagine what keeps us from coming together, what awful thing we (or I) have done to cause this giant rift.

So, here I am - again - pleading for some guidance in how to go about finding our son. I'm getting a very bad feeling about the outcome, no matter how bright a spin I try to put on it.

This family stopped asking about our son years ago, as if he doesn't exist anywhere anymore. That is simply not acceptable, or Christian.

I'm open to ideas. And if anyone is ready with criticism about this post, do me a favor: pray about it first. Because like I said, I really did not want to post this. As a mom and a wife I just had to.

Thanks.

Of Nooks and books and writing dreams

2011-03-25T05:26:00.000-07:00

Last year was the first time in a long while that I didn't finish a novel during National Novel Writing Month. I was sad about that; and the feeling persisted for weeks after that special month was over. Even though I've written at least half a dozen novels, and tens of thousands (or more) of words in personal journals, there's just something about writing a book along with fellow writers from around the world. It's special--in more ways than one. So, back to writing I go!

Monday and Tuesday were long days this week, full of all kinds of interesting people and events. I was out of town working all day Monday, then came home to work some more. Tuesday was spent doing a lot of the work I started on Monday, plus the opportunity came by to attend a session on learning more about my Nook.

Turned out I knew most of what this remarkable e-reader is capable of, but I still came away with some golden nuggets of information I plan to use. (And no, the very nice man did not teach us how to remove the “skin” that’s put over the Android operating system, or show us how to then tweak said device to turn it into a very inexpensive computer “tablet”.) But I digress.

Thing is, I learned more than what the Nook can do. What made me smile was how focused and excited the folks were who attended. Yes, I’ll admit, some knew even more than I did but that’s cool.

What impressed me was how much people love to read. We were all over the map with our favorite genres, and as some learned how to shop for e-books it became apparent that we all wished we could live long enough to read the hundreds of thousands of books available to us.

I have to say that our library is beyond wonderful. Think about it. They could be moaning all over the place that e-books will take the place of hold-in-your-hands books, magazines and newspapers. Instead, the director and a couple of staff were on hand to learn along with the rest of us, and they were excited too.

We know we can combine the new with the traditional. I’m willing to bet that although those who attended the two sessions have quite a number of e-books on their Nooks, they also have paperbacks and hardbacks strewn throughout their homes. I’m reading four books at the moment; one’s by the bed, another is in my extra purse, and two are on my Nook. I figure I need to live at least another hundred years to read everything I want to.

Which brings up another thought—I want to write books too. Yes, I’ve written about half a dozen and they’re not awful but I need some time to work on them. I got the boost I needed to continue on with that dream when I saw how excited the group was that night over finding the books they wanted. It takes precious time to lose oneself in a story, time we’re willing to give if the characters, setting and plot keep us enthralled.

At the end of that long Tuesday, I was exhausted but happy. I was going to give up writing my family memoir and the mystery novel I started a few months back, simply because there seemed to be no time left over after work. Well, guess what? There is time, if you are determined enough to go for the dream. Turns out all I needed was a reminder from a book’s best friend—our library.

Forgetting to remember - or something like that

2011-03-19T08:50:00.000-07:00

This is our library - and, good news! Nook sessions are rescheduled and will be held next Tuesday. Can't wait, and this time I'll have everything I need. I hope.

It takes something near and dear to my heart (or our bank account) to get me out of the house once I’m home for the day. After work and errands are done, so am I. It seems there is so little “me” time that I’ve been saying no to anything not absolutely necessary.

Tuesday morning I finished some work, went to McDonald’s for breakfast then it was off to pick up three things at Walmart. I knew there were three things because I wrote them down on a small piece of yellow paper that I forgot on the kitchen table. Two things I can remember, but three requires making a list.

When I made the list I must have had some premonition I would forget it because I played a mind game to help me—just in case. As I finished my coffee at McD’s it dawned on me the list was across town. I smiled as I got ready to recall the three items: meds, soda and, oh rats, what was the third thing?

Ah, yes. It began with a “p”. Now, what item in Walmart begins with a p? I could see precious time slipping away while I went through the possibilities, when all of a sudden it came to me. It was light bulbs.

Light bulbs? There isn’t a p to be found in light bulbs! Whoa. I needed a nap.

No time for a nap, since there was someplace I needed to be at 3, so I gathered everything together. I’ll admit this wasn’t a have-to type of event, but I had been looking forward to this for a while. The library was hosting a couple of sessions on how to get the most out of our Nook ebook readers.

I’ve had my Nook for a few months and can navigate it pretty well. There are over 100 books on it, and I love that darn thing. I was sure the representative from Barnes and Noble would be able to teach me a thing or two, plus I had my own set of questions written on a piece of yellow paper stuffed into a library book I needed to return.

I brought my Barnes and Noble book bag downstairs, put the charged Nook inside along with the charger, grabbed my purse and headed to the library. After parking the car and turning it off, I sat and let the realization sink in: the list of questions and the book were sitting at home on the desk in the foyer.

On my way across the street I struggled to remember the questions that were so important to me. When would we ever get another rep to come to town to help us? My mind was a blank, and then I arrived at the back door of the library.

It took about three seconds to sink in, but then my blank mind filled up with all kinds of thoughts. None of them were pretty, nor are they printable. I was looking for the flyer for the sessions so I would go to the right floor when my gaze fell on the note taped across the flyer. I’m paraphrasing here, but the message was something like, “There will be no session as the person who was coming had a family emergency.”

I know, I know. Family emergencies trump Nook sessions—no argument. And I did forget my list of questions, so I’ll save them for another time. I really hope there is another time because as of this moment, I have the library book and questions inside the book bag.

On second thought, maybe I should put the whole shebang in the car. That should work, unless we take the truck.

Funny frugal moments and the dog needs a helmet

2011-03-11T08:46:00.000-08:00

Here's Sarah Jane with her daddy patting her little head. Well, maybe not so little - she bumps it a couple of times a day when she tries to hide under the kitchen table.

I’ve been following a comic strip whose current topic is about what happens when someone wins the lottery and comes into more money than I’ll make in a lifetime, especially considering I’m on the downhill side of middle age.

The troubles are piling up for this brother-sister duo who argue over where to keep the winning ticket (sister’s purse, for now), who to tell, and what to buy and when. They don’t have their winnings yet, but their lives quickly become messy.

We don’t have that particular set of problems around our house. I have made an interesting observation about the frugal nature of each of us, however, and it made me stop and wonder: which one of us has gone off the deep end?

One of us will use the last possible drop or crumb of something before opening another bottle or package. I guess that’s not so bad, but the other one will squeeze plastic bottles until they make certain, um, noises and then he slips over to the sink, adds water to the remains of the ketchup, salad dressing or whatever he’s got in hand, then he shakes the bottle and returns to the table with a triumphant grin on his face. I can only shake my head and wonder.

If I make fun of this behavior too many times I am reminded of what I’ve done to save a few bucks. For instance, I’ll take used paper plates and napkins to use for dumping out coffee grounds and wiping the filter before washing it. Hey, it’s not good practice to throw coffee grounds down a sink with or without benefit of a garbage disposal.

The most memorable boo-boo I made is when we lived in Arizona and thought of a clever way to save some dough. Let’s say it involved cutting paper plates in half, thereby making them last twice as long. That idea lasted as long as one snack because the kids ratted me out to their dad when their sandwiches slid to the floor and the dogs ran off with them. Half a paper plate isn’t quite as sturdy as a whole one.

None of us have much good sense when it comes to bread products. One guy likes hamburger buns, another prefers healthy bread and I really couldn’t care less. That would explain why the other two get upset when they find a small hole in their bread items.

Here’s what often happens. Sarah Jane needs to take a pill twice a day to help prevent snapping episodes. After numerous vet visits and blood tests, we still don’t know why our pooch has this problem, though our doggie doc made a remark one time that went like this: “Does she hit her head much?” I told him she hit it on the kitchen table at least twice a day and he advised us to get her a helmet. But I digress.

I give Sarah her little white pill inside a teeny-tiny peanut butter sandwich. In order to make it, I have to pinch some soft bread, break it in two, dab peanut butter on it and press the two pieces together. For a while I was shoving the pill in a small piece of hot dog but she got clever and ate all around the pill before she shot it across the room.

For some reason the guys don’t want to eat bread or buns that have holes in them, and I guess I can’t blame them.

I’m not sure I want to win millions of dollars and create a whole new set of problems for us, but if we did come into some bucks I’ll bet we could stop adding water to nearly empty bottles, and I’d switch to paper coffee filters. Oh, and maybe I’d hunt for a small, padded helmet for a certain Lab who doesn’t have the sense to stop hitting her noggin.

Never let anyone define you - define yourself

2011-03-04T10:16:00.000-08:00

Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself. (Harvey Fierstein)

The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just. (Abraham Lincoln)

I was working downstairs Saturday when Sarah Jane came running through the living room. No one was chasing her, but soon it was evident the dog was in trouble. Then I heard a word that doesn’t belong in a family-friendly newspaper and it all came together: husband painting a wall plus a dog opening the laundry room door explained the bright blue streak on Sarah’s right side. It wasn’t a pretty color combo.

After a few tries I cornered the poor pooch, and with a wet towel we got her cleaned up. One could say that even though she looked fine, Sarah was still blue—just in a different way.

Most of us might admit we’ve felt blue on occasion. Some folks feel out of sorts when winter drags on too long, or after they see a sad movie, or for dozens of other reasons.

There are those who can shake off the “blues”; they are strong enough to let go of whatever is coloring their world, and look toward the future without shedding tears or losing sleep.

I found the first quote above on Facebook the other day, and it made me think of some friends of mine who have allowed themselves to be bullied into silence. After speaking their mind they were bombarded with insults and almost instantly they retreated into silence, and having been there myself I can tell you it can make you feel blue. Instead of shaking off the barbs and standing tall, some will opt for the safer choice by retreating and becoming a victim. In addition, they have allowed someone else to define them.

The quote by Lincoln at first may not seem to have much to do with the previous one, yet in this case it does. One of the friends mentioned above voiced how they felt on a social issue and before you could say boo, the comments came fast and furious. My friend went silent instead of defending himself so I sent him a private message. In it I told him I hoped he would continue to fight for what he believed in, and that he would shake off the insults.

There are times, though they are few anymore, when people can share their differing views on politics, social issues and the like without resorting to name-calling. This wasn’t one of those times and I didn’t want to see my friend deterred from supporting a cause he whole-heartedly believed in.

Turns out I needn’t have worried. Word came that although he wasn’t posting his opinion where we could see it, he was still fighting the fight and, as he told me, he wasn’t feeling “blue” at all.

Friendship connections like that brighten my life and I’m thankful for all of them. I was thinking about that the other day on my way out of town. Remember when we had the thunder, lightning and icy rain Sunday night? I thought my trip out of town the following day would be canceled, but the day turned sunny and as I drove down the highway beneath a stunning blue sky I couldn’t help but notice the ice that clung to branches, utility poles and long grass. The beauty of it all took my breath away, proving once again that even in the aftermath of an ice storm you can find something to make you glad to be alive. And there’s no reason to be silent about that, is there?

You put the sauce on the bottom, the spaghetti on top

2011-02-25T06:11:00.000-08:00

This salad looks too good to eat, but we manage to eat it anyway. It's made with such care and perfection I had to take a picture of it. By the way, I didn't make it.

Tuesday was an unusually busy work day so when the offer came for supper to be made by someone other than me, I accepted.

Salad, spaghetti and cheese-topped garlic bread was on the menu. As we finished our salads, the cook said, “You know, I read where the right way to eat spaghetti is to put the sauce on your plate first, then the spaghetti.” I was a teensy bit skeptical, but this was said with a straight face and no-nonsense expression.

At the stove I put the scrumptious-smelling sauce on the plate first, then added the whole wheat pasta. Two pieces of crispy garlic bread made for a perfect combination.

I sat down and looked at my plate, then heard this: “Wow. What kind of an upside-down backward world do you live in?”

We all thought that was pretty funny. I’d fallen again for a suggestion just because someone I believed made it. Turns out he wasn’t kidding; he really had read some article about the proper way to serve spaghetti but the experience started a trip down memory lane.

In our marriage’s early years my husband often called me gullible. I did fall for a lot of scams and such but I learned my lessons along the way, or so I thought. Those things we fall for often change appearance, at least they did for me and I got burned every single time.

Instead of revisiting the School of Hard Knocks I mentally closed those thoughts down and concentrated on movie night. Just before supper I had received a call from a person who got my new cell phone number from someone. I could feel warning bells going off about the proposal being offered, yet I half-heartedly agreed to check into it. I kicked myself for doing that, and tried to put it out of my mind.

Then my phone rang while we were watching a favorite show. It was yet another person who was given my number, this time from the original caller. Anger and suspicion took the place of warning bells as the caller was even more hard-sell than the first one. I told the woman I would try to make the meeting but wasn’t going to promise.

Actually, my mind was made up as soon as I hung up the phone. There would be no meeting for me, no fantastic opportunity, though I may wonder for a while whether that was a stupid decision to make. If so, I’ll live with it.

That’s just the kind of upside-down backward world I live in.

Dreamland not all that dreamy

2011-02-18T19:25:00.000-08:00

I've been a bit freaked out by scarecrows since watching the original Children of the Corn. This guy looks harmless...right?

I had a doozy of a nightmare a couple of weeks ago, the kind that was so frightening I dreamed about it after I fell back asleep.

Thankfully these horrible experiences are rare but I have to tell you, they are emotionally and even physically painful.

The nightmare scene took place in our home. I was walking downstairs and a few steps past the top landing I noticed my better half staring up at the foyer ceiling. I could understand why: A lovely dining room table and four chairs were attached upside down just above his head.

Two things happened almost simultaneously. As one of the noticeably heavy chairs disengaged itself from the rest of the upside-down furniture and came hurtling toward me, the dog made a beeline up the stairs, past me and, I’m assuming, into one of the bedrooms.

I froze as the chair came at me even as I forced myself to wake up. Apparently I was voicing my fright because a soothing voice was telling me all was well and to go back to sleep. Except I couldn’t do that; I’ve done that before only to find myself right where the nightmare left off. Not fun.

As I sat up and thought about what freaked-out place I had escaped from, the tingling of what seemed like every nerve in my body was reminding me of the physical pain of such a bad dream. I struggled to stay awake, and that worked for a while.

Sleep took over again, and this time I found myself in an ordinary dream talking to a friend. Nothing out of the ordinary happened at first but before long I proceeded to share with her the nightmare about the upside-down flying furniture. This was turning out to be quite the experience as I’ve never (to my knowledge) remembered a nightmare so vividly as to recall it to someone in a dream.

Those who know me know I love scary books and movies, stormy days and nights, Halloween and all that good stuff. Being trapped in a nightmare is something else though, and since I have a low pain tolerance I didn’t find the other-world experience all that delightful.

We’ve recently watched some mind-tingling movies that I thought might affect my dreams. Devil is about you-know-who being one of the occupants in a stalled elevator with several people trapped inside. The other night we watched Case 39, easily one of the most frightening movies I’ve ever seen. The next night we thoroughly enjoyed The Assignment, a nail-biter with a surprise ending.

I’m not sure what makes some stories weave their way into our minds and take hold beneath in our subconscious, just waiting for us to close our eyes and enter Dreamland. I thought for sure I’d have at least one odd dream after watching Shutter Island or Inception, both starring Leonardo DiCapprio, but nothing happened.

A favorite TV show is on tonight, one of those out-of-this-world stories about aliens taking over the Earth. V has it all—beautiful leading ladies, handsome good guys fighting handsome bad guys, and aliens with long, sharp teeth with evil intentions. So far, though, we’ve not seen any flying furniture and that’s fine with me.

Our dogs can teach us many lessons--we should watch and learn

2011-02-11T10:53:00.001-08:00

"This may look like Sarah Jane is looking up to Heaven, but actually she is responding to her master's request to 'look up'. I took a picture of her alongside the expensive grandfather clock she chewed the corner off of during her first year with us. As you by now know, we love Sarah much more than we do the clock."

Someone once told me I was obsessed with Facebook. I think there are degrees of obsession, and while it’s true I check the site half a dozen times a day, it’s not something I think about constantly. (That obsession is reserved for becoming a successful novelist.)

What I found interesting on Facebook the other day was a conversation among dog lovers about what we resort to in order to get our pooches to come in from playtime in the yard.

Sarah Jane’s favorite person doesn’t have to say much. He calls her to come inside and if she disobeys he simply starts toward her and she comes running. I don’t get it; he’s never laid a hand on her but she knows who’s boss.

If The Boss isn’t around and I have to do the job, I usually get ignored. It’s not like I’m athletically inclined and can chase Sarah around until she figures out I’m serious. To add insult to injury, the dog will get out as far as she can, turn and squint at me, then bark.

My Facebook friends shared words and phrases they used, and mine were similar. I’ve used supper, let’s eat, Daddy’s home, and ice cream. There have been times I lied just to get Sarah to come to me but that usually backfires. She won’t respond again for a long while once she’s been fooled.

We’ve had many dogs over the years yet this one has me flummoxed. She’s easily the biggest, and our first Lab. Maybe this breed is supposed to stay a puppy until who-knows-when. Here she is, five years old and still acting like every morning is Christmas. One would think that walks get boring after a month or two, yet Sarah gets sparkly-eyed and bouncy (and loud) when it’s time to stroll downtown and back. Oh, heaven!

This dog is like a child when it comes to winding down for the night. She’s so reluctant to turn in she keeps her chin on the sofa arm, nose pointed toward her master just in case he decides to do something fun. We can’t make any sudden moves or she’s on us like a flash, ready to take on anything and anyone.

I wouldn’t want to leave the impression that Sarah thinks I’m worthless. Every morning without fail we can count on her to slurp water, pad around the kitchen table and gently place her soggy chin on my leg. Once she feels her face is dry enough she steps back, tilts her head and wrinkles her forehead. That’s dog language for, “Get up and take me out.” Funny, I’m supposed to understand and obey her but she doesn’t feel obligated to return the favor.

Besides the puppy-like behavior at walk time, Sarah still steals things and tries to eat them. A couple of weeks ago we found evidence that she’d eaten some very odd things indeed and we waited anxiously to see if she had done any permanent damage to herself. She seems fine, though I realize we can’t ever really let our guard down. Doors must remain shut to rooms with tempting chewables, and other precautions taken to keep Sarah safe from herself.

We dog lovers know that our loyal furry friends come into our lives for a too-short time. They provide unconditional love, zero criticism, hold no grudges and forgive us our shortcomings. No wonder it tears a hole in our heart and soul when they pass on—there’s no one on Earth like them.

To all of you out there blessed to have a dog by your side, enjoy him or her while you can. And it wouldn’t hurt to take lessons from them on how to treat one another, either, especially if you agree with the second sentence in the paragraph above. I’m still learning.

Warm thoughts on a cold winter's day

2011-02-05T08:06:00.000-08:00

Like most everyone else, we were snowed in last Wednesday. But we had plenty of food, our boiler was heating the house, and I was feeling plenty blessed. There were many others who had to be out in that mess and as far as I could tell, they did their jobs quite well indeed. Thanks--to all of you!

To say today feels weird is an understatement. It’s Wednesday morning, the first day I can remember in years when almost the whole town is “closed”. As the closings and cancellations were read off on the radio I had to wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier to tell us what was open instead.

No newspapers arrived at their usual time; no mail either but I’m not complaining. I hope no one else did either. How often does something like this happen anyway?

The dog was a bit bewildered about the whole winter landscape thing. If us humans had snowdrifts up to our you-know-whats, think about the poor dogs—especially the little ones. Sarah Jane needed paths shoveled in the back and front of the house in order to use her facilities. To make it more interesting, she takes pills each day with one side effect being increased thirst and having to go potty.

I really thought the weather forecasters were full of beans but that didn’t stop us from stocking up on essentials and comfort foods. Turns out two of us were out shopping at about the same time a couple of days ahead of the storm, and by the time I texted the message, “I bought milk” it was too late. We have two gallons of milk that expire on the same day, two bottles of salad dressing and four bags of potato chips.

There are chocolate chip cookies in the cookie jar, and a freshly-baked apple pie on the counter. Bread is rising near the stove, and soup sounds great for lunch. It’s a blessing to be inside where it’s warm and cozy, and I couldn’t be more thankful most everyone kept their power on during those horrendous winds.

It’s been interesting to listen to the scanner chatter. I’ve heard conversations about what kind of people are dumb enough to risk life and limb to drive at times like these, how many cars and trucks were stuck in the middle of the road or in ditches, and alarming reports of snow plow drivers who found themselves lost because they couldn’t tell what street they were on.

Some who were sent out to rescue others needed rescuing themselves. Thoughts swirled around here about whether we should buy a generator in case the heat went out. Our boiler struggled to keep up with the frigid wind whipping out of the northeast, and we began shutting doors to rooms we wouldn’t be using until the weather calmed down.

Even if you’ve had a bit of a tough time over the last few days, there are probably plenty of things to be thankful for. And after having a home and loved ones safe inside, I’m thankful for those who are out there shoveling, plowing and rescuing stranded strangers. Kudos to all of you.

Remembering Dwen, Patti and Dad

2011-01-28T11:42:00.000-08:00

Don't you sometimes wonder what goes through a dog's mind? Sarah Jane loves to sit and stare out a window and she gets this faraway look in her eyes, like she's having a special memory. I do that too, especially when I want to bring someone back for just a little while.

Many years ago when there was a Bonanza restaurant on Tenney St., I remember walking inside for breakfast and finding a table off to my left with three deceased diners seated around it. Time stopped as I gaped at the two men and one woman eating eggs, drinking coffee and laughing, apparently unaware they shouldn’t still be here—on Earth.

I took a spot on the right side of the restaurant and continued to steal glances in their direction. Today I can’t remember who these folks were, and even back then my eyesight was terrible so obviously these three simply resembled my dearly-departed acquaintances.

Obviously.

Nowadays I only see those who have passed on in my mind and dreams. Take the Australian Open, now in its second and final week. Some top seeds are still in the running—Roger Federer, Kim Clijsters, Andy Murray—though that could change by the time this sees print. I’m pulling for Federer and Clijsters, but was sad to see Rafael Nadal lose so soon. A match between him and the “Federer Express” is always a fun one to watch.

I mention this event because it brings a dear friend to mind. Dwen Freeburg played tennis for decades, up into his 90s. He introduced my husband to a group of friends who play tennis every week, something we’re both thankful for. And we had a blast talking about the major tennis tournaments and players throughout the year, something we miss now since Dwen is gone.

Almost every Monday I head to the courthouse for hearings, and that’s when my friend Patti comes to mind. Patti passed away a few months ago from breast cancer; I pause by her artwork on the first level of the courthouse and in my mind we say hi to each other. I only use my pink breast cancer awareness pen while there because it makes me feel close to her.

Then there’s Dad. There have been dozens of opportunities since he passed where a situation comes about that calls for a right or wrong declaration. In my dealings with my father-in-law, he saw things as one way or the other and he wasn’t a bit shy about telling you what he believed. At times I thought he was a bit rigid, that there was more than one way to look at something, but I admired the heck out of a man who was bold enough to put what was in his heart into words that he stood by.

Dad comes to mind when I struggle with something or someone and my heart is telling me one thing while those around me tell me something else. More often than not I end up deciding on the answer that gives me peace of mind, even if it doesn’t please everyone. I believe that’s what Dad did, and he was admired by many for that trait.

While it’s mentally healthier to remain rooted in the present, I find it comforting to return to the past now and then to bring those we loved to mind, just for a minute or two. It’s much less shocking to the system than imagining you can actually see them out and about at a local eatery. Which reminds me, I really do need new glasses.

Missing our little guy

2011-01-21T16:35:00.000-08:00

A tribute to our youngest, Luke Anthony. It's comforting to know we'll see him again someday.

It’s been 33 years ago today, and I wonder how many of those who came to know him, even a little, remember this date.

He was born July 28, 1977 at Kewanee Public Hospital. Luke Anthony weighed 3.5 pounds, and following a collapsed lung, our youngest was whisked away to the neonatal unit at Peoria’s Saint Francis Hospital. I was allowed a quick look at him through his portable incubator before he was off on his journey. It would be 10 days before I saw our son again.

I don’t believe anyone in our family or circle of friends thought for one minute that Luke would never come home to Kewanee again.

Once the shock, denial and anger at our situation subsided, our little family made the best of a bad situation. Luke had two older brothers and both were under 5, so they weren’t allowed at the hospital. Hubby had to keep working, and as a mom I simply had to be at our son’s cribside as much as possible.

We learned more than we ever wanted to about premature birth, the health consequences, quality of life and much more. Luke was on oxygen, he had shunts put in to drain water off his brain, he had a hernia, and his blood was taken for testing so often the doctors and nurses ran out of places to draw from.

You would think that the world we were living in at that time was a scary and dark place, and in many ways it was. We prayed our hearts out that Luke would come home to live with us, but every setback (and there were many) seemed to say it wasn’t to be.

But the world wasn’t all gloom and doom. Members of the First United Methodist Church quietly stepped in with offers of free babysitting for the boys, money for travel, a new outfit for me—just to lift my spirits, food and prayers. Pastor Phil from Peoria and Pastor Bob from Kewanee visited our home and the hospital regularly.

Now and then I would bring someone along to visit Luke so they could learn how to prepare to enter his special room. No jewelry, lots of hand scrubbing, masks and gowns—that was the routine. There was a brief time when we were taught how to care for our son when he came home, and we were prepared to take on that job, no matter what it took.

The call came in the wee hours of a cold January morning. Everything that could be done for Luke had been done. We were told we had to make a decision, so we prayed and then asked hubby’s brother and wife to be with us and our two pastors on that unforgettable day.

I held our son, Daddy’s arm around us both as Luke passed away. His Uncle Mark and Aunt Debbie drove us home that day, and they, along with other family and friends helped us get through what comes after the loss of a child.

I have a few favorite memories of that time, and I kept daily journals that are tucked away in the attic. The few photos we were allowed to take have darkened over time, but I remember that sweet face. I hope I always will.

If you know someone who has lost a child, whether through illness or some other way, please know that moms and dads most always welcome the chance to talk about their son or daughter. We just need someone to remember, and to listen.

I need to be surrounded by things that inspire me

2011-01-16T03:03:00.000-08:00

Sarah Jane in one of her more peaceful poses...makes me realize even Labs slow down and rest once in a while.

“Creativity is a road out of pain—physical and mental misery.” (Stephen King)

Those who know me well know my favorite author is Stephen King. The quote above speaks volumes, and for me it’s true.

King has had plenty of physical and mental misery. He was a drug user for years, he fought mental demons throughout that time, and then he was hit by a wayward van one day as he was taking his daily walk. The accident, as it were, nearly killed the author but he wrote through that pain just as he wrote through psychological pain.

Ray Bradbury is on my list of favorite writers, and one time I read where he surrounds himself in his office with untold numbers of odd items to keep his imagination active and sharp. I’ve not read much of his work lately, but obviously I’ve picked up his idea of loading my foyer office with interesting doodads to help me jumpstart the ol’ brain.

In front of me is a framed picture of a majestic wolf. Its close-set ears are at attention, and the golden eyes seem to see right through me.

Below that is a calendar with 12 pictures of lighthouses. I have lighthouses all over the place, but the photo for January is especially stunning with the sun setting in Fond-Du-Lac, Wisconsin. A few seconds of gazing upon that scene brings peace.

To my left is a wooden, hand-painted foot-high lighthouse given to me by our oldest son on the last Mother’s Day we spent together. It’s never far from eyesight, for many reasons.

A goofy stuffed Bugs Bunny sits near my green banker’s lamp, and an Isabel Bloom figure of friends hugging stands to the right.

A sign with my name on it sits next to a picture of two lions. The sign is from my job as a teller at Union Federal from 1970 to 1972.

I have a miniature version of a three-bulb lamppost sitting close by. There’s a comical story behind that piece that few people know about, and I’m guessing the “shopping” girls will keep that a secret as long as they can.

On the bulletin board to my left are four photos. One is of Cujo, our Saint Bernard mix we adopted from an Arizona animal shelter. Max, our malamute-husky is there too, as is our current pooch Sarah Jane. Our youngest son is the fourth photo, and I haven’t heard him complain that he’s the only human face in the bunch.

When I consider this odd collection, it doesn’t seem like all that much. Then, this morning, hubby asked me, “Do you feel like eyes are watching you?” When I told him no, he pointed out that my five-foot stuffed Sylvester was less than a foot away.

“I guess I’m used to him being here,” I answered, as I swiveled around to stare up at my Christmas present. A swivel to the left and there was Snoopy, smiling, with one paw in a basket full of odds and ends.

The past week has been a challenge, mentally and physically. I’ve written quite a bit about what’s happened so I know that King was right. Creativity, no matter the type, does provide a road out of pain. I’ll take that road, thank you very much, as long as I can bring along what I’ve collected and held close to my heart over the years. I want my imagination alive and well for as long as God allows.

Setting boundaries tough to do

2011-01-07T07:25:00.000-08:00

A cold winter's day, a perfect day to be inside where it's warm and cozy. We get more time to think, re-evaluate, and even do some serious soul-searching. For a short while I was editing myself here but after reading a great Joyce Meyer book, I've decided that was a mistake. We simply can't please everyone and it's crazy to even try.

When we’re forced inside during the frigid winter months, we watch far too much TV. There are plenty of newspapers, magazines and books around the house but it’s easier to veg out in front of the idiot box. You can let your mind wander, and most of the time you can catch up with the storyline even if you zone out or leave the room during important moments.

It used to be that summertime gave us a breather from TV. That changed years ago and now we have new shows, series and season finales and returns of old favorites all year long.

If that isn’t enough we also have computers that give us the opportunity to play games, use search engines until our eyeballs fall out, and socialize with people we will never meet if we live to be 150.

It’s easier to interact, if that’s the right word, with fictional characters. No matter how real they seem, we know they’re not. There are no complicated relationship issues because once the show’s over, you go on to the next one.

With social networks we can have a mixture of family and friends, and if that isn’t enough we are free to add friends of friends, who usually turn out to have something in common with us. Seems like most of my “acquaintances” are dog lovers and that’s fine. For the most part, I’ve been very thankful to be a part of the on-line community, especially Facebook.

Still, there are only so many hours in one day. We work some of those hours, run errands, cook, clean, shop and sleep. It takes little effort after all of that to simply plop in a chair, and click the remote or turn on the computer. No one can see what we look like, or gauge the expression on our face to see if we’re angry, sad, amused or uninterested. It’s become a chore to pull ourselves together, dress for the weather and purposely go out to meet up with real people.

I can’t put my finger on it, but for some reason I’m not missing that part of my life as much as I used to. I see real people at all of those other places—work, the stores, around the supper table. Most of the rest I talk to on the phone or over the internet, so it’s not like we don’t keep up with one another’s lives.

Relationship experts might not agree that this is enough. Through the very machines mentioned above, we learn that we’re supposed to gather with family and friends and build our relationships. Talking heads abound, giving us pointers on how to improve our bonds with one another.

I’m reading an inspirational book by Joyce Meyer called, In Pursuit of Peace, 21 ways to conquer anxiety, fear and discontentment. It’s been worth it to cut out other things to learn how to improve relationships with those we come into contact with in the real world. Oddly enough, Meyer notes that it’s important to establish boundaries with the people in our lives, especially to avoid being agitated and disturbed. She went on to say, “Some of the people and circumstances in life that upset us will never change until we establish boundaries and keep them out.”

Wow. I’ll have to think about that one, because even though it sounds like the answer to some problems, doing that will likely create some brand-new ones.

Guess I’ll make some popcorn and put in a movie. This is going to take some more thought.

Five-foot-high Sylvester just what this kid wanted

2010-12-31T12:57:00.001-08:00

“There is nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.”(Erma Bombeck)

My husband loves to attend auctions. I have to admit, he does bring home some screaming deals and he has willpower. We’ve both learned it doesn’t pay to bid and win something based purely on emotion.

A week or so before Christmas I was perusing a favorite auction site and saw something highly unusual: a five-foot tall stuffed Sylvester, Tweety Bird’s nemesis. I pointed at the picture, laughed, then said, “I want that for Christmas.” The response? “Yeah, right.”

I was gone the Sunday of the auction, and when I got home I had a couple of homemade end tables. After some magical maneuvering I managed to fit the newest additions into the perfect spots. I asked about Sylvester and was told that he’d gone for $52.50. “Who in their right mind would pay that much for a stuffed cat?” I asked. A strange look crossed hubby’s face, but I chalked that up to him thinking I was including anyone who had bid on the kitty.

As Christmas drew nearer and the gifts started to accumulate under the tiny tree, Sylvester faded from my mind.

Then more wrapping paper was needed and it looked like a trip to the attic was in store. I offered to go up but I was told, firmly, that someone else would go up. I started to wonder, like a kid, if maybe there was a big surprise in the attic.

I may be a kid at heart but I’m realistic enough to know that if we hauled out a giant stuffed cat to put by the tree we would have one freaked out yellow Lab and no one would get any sleep. Maybe Sylvester was at someone else’s house after all, and there was something else in the attic.

On Christmas morning I tiptoed down the stairs, but it was darker than normal. The softly lit snowman was still plugged in and the light we usually leave on was off. After reaching out the front door and grabbing the newspaper (yes, there was one that day) I came back inside, closed and locked the door and started toward the kitchen.

Something wasn’t right.

You know how you can sometimes sense that someone is in a room with you? My eyesight isn’t that great but my fear factor was notching up. I stood still and listened. No heavy breathing except for Sarah Jane snoring in the living room. No, there was someone or something in the foyer with me. After a second or two, I found out what it was.

I could have said, “I tawt I taw a puddy tat!” Instead, I think I said something like what Frank Barone used to say in nearly every episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. If you don’t know what that is, ask me sometime and I’ll tell you.

Big black and white eyes stared at me from behind a giant red nose. Sylvester was leaning nonchalantly against the grandfather clock just waiting to be noticed. Once I was over the shock, I had to go over and give him a big hug.

After the rest of the gifts were opened, there was one more surprise. “Oh, I almost forgot,” said my bargain hunter. “Here. The auctioneer threw this in too,” he said as he handed me a big stuffed Snoopy.

The cat and the dog get along fine. Sarah Jane is ignoring both of them as I sit with one on either side of me in the upstairs office.

Erma Bombeck was right. I’m glad I’m such a kid and I think more of us need to find the child inside of us again. Christmas morning is always better when the children are home.

Christmas memories on a snowy Christmas Eve

2010-12-24T09:50:00.000-08:00

This photo was taken at our home on Tenney Street. Must have been in 1974, with Mom and Dad holding their first grandson, Clinton Dean. So many memories, so many years ago. I'm so thankful the kids got to grow up knowing their grandparents.

It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sitting here with a mug of fresh, hot coffee doctored with honey and cinnamon. Sarah Jane is snoring softly on the living room sofa, and everyone else is snug in their beds.

I got my shopping done a few days ago, and I think the gift recipients will be happy with what they open tomorrow morning. Christmas came so fast this year I haven’t had the chance to be the usual pain in my husband’s neck. Usually I start at least a couple of weeks before the big day, asking over and over again, “So, what'd you get me?” Or I drop hints so big he couldn’t possibly miss them. His response to the hints is, “Well, thanks for telling me. That’s exactly what you’re not going to get.” And he was true to his word—most of the time.

The TV is silent this morning because I want to be able to hear myself think. Today there will be no negative thoughts, though I plan to relive past Christmases when the whole family was together for holidays, birthdays and other special get-togethers. I don’t consider that negative thinking; there is a difference, you know, between bringing up something that stirs anger and bringing to mind sweet and poignant snapshots of Mom, Dad, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings all together under one roof.

There isn’t any one Christmas that stands out, really. We were blessed (and still are) to have a family that knows why we celebrate this holiday and the importance of that was and is still the best part.

All of those December 25ths have kind of run together. Dad cooked the turkey and stuffing, Mom was in charge of potatoes and homemade gravy, and other small essentials. The sons brought in their well-bundled kids, and the wives lugged side dishes, desserts and homemade bread.

There were a few years when I sent my better half out with freshly-baked, still-warm iced cinnamon rolls to deliver to family early on Christmas morning. As families got bigger and we all got busier, I had to stop but it was a blast while it lasted.

After a big dinner in the early afternoon, one in which the kids hardly touched their food, we would clear the table and head for the living room. We would pick a Santa, usually one of the older kids who could read the gift tags and madness soon followed as wrapping paper, bows and ribbons were ripped and flung around Dad’s big living room. Photos were snapped, we ooohed and ahhed and pulled ourselves up to head to the kitchen for hot coffee and pie.

As I sit here and my coffee cools just a bit, I can almost smell the scent of cinnamon rolls baking. In a few hours I’ll put the turkey in a roaster, not the oven, and it will cook in less than half the usual time.

There are no little ones to wake before the sun rises and come running to the tree to see what Santa left them, but that’s OK. I can wait, and truth be told it’s nice to have an hour or so to myself this morning to reflect on this most beautiful of holidays. Family memories like these are meant to be cherished slowly and with a deep thankfulness.

Merry Christmas, dear readers. It’s a blessing to share this day with all of you.

Baking goes "smoothly" at our house

2010-12-17T07:42:00.000-08:00

Here's the dessert bar at the latest family cookout a couple of months ago. We also enjoy homemade yummies throughout the year, and sometimes, most times, it's as much fun to make food for people to eat as it is to eat it. That, and the fellowship around the table is priceless.

Faced with a “what to bake first” dilemma the other night after supper, I unwisely asked for an opinion.

The choices were banana bread, yellow cake with milk chocolate frosting, or apple or peach pie. One wise guy came up with a solution: “Bake ‘em in alphabetical order,” he suggested. “Not according to flavors, according to product.”

That night I mixed and baked banana bread, since the word bread came first. I wasn't supposed to put in walnuts because a certain someone thinks such additions don’t belong in breads, cakes, ice cream, cookies or even—get this—peanut butter. “Ice cream and peanut butter should be smooth,” he often says with authority. Whose authority he speaks with I have no clue, but you won’t find Super Crunch at our house any more.

The next day was a special birthday; OK, a birthday for the special guy in my life so a cake was next on the list. I gazed longingly at the chopped walnuts still nestled in their bag; I wanted to sprinkle them in a pretty pattern on the frosting but that would have ruined the cake for you-know-who so I shut the drawer and never looked back.

The apple pie will come next (“a” comes before “p”) but I’ll have another choice to make here. Should I attempt to make my own pie crust (again?) or simply roll out the prepared crust from the box in the fridge?

Years ago I was interviewing a couple at their home and almost the entire hour I was there, the wife was preparing pies. She was whipping out one crust after another with an ease that blew my mind. I didn’t have the nerve to ask her for her recipe at that moment so I waited a few weeks. Before I could call her, she passed away.

In mid-August a friend and I were having lunch. We began discussing recipes of all kinds and since I knew her to be a great cook I asked if she knew of a pie crust recipe that used oil. Did she! She told me the ingredients, and I asked her to repeat them a few times. Neither of us wrote them down, but I kept repeating them to myself until I got home, at which point I promptly forgot one or two items but I figured, hey, I can just call her sometime and get the recipe. She passed away a few weeks later.

Why bring up such sadness in the midst of a baking tale? I guess it’s because cooking and baking for loved ones is one of the best ways I know to show how much I love someone. I don’t think we consciously realize that love enters into the process; after all, we just throw together the eggs, flour, oil, sugar or whatever we use to make something yummy. If we get a compliment, great; if all you get is a plate licked clean, all the better. If they didn’t enjoy what you made, you’d know it.

If you’re the cook in the family, take a moment to remind yourself who you are cooking for. I’m thankful beyond words to have someone to prepare meals and goodies for, and while the compliments are nice, it’s the presence of those I love I find to be the greatest gift. If you’re the recipient of a mouth-watering piece of pie or a still-warm chocolate chip cookie (without nuts, of course), take a second to thank the cook. She (or he) will appreciate it more than you know.

My four-legged therapist gives great advice

2010-12-03T20:34:00.000-08:00

So, here she is, our Sarah Jane. She's such a good listener, and she has a heart of gold. I plan to have more "therapy sessions" with our pooch.

Can you believe it’s December already?

Family and friends have taken off for either a few days, weeks or months and that’s interrupted the usual gatherings. We had our breakfasts on Sunday mornings after church, and the Monday-night round-table discussions in Mom’s kitchen, but when most of our group is gone we have to fill in the time somehow.

And that didn’t take long.

Frankly, I don’t know how we found the time to meet and chat with one another. No sooner were our buddies gone than we were busy doing something else. How does that happen?

I certainly don’t feel any more rested now that we’ve dropped some items off the schedule. We must have filled those holes immediately with other stuff because neither of us is lounging around waiting for everyone to return. It’s going to be hard to get back on track. Weird.

We didn’t participate in Black Friday, Small Business Saturday or Cyber Monday. We read the newspapers, watched the news, and I read a whole book (and it was good!) There was work, dog-walking, cleaning, making meals and all the other stuff most of us do on a daily basis.

It makes me wonder if our priorities are in the right place. Could be we’re supposed to sit down and look over our to-do lists more often to see what we can mark off to make room for new things. Or, how about this? How about if we cross some things off and we don’t put anything in their place? What would we do with a little extra time?

I’m not sure some of us could handle that. Personally, I have projects waiting in the wings for when my list is whittled down a bit. There’s a memoir and two novels in various stages of non-completion, and it seems like forever since I’ve seen my sister. I’d love to find the time to talk, laugh and share Christmas with sis before the snow flies and socks us in.

Sometimes when Sarah Jane is the only one around, I’ll talk to her about what I would do if I just had a bit more time. For a dog, and a lab at that, Sarah’s a good listener. She looks me straight in the eyes, wiggles her eyebrows and pays close attention to every word. If she detects a hint of sadness, she’ll pad over to me and put her head on my leg, look up and wag her tail. “Everything will be OK,” she seems to be saying, and I can’t help but believe it.

I guess I’ll take another look at that to-do list. December is a busy, busy month and it would be wise to schedule some regular time with our four-legged friend, just to remind me that we all need to take time to share quiet moments with those we love, and who love us.

Christmas and family - a mix of the old and new

2010-11-26T08:11:00.000-08:00

OK, we're not there yet but it won't be long. It's COLD! And it's after Thanksgiving so our thoughts turn to the Christmas to come and Christmases past. Maybe I'm being cynical but I don't see how any future Christmas get-togethers can match the ones that are now precious memories. Our large family gathered (mostly Gary's relatives--I have only my sister), we actually got along well and we loved getting together at Mom's for a great meal and opening presents. Those days are over for good, but hey, that's Life.

Monday morning came too fast this week. My better half promised to drive his relatives to the Moline airport at around 4 a.m. so naturally we were up at around 2:30. We stumbled around until 3 when the call came that no one would be leaving that day since someone didn't feel well. The plan was to try and schedule a flight for today, but we all felt bad because the whole idea was for them to be together for Thanksgiving. What fun is it to arrive the day after?

Miraculously a flight was snagged for Tuesday, so that morning came even faster because it was an earlier departure time. Again we stumbled out of slumberland, this time around 2:15. Fresh-made coffee was poured into a travel mug and off went the driver into the cold, dark morning. I should also mention that Sarah Jane thought that getting up really early was a fine idea and she wanted to see what was going on outside. On Monday we let her have a peek, but Tuesday we snarled at her to go back to bed.

It's amazing what we'll do to get together for special occasions. We'll fly even though we don't want to face the pat-downs and scanners. Or we'll brave busy roadways and high gas prices to drive to see family and friends, even for a short time. It's worth it to get away from the demands in our lives and simply enjoy good food and even better company.

Our Thanksgivings tend to be small gatherings; most times it's just the two of us. Or three, if you count the dog and trust me, we've counted her for the last four years. We don't always participate in the insane Black Friday escapades because we've found it's infinitely more pleasant to remain under warm covers while zillions of bargain hunters risk pneumonia to get a steal of a deal.

I've learned to listen to my heart to find out what makes the holidays enjoyable to us. Baking is at the top, as is having time to sip hot chocolate with whipped cream while reading a book. Having leftovers after Thanksgiving is pure bliss, and after naps and watching favorite holiday shows we get in the mood to climb the attic stairs and drag down the Christmas decorations. We decorate differently since we brought Sarah into our home, but that hasn't taken the joy from setting up the tree, and all of the doodads we use year after year.

It must be the soft, colorful lights placed carefully throughout the house that makes it feel so cozy and warm. There's a peace that settles over our home as we concentrate on what Christmas means. We make the effort to turn away from what causes us stress and turn toward what brings a smile to our faces and a lift in our spirits.

I'm mindful that the holidays can be a sad time for some. Our family is missing many of those who used to gather for Christmas, and at some point their absence gets to me in a big way.

Something tells me that every one of them would tell us not to let their absence cast a shadow over the festivities. Maybe that's why we go to such lengths to gather with the family and friends we still have with us, to savor every moment together for as long as we can.

This year I'm going to take pictures and videos and I'll write about what we do and who was here, because that's another beautiful part of the season: getting comfy and pulling out the albums and journals so we can go back in time for an hour or so and relive Christmases past with those we wish were still here.

Calendar? What calendar? Oh, THAT calendar!

2010-11-12T08:18:00.000-08:00

That's right, the squirrel is looking for me and you know why. You'll need to excuse me now while I go and try to find what's left of my mind.

I like to think my life is somewhat organized. There are calendars and clocks in every room, and the daily planner I keep in my purse is usually promptly filled in every time a new appointment comes up.

That's why the past few days have been so baffling.

Breakfast and lunch at our house are hit and miss, except for those eye-opening and oftentimes hilarious Sunday morning breakfasts. Supper is always a sit-down affair, with the dog sprawled in the "drop zone" between those humans willing to slip her some table scraps. Sarah Jane is awfully partial to mashed potatoes, and we can't figure out when that happened.

Most of us have seen dogs who rip through meat like there's no tomorrow, but this dog has a tummy for taters. We came up with the term "potato pan" and those two words will send her into a frenzy. She must have the potato pan and she'll jump through hoops to get it.

The other night I noticed my favorite big spoon was missing. After checking everyone's alibi, we turned our collective attention to the yellow Lab waiting impatiently in the drop zone. I used another spoon, and supper went on. Afterward, there was an incident. Before she could get the potato pan, one of the guys demanded that the dog give up the missing spoon. Sarah was about to go into a frenzy, so she got her pan and proceeded to clean it. While she was busy, the canine interrogator got down on the floor to look beneath appliances to see if the spoon got pushed underneath one of them.

None of us noticed that Sarah was finished and had turned her attention to the human on her level. By the time we saw what she intended to do it was too late to get out of her path, and our son got head-butted with enough force to rock him back into the cabinets. But hey, he found the spoon.

After supper we all go our separate ways. By that time I've met my work obligations, yet I check the planner in case I missed something. This week I noticed an Avon meeting and a gathering of the Red Hat ladies. Wednesday was going to be busy.

Just fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of the Avon get- together I pulled into the restaurant parking lot and noticed-- nothing. Not a car, a bike or a truck was parked in the lot, so I got out my planner. Ah, yes. The meeting is for next Wednesday. That left the Red Hatters at noon so I rearranged things and went about my business.

At fifteen minutes before noon I went to meet my friends in red and purple. The first mistake was walking into the wrong building, which was easy enough to correct. The next mistake was getting the wrong day; I was off by one. I checked my schedule again but it firmly states Wednesday which means I wrote the date down wrong. If I hadn't, wouldn't the other gals be there? Yeah, I thought so too.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was the one who got head-butted by the dog the other night. I'm afraid to think there might be another explanation.

Surprising conversations around Mom's table

2010-11-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

We were trying hard to figure out how to work the new grill that afternoon, and when I saw Mom walk over to it I asked her to act as though she knew everything about it. I think she pulled off the "act"!

By now we've all been experiencing a collective sigh of relief that the midterm election season is behind us and we don't have to listen to all the little boys and girls calling one another names and pushing each other off the playground swings. Whew.

That said, the name-calling was still in full swing when the family gathered for coffee at mom's Monday night. We all arrived at almost the same time, dropped our coats on the living room chair and headed for the warm kitchen.

Banana cream pie topped with slivered almonds awaited us, as did a pot of freshly-brewed coffee.

Then we went and ruined things by talking politics. Just kidding.

We have a way of being able to discuss this volatile subject without ripping one another's faces off, and since it was so close to the end, I don't think our hearts were really in it. So our gaze, literally, turned to what turned out to be the last game of the World Series.

Our cousins live in Texas so a couple at the table were rooting for the Rangers, while I was cheering on the Giants. Hey, the Rangers beat the Yankees and if it was up to me we would've been watching country music videos instead of baseball.

During commercial breaks, mom and her sister were perusing the latest Avon book and I was hoping for a big order. I think Christmas was on our minds, and I tried to hint at stocking stuffers but we somehow got off-track and into a conversation about Halloween. Let me tell you, you would be surprised at what these kind and gentle ladies did on Halloween many, many years ago. In fact, I'm guessing you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

I won't say exactly what went on but it involved outhouses and getaway drivers. They still find it hilarious after all this time and I can only say I'm glad their impressionable grandchildren weren't around the table that night as we all got an earful of their mischievous behavior. Shameful.

As the guys continued to intently watch the Giants pitch the stuffing out of the Rangers and discuss their afternoon disc golf game, talk between us girls turned to telephones and specifically to when General Telephone sold phones from their office on Main Street. There was a time in the 1970s when I got a new phone about every three months, just for the fun of it. That brought to mom's mind her job at the phone company and what happened when World War II ended. She told us the operators had to walk the floor of the phone company, some 18 to 20 feet, and watch for the switchboard to light up.

I got tears in my eyes as she told about the end of the war, and how light after light came on as people called one another. She told us how, after work, she and several of her co-workers piled in a car like so many others and drove around town honking and yelling and laughing. Good times.

That night the Giants won, politics took a back seat, Halloween shenanigans were recalled and more memories were unpacked and talked about as our family found out a little bit more about one another. I can hardly wait until next time.

Riding the storm with those we love and who love us

2010-10-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

It can seem like we're alone as we battle seen and unseen forces, but we're not alone. Loved ones are with us, always...even if we can't see them.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved stormy weather. Thunder, lightning, wind (within reason), blizzards, and fog—as long as no one has to travel in such conditions, of course. It's most fun to me when I'm inside our home, sheltered from harm.

Of course for some of us, high winds mean that trees fall on our roofs, or if lightning hits we may blow some electrical appliances and that's when the scary stuff comes inside where we thought we were safe.

I guess that means we often acquire a false sense of security. We think that because we're tucked inside with the doors locked, then no one can get to us. And I've found out that type of thinking is a metaphor for something else.

For too many years I thought that diseases like cancer only happened to others, meaning it hit those I didn't know or would likely never meet. I felt safe (and blessed) that none of my family or friends had cancer, so I became complacent. Then things changed.

A dear friend of mine discovered a lump in her breast last April, and I became mildly concerned. My own experience has been with benign fibroid tumors and I thought that this was probably what my friend was dealing with, so I went on with my life and she pretty much did the same. Well, until the diagnosis came back that she did indeed have breast cancer.

Another friend told me she had a feeling this was going to turn out just fine. She apparently had a vision of some sort that nothing bad was going to happen, but I didn't feel as certain. I got a bit nervous, and began praying.

As the months flew by and things got progressively worse I prayed harder. I woke in the wee hours of the morning and usually the first thing on my mind was my friend and her husband. More prayers flew up as I went back to sleep hoping to hear good news that day. Facebook and CaringBridge.org provided a place where we could gather to get information, and we've all been checking those sites several times a day.

We've kept up with doctor visits and other updates over the last 17 months and that makes me more thankful than ever for the Internet.

My friend and her husband are intimately familiar with what the cancer has done to their daily lives. They wisely took a couple of "bucket list" trips across the country and caught up with family and friends they hadn't seen in a long while. They took thousands of pictures and visited places where natural and man-made beauty has made for some precious memories my friend can bring to mind as her sight fails her. She did this on purpose because she knew what was coming, even if some of us thought(and prayed) otherwise.

There is physical stormy weather, and then there is this kind, the kind you can't see. I don't care at all for storms that blow through our lives and leave us stunned, walking around in a fog as we search for clear-cut answers to questions that keep us wide-awake at night.

I now know that the warm, cozy feeling we get as storms rage can suddenly change and leave us chilled, frightened and feeling helpless. Strength, warmth and hope come from family, friends and even strangers who take your storm and ride it out with you—all the way.

May God be with you, Patti and 'Mas.

A shiny new grill, family, friends and fun

2010-10-22T13:08:00.000-07:00

Vonnie, son Rick,and Mom (Frances) as they try to figure out how to get the new grill going. Reading the directions helped immensely!

We pulled up to the house just a tad past 1 p.m., which I thought was fashionably late for a cookout that was to begin at 1. It was odd that we were the first to arrive, though, and I got a little nervous.

I brought the crockpot of chili into the house and we were greeted with, “I don’t have anything ready! Can you help?!”

Turns out the hostess had a bit of a chaos problem going: No grill for the burgers, brats and chicken; the sweet corn was still in its cellophane wrapper; one guest was unable to attend; and the list went on.

We were called to look out the back door, and as we stared in shock at the shiny, big, fancy new grill, my aunt turned and said, “I thought we were going to borrow a grill. Oh my gosh!”

And that started a whole new bag of challenges. The manual had to be read, the temperature system had to be learned (the heat once registered at 700 degrees, a wee bit hot for what we were cooking), and perhaps most important, someone needed to volunteer as cook.

I insisted that the men played chef at all the other cookouts, but that observation went unheeded. I wasn’t about to do it, so the rest of the women kept stepping back until my poor sister-in-law was left standing closest to the grill. As I saw flames jump up through the black slats and visions of the movie Backdraft came to mind, I was thankful I was a chicken.

Lisa did a great job; so good in fact that she’ll probably be elected again next time.

Since the party was a little late getting started, some folks got hungry and found ways to quietly pry open the potato chip bags. Yes, Joyce, I’m talking about you and I’d love to know how you did that without the rest of us noticing you.

I don’t think I’ve seen a more perfect day for a family gathering. The ground was covered with crunchy leaves, kids played disc golf, basketball, football and kick-the-pumpkin (until the little guy’s dad put a stop to it), but it wasn’t just the weather. Any time a big family can come together for something other than a funeral it’s a wonderful thing.

Some gathered around the outside patio table, others stood in the kitchen, a few watched the football game in the living room and the rest sat at the dining room table. Kids wandered in and out, nibbling on burgers and macaroni and cheese, then moved on to cake and ice cream. Adults sipped coffee and enjoyed slices of banana cream pie while catching up with one another’s lives.

Gosh, it was a good time.

I have to give her credit. Our aunt may have felt she had no control over the seemingly unending challenges thrown her way on Sunday afternoon but she needn’t have worried. As we talked and ate, laughed and reminisced, the earlier chaos was quickly forgotten and replaced with hugs and smiles and contentment.

I just hope the one who was sitting closest to the refrigerator has recovered from her near-beaning by a big box of Eggo Waffles. You can bet we’ll bring that up at the next cookout.

No medicine for the pain bullies inflict

2010-10-15T10:10:00.000-07:00

I try to freely admit when I don't understand what someone is going through. I've never lost a spouse, had cancer or any serious illness, have never been fired (though I've quit plenty of jobs). But I have lost a child, and another has been missing for going on eight years. I never knew my grandparents--any of them, and I've lost both parents, so I "get it" in those situations. And I've been bullied...in school, at different jobs and within our own family. So I get that, too. Will we ever put an end to it? Can we help those who seem to have nowhere to turn? And would folks please stop telling the victims of bullies to "just ignore them"?

I’ve always enjoyed the columns written by Sarah Reeves but there are some that speak to my heart and are almost impossible to forget. Not that I’d want to, especially those written about bullying.

That word has been in the news a lot lately, and for good reason. Most of us have heard the tragic stories of lives ended too soon, because of kids who “went just a little too far”, etc.

Sarah is a wise young woman, and she is someone I could have used as a friend in school, especially in junior and senior high. She may not ever realize how many people she has helped already, or how many of her columns are being passed around, mailed and hung up on refrigerators.

Bullies don’t just exercise their special talents in schools. They’re everywhere—in traffic, workplaces, and even in families. Who hasn’t been made to feel unwanted and less than perfect among their own relatives? It’s not just school birthday parties where certain ones aren’t invited; it happens in families too.

Scars left by being rejected are impossible to see with the naked eye. And those who never suffer that kind of treatment just don’t get it. You’ll often hear them say things like, “Act like it doesn’t bother you; I mean, really, why should it? It’s their loss.” Easier said than done.

Thing is, though it’s taken far too many years, they’re right. It shouldn’t bother us, at least not for years like it did me, but there is a reason that it does. It’s because at one time there was love between those who now don’t associate with one another. If there were no friendly, loving feelings then there wouldn’t be pain now. It truly would not matter, would it?

Bullies want things their own way—always. And they want others to follow their lead and punish certain people they feel are inferior or who have done something unforgiveable.

Some who have been on the wrong end of the bully stick have struck back, and sometimes the bully backs down. It happens, but I’m guessing that’s a painful experience in more ways than one. I’m too chicken to try that; in fact, when someone says something unkind to me I often don’t think of a darn good comeback until hours or days later.

A long, long time ago someone I knew thought it would be great fun to share poetry with each other and thousands of others. I hadn’t written many poems but they were surprisingly fun and easy and we had the best time. After about a year or so, something went awry and I neglected to respond in a timely manner to a new poem and that was the end of a beautiful friendship. Of course that’s not what really permanently damaged the relationship, though that was the initial excuse given.

Sillier things than that happen in all walks of life, and it would be much less traumatic for everyone if those involved simply ended things without a lot of drama, allowing people to go on with their lives with dignity and acceptance.

Instead, we find ourselves being punished repeatedly until we do something drastic to stop the pain, or we cut off all ties and never communicate again.

Sarah has written with wisdom, truth and heart. I heard what she said; I hope you did too. And if you have a friend like her in your life, consider yourself blessed.

A small town, two cousins and Dad. It doesn't get much better

2010-10-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

Dad and Mom at their wedding reception.

"Do you need a map?" he asked before I left for Tampico. I told him no, it shouldn't be that hard to find.

I should have taken the map.

Ever since my cousin Rita suggested I meet with her and her sister Kathy to talk about my dad and mom, I'd been in a state of high anticipation. Would our meeting be awkward? Would I feel "related" to them? Would they like me? Would I remember all the questions I had about a man I never knew?

The answers came: No, yes, I think so and I hope so.

I won't go into the hair-raising trip there because I couldn't recount it if I tried. When I parked across from Dutch's Diner in downtown Tampico, I noticed there were no cars at all nearby. I was 20 minutes late and worried my cousins had left. I walked inside, looked left and there they were.

We got to know each other quickly; after all, Rita and I are Facebook friends and we've written and talked on the phone a bit. The two sisters were more than willing to share anything they knew about Dad and Mom and I listened with every fiber of my being.

As a kid of divorced parents, all I ever heard about was the bad side of my father. Even as a young child I knew that couldn't be all there was; somewhere inside me was the little girl who wanted a daddy that loved her and kept her safe.

Sometime around the age of 11 or so, I would imagine that Dad was here in town, watching me from afar and making sure I was being cared for. But the rumors persisted within the family that painted a much darker picture. I knew that someday I would find out what kind of man my father really was.

Rita and Kathy filled in the family portrait for me, on a Wednesday afternoon over chocolate cream pie, tea and coffee. To Rita, he was a favorite uncle. Dad loved to cook, loved kids, horses, farming, and my goodness did he love making music. He was in a band for 40 years, an accordion player, an instrument Rita took up because of his influence.

I watched as my cousins spoke about Dad, their eyes telling every bit as much as their words. A man loved that much had to have been a good man, one I would have loved to have known.

In December of 1993, about a week before Christmas, Dad had a physical exam and was pronounced in good health. I was told he stayed active, and was a happy, contented man. It was a shock to everyone when he never woke up on Christmas morning. Dad died of a heart attack in his sleep.

I've written before about how I met my father once on our oldest son's second birthday. At the urging of my husband, we made the drive to Amboy and visited for an hour or so and left. I never saw him again.

But a couple of days ago, Dad came back, just for a couple of hours. He spoke to me through Rita and Kathy, through stories of his life and Mom's and their early days on the farm. I listened as they spoke of tire swings and sundresses, lilacs and music and much, much more.

We wrapped things up, and while Rita and Kathy went looking for an antique shop I headed back to Kewanee. I made it almost to Hooppole before the tears came.

See, the thing is, kids are impressionable little folks but they're not stupid. It's not wise to fill their heads full of negative images of whichever spouse is absent from their lives because there is something inside us all that simply craves the love of the ones who gave us life. And just like me, we'll go searching for answers until someone is willing to talk to us and give us, for lack of a better phrase, the rest of the story.

I've got half siblings out there that I would love to get to know. They obviously knew Dad the most and would have some great stories to tell. Someday I'm hoping to meet them too, and if that comes to pass, I'll be sure to take a map.

Thanks, Rita. Thanks, Kathy. Dad would have been very proud of you both.

Birthday was one for the books

2010-10-02T08:53:00.000-07:00

I can take my nook here, there and almost everywhere (like this bench at Windmont Park.) A perfect gift for a book lover, and I couldn't be happier with mine.

Never say never.

Apparently on Friday, August 6 my column proclaimed that “The ebook reader is one gadget I think I can do without.”

I was wrong.

In my defense, I am a victim of my own research. Someone, and you know who you are, asked me to compare the Kindle and the Nook, both very nice electronic readers. The basic models allow you to hook up to wireless internet service, whether you have a router in your home or at businesses that carry the service.

I did plenty of Googling for both devices, but I’m such a softie for Barnes & Noble that my pick was the Nook. Still, it’s one thing to do the research and quite another to recommend one reader over another so I strongly suggested that only an in-person investigation would do.

Thing is, I ended up doing that too—sort of. That’s because the whole notion of having all kinds of books in one place just fascinated the stuffing out of me. At night I couldn’t fall asleep because I was busy thinking of all my favorite authors, cookbooks, mysteries and more.

Then, something wonderful happened: My birthday. As I get older I get better presents. I take very good care of them, and I only ask for what I will use so that made this choice a no-brainer. But I still had to convince someone that this is what I really, really wanted.

I pointed out the advantages of being able to choose from a million books, getting to choose from nearly that many for free, having the ability to jump on the internet with just the basic model, and the sheer fun factor. Plus, prices have come way down since the release of Apple’s iPad so that was a big deal in my book, pun intended.

On that special day I was able to visit both of my favorite bookstores. After buying my Nook and adding a gift card to my account, I happily focused on this electronic wonder until my ride came over an hour later. By then, I’d downloaded over 20 free books and had a monstrous pain in my neck. But boy, was it worth it.

Today I’m closing in on 50 books. All but two were free; I did find the American Standard version of the Bible for .99, and I’ve reserved Stephen King’s newest that will be released in early November. I got it for a fraction of its hardcover cost.

My collection contains several works by Edgar Allan Poe, fairy tales from Hans Christian Anderson, 365 breakfast dishes, a book called Famous Coffee House Recipes, Dracula, and books by Jane Austen. I feel like I won the lottery.

The perfect gift for a book lover, a delicious dinner with family, cards from family and friends and a beautiful fall day made for a birthday I will remember for a long time.

What will they think of next? I know someone who probably doesn’t want to know, but that’s OK. I’ll be more than happy to do the research.

A couple of Life's funny moments, courtesy of my better half

2010-09-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

My better half enjoying quality time with his best bud, Sarah Jane

I feel sorry for family and friends who too often have a columnist in their midst during embarrassing moments.

One recent afternoon I was either working away in my upstairs foyer office or I was catching up with Facebook, when I heard a mild swear word coming from inside the Bat Cave. The first thought that popped into my head was that someone was having trouble with their TV channels. I was wrong.

The door opened and this question was posed: “Do you have anything that’ll take Super Glue off of skin?”

I slowly turned around to find that someone had glued two of his fingers together. “How did that happen?” I asked as I Googled “how to remove super glue from skin”.

The answer was just as comical as the result. “I was gluing a tennis ball to the doorknob,” came the reply.

OK.

Turns out that fingernail polish remover might do the trick but we had none on hand, so to speak. I do use nail polish, but I nibble it off instead of removing it the sensible way. Eventually the glue came off, but the memory gives me the giggles.

Another funny thing happened the other night. I had baked a cherry pie to take over to Mom’s for our weekly family gathering and gab fest. Everyone seemed to like it, though I did detect longing glances toward a banana cream pie on the counter. If that one hadn’t been too frozen to cut, I might have had more cherry pie left over to take home.

As it was there were two good size pieces left, and I passed the glass pie plate to hubby to put inside its plastic carrier. Someone, I won’t surmise who, might have missed clicking the carrier completely shut because the conversation around the table was rudely interrupted by a loud crash.

“Whoa,” said someone. Whoa indeed. Splattered cherries and flaky crust could be seen on Mom’s shiny kitchen floor and her lovely throw rug. The glass plate wasn’t broken, and when we turned it over, I found two lonely cherries clinging to a small piece of crust.

Hubby and his brother cleaned up the mess, and everyone felt bad that there was no pie to take home but that was fine with me. I’m sure the banana cream pie is thawed by now, so we’ll just have to pop over and have a piece—if someone hasn’t eaten it already.

You know who you are.

Cutting (some of) the cable cord

2010-09-14T07:22:00.000-07:00

It's cool...now I can watch Bugs Bunny cartoons whenever I want. I love it.

The new fall television programming has always been an exciting time for me, simply because I love getting lost for just a little while in someone else's fantasy world.

In our home we favor crime dramas, mysteries, thrillers, some horror and comedies. We also love tennis, especially the big tournaments, so the U.S. Open is getting a lot of play right now.

Like so many others we jumped on the cable bandwagon and kept adding to the channels we thought we would watch. The cable tiers moved and changed and we moved and changed along with them. And our bill kept rising, but we poo-pooed the cost by telling ourselves that this was pretty much our only entertainment.

Eventually the cable TV part of our bill became awfully high and there were dozens of channels we never watched. We began eyeing ways to downsize, and that's when we found a money-saving way to get what we wanted for little cost. Eureka!

First I have to say I cannot get along without high-speed Internet broadband service. I send and receive photos to and from work, and I'm not about to go back in time and wait on slow service if I can help it. We made the decision to drop our telephone land line and everything but the most basic cable service.

Boy, did that cut out a lot of our favorite shows. We're fans of The Closer, Rizzoli & Isles and lots more on TNT. TBS, SyFy, History Channel and ESPN2 are faves too, so the decision to pare the channel selection was a tough one.

That's where the broadband comes in to save the day. We found an inexpensive blu-ray DVD player that will stream movies over the Internet. We already have a subscription to the movie service, and setup was a breeze. The remote and menu are user-friendly and we've taken advantage of watching unlimited movies and older TV shows whenever we want.

Still, we have a bit of tweaking to do if we want to stream some of our favorite stations but that's coming and it's well worth the effort if we can save some bucks here and there.

After all, it won't be long now before the wind will carry a frosty bite, the days will grow shorter and you'll hear the distant sound of sleigh bells. I told you we liked horror stories.

Playing hooky from work the weird way

2010-09-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

I'm with Sarah Jane...I couldn't believe what I was hearing either.

It would seem that the movie watchers in our home have been exposed to some rather odd storylines in the past couple of weeks.

We took in the strange “Shutter Island” starring Leonardo DiCapprio and some other fine actors. I loved that show and my better half thought it was a total waste of time. The storyline stayed with me for days, and when I recall the ending I get a shiver.

The other night we saw “Informant!” with Matt Damon. Let’s just say the main character was no Jason Bourne, another Matt Damon role, but boy, this guy can tell fibs that’ll run rings around just about anyone. I used the present tense here because this story was based on a real-life dude that used to be a biochemist for Archer-Daniels-Midland out of Decatur. We were still shaking our heads the next day over the intricate webs of deceit this guy spun that took in the FBI and countless other mopes. Way cool, unless, I suppose, you were on the bad end of one of his schemes.

Movies are one thing, but what happens if you happen to stumble upon strange goings-on in your own family?

I’ll never forget the time I got a phone call asking me if I knew that my aunt and uncle had died. The caller mentioned the first names right away, and it had been over five years for my uncle, and less than three for my aunt so the part about them dying wasn’t a shock. The shock was that their obituaries were in the newspaper that day.

I stood where I was and blinked as the caller went on to say how sorry they were, blah, blah, blah. I’ve watched enough episodes of Twilight Zone to know when my world is beginning to tilt in that direction. I couldn’t wait to get off the phone and find that newspaper.

A few minutes later I had the proof in hand, along with an open mouth and a head full of unanswered questions. Though I love Stephen King stories, I was sane enough even then to know I wasn’t in one. A mystery, yes, but one that would probably be a lot of fun to solve.

It did turn out to be fun, and we got lots of laughs as we made the necessary phone calls to unravel the mystery that is my family. There was the obituary writer and funeral homes and pastors, and finally we had our answer: A cousin who was in a bit of hot water for taking too much time off of work decided he wanted even more “vacation” so he figured he’d rerun the obituaries of his grandparents to get some funeral leave. Now that’s using the old noggin’, wouldn’t you say?

I’d never heard of this before, and though on the surface it sounds like it might get the job done, it didn’t happen. I wondered how he thought up the idea in the first place. Did he see it in a movie? Read it in a book? Create it out of thin air?

There was also the matter of finding a newspaper (not the one you’re holding) that would print the false obit, and before that he had to find a funeral home that would hear his tale of woe and send the obit to the one and only newspaper he had chosen.

Ah, family.

As I thought about the weird movies and my oddly endearing yet misguided cousin, I came to the conclusion that I’ll likely never get bored with so many possibilities at hand to keep me entertained.

Lots of things make life worth living

2010-08-31T06:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I love to just stand at the door and look out at one of the biggest blessings in our lives. Sarah Jane has been with us over four-and-a-half years and not one minute with her is dull. She's our best bud and she knows it.

Just before leaving for my courthouse reporting duties one morning I stopped to pick up a couple of dollar breakfast sandwiches at a local fast food joint. I'd never had these before, and I was very pleasantly surprised to find them hot, tasty and a bit too filling. No way could I finish two, and I can't stand to waste anything so I put on my thinking cap.

It was a bit after 8, and it occurred to me that someone was probably walking the dog about now. No, I wasn't going to give the sausage, egg and cheese delight to the pooch but I knew her walker would gladly accept it.

I headed up Main and as I crested the slight slope at Second I stared toward the next stoplight. Sure enough, there they were. I saw a white ball cap and just a bit below that was a curly tail bouncing toward the west. I moved to the turn lane so I could pull up on the proper side of Third Street.

I've caught up with the man and his best bud before, but never with food in tow. As I slowed and pulled up to the curb, Sarah Jane lifted her nose from the ground, focused on the white car and tilted her head in that quizzical way of hers. I love it.

When she was told, "Hey, there's The Woman!", Sarah bounded to the car and placed huge muddy paws on the passenger door--inside and out. She sniffed toward the food bag, and once she was safely away from it, I handed it over. Now I could leave for the rest of the work day with a smile on my face.

It seems like this happened just yesterday but it was over a week ago. I was reminded again of this pleasant memory because we can still see the muddy paw prints inside the passenger door. I've been a bit too busy to take care of the dried mess and today I'm thankful for that.

Do you have sights, sounds or smells that bring a smile to your face? I think we all have something; maybe it's a song or the smell of bread baking or the taste of homemade chicken and noodles.

Some sights that give me a grin have to do with cruising over to Mom's for coffee, goodies and conversation. The road going down to her house is a nightmare at the moment (well, it's been a bad dream for a couple of years; now it's a full-blown nightmare), but once inside the cozy kitchen we soon forget about the bumpy road and get right to the fun stuff. Over the years we've had so many memorable visits there I can pull one up and watch it like a movie in my head.

Another happy sight is seeing my sister walking toward me whenever we get a chance to visit in person. That happened last week in Geneseo and I've brought that sight to mind over and over again simply because I love her to pieces and miss her something fierce.

Sounds that soothe are usually connected to songs, and I have to admit that I now have a ringtone from Jaron and the Long Road to Love's "Pray For You". My sister warned me not to get it because her youngest daughter had it and when it went off, she got nothing but glares from those within earshot. I do love Sis, but I don't always listen to her. That song may not soothe anyone; I like it because it makes me laugh.

I like the sound I make as I put supper together. I start off with telling Sarah, "Time to make supper", and she's in the kitchen in a flash. Her body makes a thunk! as it hits the floor; that's the beginning, followed by the sounds of dishes placed on the table, the rattle of silverware and the sound of the five o'clock news starting.

The smell of fresh coffee brewing, cinnamon rolls baking or turkey roasting bring a smile to most people. There are far too many delectable aromas to mention, and they're different for everyone anyway.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is this: We're bombarded today with news that makes us nervous, angry and fearful. I don't want to bring up specifics because we're hearing and reading about them every day. And I'm not saying we should stick our collective heads in the sand and let the world sail by without us.

Bad things happen and they always will. Too often they outshadow the good and lovely and wonderful things going on in our daily lives. We can turn that around and make a real difference in our outlook on life.

Some day when you have a few minutes, why not grab a favorite drink, a piece of paper and a pen and find a quiet spot to think. Put a title like, "These things make me happy" and make three columns, one each for sights, sounds and smells. The physical act of reminding yourself of what makes you happy should bring a smile to your face. It worked for me.

Living with a few physical limitations

2010-08-20T12:54:00.000-07:00

I may be in my late 50s, but I'm a kid at heart even though I can't do some of the things I used to do. That's OK because I've seen folks who deal with much more challenging issues and they do it with dignity, grace and humor. I'm learning from them every day and I thank God they are a part of my life.

I've lived with physical limitations for as long as I can remember.

First it was poor eyesight. The lazy left eye was obvious, and Mom was told back in 1957 that it could be surgically fixed by cutting a hole in the side of my head and tying up a loose optical something-or-other. She decided against that, thinking it was much less risky to fit me with glasses.

Throughout the years I've been told the left eye is legally blind, that I can see with only one eye at a time, eye exercises might improve my sight, or, and this is obvious: I'm nearsighted in one eye and farsighted in the other. This is something I've learned to live with. Thinking ahead is something I do often, so my thought was that if I begin to go blind I will learn Braille and I'll stock up on audio books. Some folks have it a lot worse.

Another problem is stamina. It's just not there like it used to be. I can stay up until around 10 or so, then it's bedtime. The sole exception to this is if I'm writing, and then the hours fly and it's often far later than 10 by the time I finish.

Heat is beginning to get to me, so it's a good thing we moved from Arizona a couple of decades ago. Still, the heat and humidity of an Illinois summer is tough to take but I won't complain too much. We have air conditioners in our home and our cars, at work and at stores and restaurants. There are those with breathing problems who simply cannot handle some of our weather; they have it a lot worse.

And the other day I came face-to-stairway with a big dilemma. I was to meet someone at their home for an interview, and upon arriving I was told to come around to the back of the house. The possibility of a big dog waiting there crossed my mind; instead, I found a tall, narrow stairway that sent me right around to the front again where I waited to be let inside. It was a bit embarrassing but it couldn't be helped.

Seems like Mom always had problems with walking. Most of the time she did fine, and other times she was in so much pain she crawled on the floor. I couldn't possibly wish more that I had asked her about those times because there is no one around today who can explain to me what her problem was.

Sis and I have had problems walking on and off for years. There was the time I was walking down the steps at a workplace in Tucson when I simply dropped and fell halfway down. The legs gave out and down I went. Everything checked out fine, and it didn't happen again until over 20 years later when I stood to get out of bed and fell right down to the floor.

As I take stock of new (and some old) physical limitations, I don't sit and cry about them. Nor do I dwell on what I can no longer do. My usual approach to a problem is to see how to get over, under, around or through it. There have been times when severe headaches seemed to come every day for a couple of weeks at a time. After the first few days, I would get determined to carry on with life and live with the pain. Eventually it went away, and I was thankful for each day my head didn't feel ready to explode.

And when walking problems begin to interfere with normal living, I haul out my late father-in-law's cane so I can keep going and get things done. When that no longer works, we'll go from there.

Eyesight, stamina, mobility--three mighty important things we need to live a productive life. But when stuff happens, and it will eventually, try to find ways to outsmart the attacks and remember that there are others who have it a lot worse.

Off to Branson and the million-dollar bathroom

2010-08-13T12:30:00.000-07:00

From left, here they come: Gary, Vonnie, Mom and Tom. We left this mall in short order - it was incredibly hot and the trolley never came by. Still, we had more fun than we could shake a stick at. Or something like that.

I think the conversation went something like this:

Me: “You guys going to Branson pretty soon?”

Aunt: “Yes! You two want to go along?”

Me: “OK.”

We dropped off Sarah Jane at the vet's for boarding on a Wednesday afternoon (that's a column itself, but we won't go there. It was traumatic to leave the dog who's been by our sides for over four years and we missed her something fierce.) I wanted to start off early on Thursday morning, say around 7 or so but we didn't pull out until after 8. I get a tad freaked in heavy traffic and on long trips so this was going to be a test of my sanity and of everyone else involved.

Traffic was terrifying (to me) for most of the way there and back, but the drivers handled things beautifully. Auntie did a spot-on impression of me and my reactions to speeding vehicles of all kinds. “This is Margi,” she said, as she stiffened both arms and legs and bugged out her eyes. Heck, she was in the car ahead of ours yet she captured my expression perfectly.

We found our hotel, put our things away and set out for supper. One thing I found difficult to handle (and yes, there was more than one thing) was the way the roads and parking lots were not at all flat. I kid you not, once when Mom stepped out of our car and began an out-of-control downward descent, I was thankful her sister grabbed the back of Mom's jacket to hold her in place.

There was the usual stuff: TV breaks down, gets replaced; forgetting where one put their toiletries, cosmetics and medicines; and sending someone out to get ice a few steps from the room and having them take half an hour to return—without the ice. Fun times.

The highlights, though, were the two shows we saw. Shoji Tabuchi puts on a dazzling act, playing his violin as if he was born with it in his hands. The special effects, the energy and the talent left us in awe for hours afterward. I took plenty of pictures but honestly, you have to experience something like this in person to truly appreciate it.

On an important side note, we had been told that even if we weren't going to see Shoji's show we simply had to at least use the, um, facilities at his theater. I can remember thinking, sure, it's probably a fancy bathroom but how fancy could it be to warrant all the accolades. Trust me when I say this: It is that fancy. It's beyond description. It cost a million bucks each—for the ladies and the mens rooms.

It's 2400 square feet of “Oh, my gosh!” We had live ivy and violets, a chandelier imported from Italy, granite sinks, a marble fireplace and over two dozen “thrones”. The guys had black leather cushy seats for relaxing, black sinks, red carnations and—get this—a pool table. I've left some things out, but I took lots of photos there too because it's unlikely I'll ever set foot in such a place again. These bathrooms have been voted the best in the U.S. I was more than a little unimpressed with my own facilities after we got home.

We also saw the Pierce Arrow show that featured country and gospel music, and one of the funniest comedians I've ever seen. We laughed ourselves silly, and the patriotic songs brought tears to our eyes. Classy stuff.

Wherever we went to eat, we found budding entertainers who told us jokes or sang while they waited on diners. We met some of the friendliest people on earth in Branson, and it's a trip we'll never forget. Memories were made, and I'll always be thankful our family had this time together.

Just one little thing; well, maybe a couple. Try to never get caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic in 90-plus degree weather for over an hour with a car full of family unless you all love one another very, very much.

And two: There's nothing in the world like coming home, picking up your furry friend and just sitting side-by-side on a quiet, summer night. It doesn't get much better than that.

Holding on to that warm, fuzzy feeling

2010-08-11T19:48:00.000-07:00

I know this picture has nothing to do with the story below, but I love Sarah Jane and time is flying by so fast (she's over four years old already!) and these earlier shots of her make me smile. Kinda gives me that warm, fuzzy feeling, you know?

It’s time to admit that I’m a gadget fanatic.

My dream house would have an office and a library in every room. There would be easy chairs, a big desk, plenty of lamps (including lighted bookshelves), and a fireplace. It would be nice to have hardwood floors with splashy throw rugs, but I’m not much into designer digs. I just want the rooms to be useful and comfortable.

Computers would be networked throughout the house; no more carrying work around on flash drives and disks. I could walk into any office and pick up where I left off. As it is now, I sit in front of one of my computers and wonder if this is the one that has the court news on it or the poodle birthday party.

Still, that’s a lot of expense to go through just to keep my head straight. It would be simple enough to write what I was working on last on a piece of paper next to each computer. And that, oddly enough, brings me to electronic book readers.

Ah, another gadget I thought I must have. Imagine! You can load a few hundred books onto each ebook reader and carry them (it) around without weighing yourself down. One such device is made to read in bright sunlight, some are designed to hold horizontally or vertically, whichever is most comfortable for the reader. I can’t get over having hundreds of books at my fingertips without having to lug them around.

Yet I can’t let go of the feel and smell of a real book. I simply love the whole idea of holding a book in my hands, turning the pages, placing the bookmark for later reading. If that makes me a tree killer, so be it. The ebook reader is one gadget I think I can do without.

Besides, I found out that you can download an ebook application from a Web site onto your computer. It’s free, and so are hundreds of books. The only catch is, you have to read the books on the computer and while that may work some of the time, it won’t work when you want to curl up in bed or in a chair and get lost in another time and place.

How many of you have one book next to your easy chair, another in the car and a third by your bedside? Add magazines and newspapers to your reading stash and you’re talking some serious multitasking, but those of us who love it wouldn’t have it any other way. There are lots of ways to recycle our used stuff now, so we needn’t feel terribly guilty about the poor ol’ trees.

There haven’t been too many times I’ve wanted to throw a book across the room when I got to an ending I didn’t care for, but think of the different result if one got seriously ticked off and threw their electronic gizmo at a far wall. Ebook readers are still a bit pricey, and they lack that warm, fuzzy feeling. Plus, I have to say there is one other thing that keeps me from forking over hard-earned money for such a gadget: What would happen if, after downloading dozens of books, your reader decided to up and quit on you? Gadgets do that, and most times without warning.

It’s taken me a while, but I’m learning to combine simple tools with electronic wonders. I love the way both worlds can work in harmony, giving me what I need with as little stress as possible. I’m all for that.

Good memories soften the bad times

2010-07-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when you're having one of those weeks? When time gets away from you, and sometime in the wee hours of the morning you're jolted awake with the thought that you forgot something important? That's happened more than once in the last few days and if that isn't enough, there has been plenty of news that tilted our world a bit. Still, we count ourselves blessed that things aren't worse.

When I get a bit too much on my plate and things start spiraling out of control, it's time to find a comfy chair and zone out for a bit. I go to my Happy Place.

To do this properly and get the most out of it, the TV is turned off, the dog is put out in the back yard and no one else can be around. That done, I brought back some fun memories of summer when sis and I were kids.

I settled back in my chair and in seconds I was back on Tenney Street, when it was a two-lane brick road. It was a sultry summer afternoon, the air was heavy and every breeze was a godsend. Sis and I were sitting on the front steps watching cars go by, and there weren't many of those. The neighbors across the street were sitting on their porch swing, fanning themselves and sipping lemonade.

We weren't just watching traffic, though; we were waiting for Mom to come back from Cooper's Gas Station less than a block away. We didn't have a car, we walked everywhere. Mom was getting her Pall Mall cigarettes, and we didn't expect anything else, but we sure got a happy surprise.

As we sat waiting, both of us too hot to even talk, we heard a sound coming from about half a block away. I can still see her making her way home. Mom held three bottles of Pepsi, the glass slick with condensation, the red, white and blue logo beaded with water drops. The bottles were tinkling against each other making the sweetest sound. Mom was smiling, just a little, another welcome image that makes for a happy memory.

I don't think ice cold soda has ever tasted as good as it did that summer afternoon when I was ten.

Fast forward a few decades, and there I am, married, with two little boys. This was an especially sweet recollection of a time when the whole family got along well, when we celebrated for no good reason. We simply got together for a cookout, baseball, volleyball and tag. The kids chased and caught lightning bugs and let them go, and rode with Grandpa on his tractor or piled in the wagon behind it and made countless trips around the house. In-laws and cousins laughed together and talked for hours, until the little ones fell asleep in our laps and we carted them off home to tuck in their own beds.

We all grew older and sadly, in some cases, grew apart, yet each of us carries our own memories of those times and it would do everyone good to bring them back to mind. Maybe if we did it often enough we would be tempted to create more good experiences that our kids and grandkids can bring to mind when they need a happy place to visit.

This week I was fortunate enough to be invited to a poodle birthday party. I got to meet half a dozen of the most well-behaved, one-year-old standard poodles all gussied up in their finest fur, hair bows and party hats. There was cake and ice cream and a dandy behind-the-scenes story to go along with this special day for some incredible women and the dogs they love and who obviously love them. I'll share that with you next Wednesday in the Lifestyles section.

I mentioned this story because I'm putting it away for the future when I need a heart-warming and fun memory to get me through a tough day. We're all going to get those, you know, but I'm betting that each of us have had more good times than bad. Let's all work on creating fun times, and when we're going through a rough patch, let's get together and support one another. It couldn't hurt, and it just might end up being brought to mind someday when you need to visit your own Happy Place.

Martyrdom not all it’s cracked up to be

2010-07-29T10:10:00.000-07:00

We practice a lot of martyrdom in our house, but it's not the kind one would normally think of.

When the checkbook is screaming for mercy we will buy store-brand diet soda, which, truth be told, isn't half bad. If Pepsi or Coke is on sale, we'll grab that instead--after all, what's a few cents once a month? And we like to add flavors like root beer, Dr. Pepper, 7Up, that sort of thing.

Eventually the fridge will play host to a mixture of the good stuff and the not half bad stuff, and then the game begins.

Me: "Hey, grab me a soda while you're up."

Him: "What kind?"

Me: "A cola's fine."

Him: "OK. Here's yours, I'll be a martyr and drink the store brand."

That used to bother me; now I just smile and say thanks.

We went from soda martyrdom to air conditioning martyrdom about a month ago. I have a small office on the northeast corner of the house and it gets plenty warm and stuffy in there in summer. I love the privacy, and it's got quite an organized-chaos thing going on, but stepping foot inside the door discourages serious work of any kind. The ice cubes in my name-brand soda melt awfully fast so I mentioned how nice it would be to have an air conditioner in there. Without the slightest hesitation, the remaining air conditioner was given up, installed and started up for me.

"I don't need one," he said. "I'll just use that old box fan and stick it in the window."

I shrugged, got a tall glass of Diet Coke and ice and disappeared into my cool little office.

Eventually I noticed that someone wasn't spending much time at all in his favorite room, and I began to feel bad. Not bad enough to give my a/c, just bad.

I began dropping hints that this was a good time of the year to buy air conditioners, but someone really relishes his role as martyr so nothing much happened at first. Then the 90+ degree days began piling up, and I could feel a weakening in someone's resolve, so off we went to compare prices.

We split up and went to two different stores. Cell phones charged, we gave one another time to get to the proper department then I placed the call.

"I'm looking at a 5000, 8000, 10,000 and 12,000. Didn't we decide it should be 8000?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm not really in front of mine yet. Hold on a sec."

And that's when a helpful, elderly clerk approached and asked me what I was doing. It obviously looked like I was spying for someone and giving out pricing information, so I decided to act natural. "I'm letting my husband know how much the air conditioners are so he can tell me which one to buy."

On the other end of the line I heard, "Huh?"

I continued. "He's outside having a cigarette and he wanted me to come on ahead and pick one out."

"I'm not outside having a cigarette. I told you I just wasn't in front of the air conditioners yet."

The clerk narrowed his eyes, but I was sure he couldn't hear the other end of our conversation. Still, I felt guilty, so I smiled and shook my head. "I've got someone here helping me, and hey, he's pointing out that there's a rebate with this one." I nodded at the clerk, and he proceeded to pick up the unit I pointed at.

In my ear I heard, "Don't pick anything out yet until I compare prices over here. Can you hear me?"

The cart trembled under the weight of the giant box now nestled inside it, and I walked away with a rebate form in hand. "OK," I said, "I'll let you go now. Give me a call when you're ready." And off I went to wander around the store until the phone rang a few minutes later.

"I think I got a real good deal here. I'll be there to pick you up in about five minutes."

I thought about the nice man who had helped me out, and then I headed for the customer service desk. The folks there were polite and understanding and allowed me to leave the loaded cart and rebate form with them. I'm glad I didn't run into the clerk on the way out.

Once home, we switched out the living room unit, put in the new one, read the instructions and waited for cool dry air to make living in our home tolerable again. The smaller unit went upstairs, and all seems to be well. A certain someone is spending more time in his favorite room.

I guess in some cases, martyrdom isn't everything it's cracked up to be.

New job duties, newfound respect for people who care for us all

2010-07-16T11:00:00.000-07:00

(Hubby's grandpa, Marvin Grayson, Kewanee's first motorcycle policeman. Thank you, all who came before and all who have come since, for putting your lives on the line for us every day. And that goes for all others who protect us, give us aid and teach - you're all very much appreciated.)

The last few weeks have been eye-opening. New duties at work have allowed me to meet some folks I ordinarily would avoid; you know, police officers, courthouse security, judges and the like.

I mean, really, who wants to be within eyesight of these keepers of the law? Actually it’s quite OK as long as you’re not breaking said law, but still.

Much to my surprise, I’ve found some of the nicest people ever to cross my path. There are police officers who smile and laugh and joke around. You soon realize that they have family, hobbies, just regular outside lives like most everyone else. Thing is, you also soon realize what they have to deal with day in and day out and that’s when it’s time to be thankful that someone felt called to what they do for a living.

Law enforcement people are held to a higher standard in many areas, so in addition to the pressures of everyday duties they must maintain what must seem like impossibly high expectations. They know this going into the job so it comes as no surprise, and it’s good to know they are out there protecting us all.

These aren’t the only people taking care of us. Think of the caregivers in hospitals and nursing homes, doctors’ offices and clinics. Where would we be without them in our lives?

I wish I had the time and energy to interview those listed above. I would ask them why they were led to do what they do, what keeps them there, because in most cases it certainly can’t be the money. I’m a curious sort and the more people I meet doing my job, the more I want to know why others do theirs.

Like a lot of people I have a scanner that picks up traffic incidents, accidents and those sorts of things. It makes one wonder what goes through an officer’s mind when a domestic disturbance is taking place, or an alarm is going off at a bank, or a fight is happening after midnight. How do their families handle the worry day after day after day?

I also send a prayer of thanks for the emergency responders—firemen, EMTs, anyone who goes into that special frame of mind where the number one priority is to keep their patient alive until they get to a hospital. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it but please keep on doing it. Someday we may need you, and we want someone who loves what they do.

One of the reasons I love covering court proceedings and such is because I’m a big, big fan of shows like Law & Order, and authors like John Grisham. Crime interests me because they are a mystery that must be unraveled and the right criminals caught and brought to justice.

Tough jobs for tough people, true. Here’s to all of you who put your lives and sanity on the line so the rest of us can go about our business knowing you have our backs. Thank you, and stay safe.

Someday you'll say, "This ain't nothin'"

2010-07-09T05:25:00.000-07:00

"Here's Max, looking out the window, hoping to see her 'daddy' coming home. Well, Max is gone now and we haven't seen her daddy for over seven years. Whatever we're going through now, please stop for a few minutes and ask yourself if it's the worst thing you've ever experienced. Have you been through something even worse? How did you get through that? Are you old enough now, experienced enough from Life's battles to look at your situation with a calmer heart and make things better instead of worse? I miss having Max in our room every night at bedtime, and I miss our oldest son, but missing them won't bring them back. So, the stuff I'm going through right now, well, this ain't nothin'."

I’ve never been to the Bureau County Fair but I’m hoping to go next month. Craig Morgan, one of my favorite country music entertainers is scheduled to perform and I can’t wait.

Morgan sings a tune called, That’s What I Love About Sunday and though few of the lyrics apply to what happens with our family on Sundays, the sentiment is the same. Sundays are special, from sleeping in, to reading the Sunday papers, then church and finally, spending time on whatever you want to do.

Another Morgan favorite is Redneck Yacht Club. I used to buzz around in my little red convertible, and when that song came on I turned up the volume and let the words wash over me while I rode around town. That tune means summer, and I love it.

International Harvester is a fun sing-a-long song. Who hasn’t been stuck behind a big piece of farm machinery on the two-lane, wishing the driver would turn already? In this song, Morgan tells the other side of the story and I’m sure a lot of people feel he sings the truth.

But one of Morgan’s songs struck a nerve recently and the words made me stop and think. Actually, it was mostly the title that did it: This Ain’t Nothin’ tells the story of an old man who loses just about every material thing he owned in a tornado. When a newsman pushes a microphone in the man’s face and asks him what he’s going to do now that he’s lost everything, the response is, “This ain’t nothin’.” The old man goes on to say that money can replace what was lost in the storm.

What really amounts to something is what the old man has lost throughout his life: His daddy when he was a boy of eight; his brother in the Vietnam War; and his wife of 50 years after a long illness. To him, then, having his home reduced to rubble in seconds’ time was really nothing to be overly concerned about.

When we’re young, it seems we get bent out of shape over the silliest things. We collect hurt feelings and carry grudges until we’re weighed down and worn out. We don’t realize that Life is going to hit us upside the head with real sorrow and loss some day, and many of us aren’t prepared to handle the big things like losing our parents, a job, our home, a sibling or what I found to be the most painful of all, the loss of a child. Now that’s something that sticks with a person forever.

I don’t ever want to lose our home to a tornado or anything else; I’m not all that sure I could be as seemingly unfazed as the old man in Morgan’s song. But if I make it to the fair and this song is sung, I’ll be able to identify with the lyrics, to a certain extent anyway. And that’s somethin’, I reckon.

Isn't it time, maybe past time, for you to take care of you?

2010-07-03T13:32:00.000-07:00

Windmont Park, a great place to get away for a minute or two and take in the beauty we're blessed with. We take pics, have lunch, walk or just sit still and...listen. Take some time for you, just you, every now and then. Have the courage to say a firm "no" to those who may have come to think you owe them vast chunks of your time and energy. Enjoy life - on your terms.

Lovely stretch of weather we’ve been enjoying lately, isn’t it? Hold the applause; we can’t take all the credit, just a good chunk of it. Say, over a hundred dollars’ worth which is what it cost to get our car’s air conditioning running again. And now we don't need it much.

Maybe we’re big babies, though our ages belie the fact. As we get older we should be more tolerant of Life’s curve balls. We’ve had experience, having gone through trials that test our mettle, yet some of us begin whining at the first sign of warmish air coming through the dashboard vents. Guilty as charged, but I have to say this: That frigid blast we now have really keeps me awake while driving.

I’m spending a bit more time on the road nowadays so having a comfy ride is appreciated. And while my attention is focused on driving, there is a chance to be alone with my thoughts for short periods of time. As long as I don’t have the radio on, I can concentrate on both of those things at the same time.

For instance, this past Monday would have been our youngest son’s 34th birthday. The road trips afforded the opportunity to bring Luke to mind once again, to marvel over the impact he had on the lives of others in his short time here, and this is most important—to send up a heartfelt thanks for the loved ones still with us.

I have also been working on a new book, one that takes an entirely different direction than anything I’ve tried before. Ideas for this quirky piece of fiction come unexpectedly and most often when nothing else is occupying my thoughts.

New experiences have been a great source of material for my journal, and possible short stories. I can’t stand to waste anything, so whenever there’s a spare minute or two I find a way to record what’s happening.

It’s important, I think, to shoehorn in some “alone” time. Take a notebook or a recorder and drive or walk to a nearby park and just sit and be still. I take my camera, too, to capture images I might forget later. Usually those photos end up on a homemade greeting card, another fun, artistic venture of mine.

I love having these precious moments alone. Time passes too quickly and these opportunities are here and gone in the blink of an eye.

If you find the idea of taking some time for yourself impossible, why not take a short five minutes and make a list of your weekly obligations? Do you find yourself collapsing at the end of the day and falling asleep before bedtime? Can you possibly say “no” to those who continually ask for vast chunks of your time and energy?

Five minutes is all it will take, and maybe, just maybe you’ll find that you really do have enough time to slow down and see things from a new perspective. Don’t wait until circumstances force you to sit still; instead, stand up and take charge of your life and how you spend your time or someone else will do it for you.

Dogs made the whole trip worth it

2010-06-25T16:30:00.000-07:00

Meet Thistle, my new yellow Lab friend. Well-behaved, happy and healthy--full of life and love and well worth the trip in a thunderstorm. Dogs rule.

Last Friday afternoon I headed toward Galva to do a feature interview. The sky didn’t look bad, just a few clouds here and there dotted the blue background so I didn’t pay as much attention to the weather as I did to the car behind me. It freaks me out when drivers feel the need to ride within kissing distance to the trunk of my car. I had never been to where I was going, so I wasn’t whizzing along at 55 mph. It was important to watch for the sign that would send me in the right direction.

All turned out well, though, and as I headed over lesser-traveled roads I got kind of excited. Soon I would get to meet some dogs and people who love dogs—a dream assignment.

Upon pulling in, a half a dozen pooches of different breeds greeted me with their versions of hello. Beautiful.

During the interview, I glanced up at a very tall window that showed a sky full of dark, churning clouds. The earlier blue background was gone, and the roof of the building was making sounds not unlike one would hear on Halloween in a haunted house. Then the rains came, complete with thunder and plenty of lightning.

We closed up the interview and I stared out the front door. During an apparent break in the monsoon I made a run for the car. Keep in mind, I no longer “run” anywhere, but as I walked really fast to the car I sent up a prayer that went exactly like this: “I don’t wanna die!” I repeated that line all the way, and once safely inside I followed up with, “Thank you, God.”

After a minute, I started down the road that now sported many large puddles of rain water. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the defroster was on full-blast. Bent over the steering wheel, I could see a gigantic piece of farm machinery heading straight for me. With no place to pull off, I veered right and started praying again. To my surprise, the driver pulled into a gravel drive ahead of me and I made it to the highway. Now all I had to do was make it home down Rt. 34.

The windshield wipers were going at warp speed but even that wasn’t enough as three semis buzzed past me and sent waves of water onto the windshield. More prayer, and soon I was at Walmart, huddled in a pathetic ball of pent-up fear and waiting once again for a let-up in the downpour. Eventually I made it inside, got what I needed and headed home.

It never occurred to me to ask if the interview I’d just done was worth it, or to complain (too much) about the timing of the storm while I was out in the country. All I had to do was load the pictures of the dog I’d just met onto the computer. Seeing his smiling face I immediately brought back the experience of meeting someone new, and hearing them share the love of what they do.

Jobs don’t get much better than this.

Please don't weirdify my happy place

2010-06-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

Ah, Dad's and Mom's back porch. We spent so much time together here, talking and laughing and eating and making plans. Dad used to line the top rail all 'round with tomatoes from his garden, then invite anyone and everyone to take what they needed whenever they wanted. I go here in my mind every now and then because it truly is a "happy place" for me.

I had to laugh out loud the other day when I read the cartoon strip Get Fuzzy. The cat’s name is Bucky, the dog’s name is Satchel and their owner is Rob.

Bucky has no respect for Rob, often calling him Pinkie. He doesn’t think much of Satchel either; in fact, he considers himself the smartest of the three. But I’ve been following the storyline where Bucky decides to change his name to Steve because he believed most geniuses nowadays are named Steve. Bucky’s a genius, most men he knows of named Steve are geniuses, ergo, Bucky should change his name to Steve.

Rob dismissed Bucky’s fantasy for a little while, then felt bad about it so he bought Bucky a couple of outfits with the names of two famous Steves on them. If you’ve ever tried to dress up a cat, you can probably see where this is going. It wasn’t pretty, but Rob finally stuffed his cat into one of the outfits, and the line that sent me into a giggle fit was, “Why must you weirdify my happy place?”

Isn’t that the funniest thing? I mean, have you ever been in your happy place when someone’s come along and just messed up your whole space? Maybe they dampened your mood or dismissed your one-of-a-kind idea. In effect, they weirdified your happy place.

I’ve decided to add this little phrase to my vocabulary. It’s my favorite one at the moment, though there are other ditties I like to toss out now and then.

If someone shares a good experience, I often say, “Cool.” That never gets old to me. “Cool beans” is another popular phrase around here. Many times folks will hear us use Seinfeld-isms, those are our own private jokes; we haven’t run into too many people who get what we’re saying and that’s OK.

Stephen King has inspired a few favorite phrases, though I’m not willing to put my job on the line and use any of them in this newspaper. They’re a hoot though, and I like using one every now and then just to see the look on a certain someone’s face. It’s, well, cool.

Now my father-in-law said some funny stuff. One favorite was, “gosh-darn-it-to-heck anyway!” I tend to use that one often, but one we all remember is, “Let’s get goin’ so we can get back.” Thing is, I say that and mean it, just like Dad did.

That reminds me that this Sunday is Father’s Day. My dad passed on over 15 years ago, and my father-in-law has been gone for six years. We miss him something fierce and not just on Father’s Day. He was such a big part of our lives in so many ways and what we wouldn’t give to turn back time and spend more of it with Dad.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? Gosh darn it to heck, I’ve gone and weirdified my happy place. And that’s not cool.

If your dad is still a part of your family, do something extra special for him this weekend. You’ll be glad you did, and so will he.

Thanks, Uncle Mick - for everything

2010-06-11T11:09:00.000-07:00

The breeze had just the right mix of coolness and warmth. The sun shimmered on the water and fish jumped and played in the fountain off to the side. And this bench, for a time, was empty. There will always be an empty spot in our hearts where Uncle Mick used to live, but his time here brightened our world and we're thankful for that.

A dozen almonds, a handful of shoestring potatoes, five gumdrops (two red, one white, two black) and a cup of coffee does not make for a nutritious breakfast, not by any stretch of the imagination. On Monday morning I wasn’t really thinking about such things; I was thinking about Uncle Mick. In a few hours my husband and I would be saying good-bye to the man who had brought us together.

I met my husband’s uncle before I met any of the other Washburns. In 1970, I was fresh out of high school when I got a job at Union Federal. I was scared green to be working in such a nice place and I couldn’t have found any two people more down-to-earth and friendly than George and Viola Washburn. One tall, one short and tiny—they were the perfect couple in my eyes. And oh, did they make people laugh.

I can’t remember exactly how it happened. Maybe one day I mentioned where I lived, and perhaps I said something about the cute guy who managed Harper’s Gas Station. With that information, George and Viola were ready to bring two people together over pizza at their house. And the fact that the cute guy was their nephew? Well, that was just fate.

The two of us showed up at the little house down the hill, had pizza and soda, and barely looked at one another. Talking was held to a minimum, so George and Viola filled in the many blank pauses in conversation. Something must have clicked because three months after we began dating we were married. I can still remember the little trick my Aunt “Vicky” pulled on me as a member of the wedding party. It was as funny as Uncle “Mick” pulling my husband-to-be in from the outside of the church so he wouldn’t be late to the altar.

Everyone I know called them Mick and Vick, so I did too. Uncle Mick loved our kids as much as he loved us. When our youngest managed a pizza joint (and why not? His parents met over pizza), Uncle Mick would order their meal and almost immediately demand to see the manager. He’d get such a kick out of the look on his great-nephew’s face when he came out to see who it was.

I do remember another date before I was married. Hubby and I were eating at the restaurant inside Grant’s store when we were suddenly surprised by a face appearing out of nowhere. Hands cupped around his eyes, there stood Uncle Mick staring inside to see how we were doing. That was our uncle—always making sure others were having a good time.

Over the last few years, I’ve mostly seen Uncle Mick at McDonald’s. I love going there, not just because the coffee is great and the atmosphere is conducive to writing, but because I see so many long-time friends and family. It won’t be the same now without Uncle Mick sliding into the booth across from me so we could catch up on each other’s lives. I’d ask about his daughter Sherry, his granddaughters Angie and Nichelle, and he’d be so proud to tell me about them and his great-grandkids. Gosh, that man loved his family to pieces.

With his slightly-skewered sense of humor, Uncle Mick would often remind me about how he was responsible for introducing me to the love of my life. And without missing a beat, he’d add, “Sorry about that.” We both knew he wasn’t a bit sorry, and we loved him for that and for all of the light and laughter he brought to us over the years.

Thanks, Uncle Mick. For everything.

Optimize your "dash"

2010-06-04T18:40:00.000-07:00

I wrote this column and turned it in early this time around. I had no idea that Uncle Mick would pass away after I wrote it. I'll tell you something, though, and that is our Uncle Mick optimized the stuffing out of his "dash". He lived, laughed, loved and if it wasn't for him, hubby and I would probably have never met. I shudder to think about that. Thank you, Uncle Mick, and please...say hi to Dad, Luke, and everyone else who went on ahead. We'll see you someday. Love always, Margi

Memorial Day is in the rearview mirror and we seem to be hurtling toward the Fourth of July. Yes, June is here but as most of us know it seems to take all of two minutes before it’s time to change the monthly calendar page. Slight exaggeration, true, but time does fly.

Most folks are happy just to be outdoors. We break free from our homes and workplaces and spill out into parks and malls and vacation spots. Happy thoughts break into our daydreams as we imagine life in the fun and sun.

That is, unless you’re mired deep in a struggle you didn’t ask for and would gladly give away. Just because it’s almost summertime and the livin’ is supposed to be easy doesn’t mean our friends and family aren’t dealing with some major issues.

One night before I headed for bed, I hesitated outside my little office. Something told me to check my e-mail, and yet I felt dread. But I’m a nosy sort (still) so in I went and it wasn’t long before I wished I hadn’t.

There were e-mails about friends and family whose illnesses had worsened, along with a death of a friend and former family member. Another message nearly brought a headache but I pushed it aside to deal with the more important needs of the night. It was time for prayer and sleep; one happened right away, the other took a long while.

The Sunday before Memorial Day, I watched a church service that honored members who had passed away since last year at this time. The pastor read from a poem by Linda Ellis, called The Dash.

The dash refers to the line between the dates on a tombstone. A person is born, hence the first date, and of course the second date represents the year he or she died. It stands to reason that the dash stands for what this person did with their life.

I listened to this verse with interest:

“So, when your eulogy's being read/with your life's actions to rehash.../would you be proud of the things they say/about how you spent your dash?”

It made me thankful that I’ve at least written something about my life thus far, and it made me wish all the more that those I care about would write about their lives too. Our “dashes” are worth the effort, and if you can contribute life stories about your loved ones who have passed on, please consider doing that too.

Here are a few triggers to get you going: Jot down birth dates, family members, holiday memories, houses you/they have lived in, reunions, birthday parties, favorite songs/TV shows, etc., pets, hobbies, school friends. There are plenty more ideas and once you get going you’ll be amazed at what else pops into your head.

Yes the weather has turned for the better and it’s good to spend time outdoors and away from the TV. Still, when you have a few minutes in the early morning or at the end of the day, why not start the story of your “dash” before any more time passes?

Here’s another favorite part of the poem:

“For it matters not, how much we own;/the cars....the house...the cash./What matters is how we live and love/and how we spend our dash.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Still lost, still looking for answers

2010-05-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

A child never stops wondering; at least I hope that's the case with me. Someday, the answers will come and I'll know more about Mom.

Were you one of the gazillion people who watched the confusing and popular TV series “Lost”? In our house we’d have to admit to a few missed episodes, especially during the third season.

I fell in love with the characters and on many occasions I could identify with their struggles. For every answer there were probably half a dozen more questions, and so it went for six seasons. Still, we stayed and watched and wondered. The physical and mental struggles of Jack, Kate, Sawyer, Hurley and all of the island mates (including the Smoke Monster) invaded our thoughts for days after the show aired.

I was particularly attracted to Jacob, probably because he seemed like a gentle man, a compassionate and all-knowing man with a sad countenance. I was drawn to him, hoping he would provide the answers to all of the problems. As we all now know, he did not do that but that’s OK. I remember him fondly.

The show is over, but I have some real life questions about my past. I’m looking for a Jacob to provide some of those answers and I hope this time he (or she) will be successful.

Regular readers know that our little family spent many of our early years in Sheffield. Mom was a striking-looking woman with her black hair and blue eyes; she stood out in a crowd. Sis and I were the most important things in her life, and I think most everyone knew that.

Mom was known simply as “Tony”; I never heard anyone call her by her given name of Tonica. One puzzle that has come to light again involves Mom walking down Main Street in Sheffield. Her name is called, and when she doesn’t respond, her name is called again—louder. Still no response, so the friend walks faster until she comes up behind the woman. A tap on the shoulder stops the woman cold and she turns to face the person calling out the name Tony.

What this friend sees is a mirror image of Mom, only it isn’t Tony. It’s a visitor to town with an entirely different name but the resemblance is stunning. Turns out that more than one person has seen this twin of our mother on several occasions. Later, things would get even weirder.

Years pass, Mom gets the auto-immune disease Scleroderma, and we all move to Kewanee. One night the three of us walked to the Piggly-Wiggly to pick up some items for a new puppy. As Mom pushed the cart down an aisle, an acquaintance from our Sheffield days walked up to us and stared at our mother. “Tony!” she said. “I thought you were dead!” Wow. Talk about weird. But it gets even stranger.

We found out that the woman who looked so like Mom had sadly shown up on the obituary page of this newspaper. The three of us looked at the picture, noted the sisterly resemblance again and in less than a minute, the world tilted slightly as we read that she had died from complications from Scleroderma.

With no one left on Mom’s side of the family to answer questions, I have been blessed to find family on Dad’s side who just might be able to shed some light on the mystery surrounding Mom. Did she have a twin sister? Did they ever meet? (Mom was very tight-lipped about her younger years.) We have so many questions, so few answers.

I do love puzzles, which is probably why Lost was such an important part of my life for the past six years. I thought I could figure it all out but I didn’t. At the end, as Jack lay dying in the woods he turns to find a gentle yellow Labrador inches away, giving comfort as only a dog can. No answers for a man who had more than his share of questions, and yet finally Jack did let go.

I have a yellow Lab too, and she has become a source of comfort to me. She makes me laugh and feel loved, but there is one thing she can’t do. Sarah can’t provide the answers I need; she’s only a dog, so my sister and I are hoping there is someone out there who knows something. Maybe someday sis and I will feel just a little less “lost.”

Finding comfort in cyberspace

2010-05-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

I just love stuffed animals...live ones are best, of course, but I've never outgrown my love for teddy bears.

It’s been an interesting few days in cyberspace. It’s almost as interesting here on Earth, especially when one is having a conversation with those who think the Internet is a bad, bad place. Two breaths later they’re asking you this: “Oh, I was wondering. Could you look up something for me on the Internet?”

These folks make it clear that they would have no use for a computer, and besides the Internet being a bad, bad place, it’s too darn expensive.

There are two recent incidents that stand out clearly in my mind. One late night I opened Facebook to find dozens of messages about a friend who, according to one report, had had a “very bad thing” happen to her. Keep in mind, I’ve never met this person but alarm bells went off big time. I deciphered that something awful had happened with her and her dog.

A sidebar here: I’ve been a part of the online canine community for a while now. I love it there, where the talk is silly and the compassion is real.

Turns out that the friend in question had been bitten by a dog she had rescued. She got away, grabbed her other pooch and headed for the hospital. The dog who bit her was subsequently put down, and my friend and her other dog are home now but life is not the same for either of them.

Thing is, when she did come home she found an outpouring of love from all over the country, and mostly from folks she has never met. We offered condolences, encouragement, prayer and understanding. Some even told her they’d hop a plane or drive to her place to help out. I’m having a hard time seeing the downside to this Internet incident.

The second situation involves a dear friend who has cancer. She posts a blog about her experiences and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever read. There’s no telling how many people she has helped and will help in the future. Then, one morning I opened up Facebook and found, “Lots of pain. Please pray.” The floodgates opened and friends came forward and prayers were sent. Just like that. If not for this type of technology, would she have told anyone? And if she did, how long would it take that person to get the word out?

I know it seems as though I’m romanticizing technology and its many gadgets. But this week they proved their worth to me many times over and I’m so thankful. Some families don’t keep one another updated about serious stuff like health issues, even when they live in the same town. Those of us who are comfortable with computers and online friendships have a special lifeline that seems to be there whenever we need it.

Still, in order to keep this column (ahem) fair and balanced, there are folks out there who are bent on destroying reputations by starting rumors and spreading lies. I call them “keyboard cowards” who sit in front of computer screens and spew hatred one letter at a time. They name names and wait for the responses like a kid on Christmas morning. But there are no gifts here, and that’s the important thing to remember, because I learned something else this week. I’ll paraphrase: If someone gives you a gift, but you don’t accept it, to whom does the gift belong?

That got me to thinking. If you find yourself on the receiving end of hateful insults and rumors, you have the choice of whether or not to accept this “gift”. I say let the giver keep their offering of misery. They created it, they can keep it.

After all, there is a whole wide and wonderful world full of people with love and compassion to share. We can always use one more.

Friends for a reason, a season or a lifetime

2010-05-14T10:43:00.000-07:00

I should look up the journals we kept--they're around here somewhere. I miss those times but I'll always cherish the memories of the trust we have in each other as friends for a lifetime.

Last November someone sent an e-mail that hit the spot. It was a quote about people and how they come into our lives for a “reason, a season or a lifetime.”

I’d just had two friendships crash and burn, but the e-mailer did not know that. The words were soothing, and it was clear that these two friends had come into my life (and I into theirs) for a reason. It was a bit easier to look ahead now and not mope about what had happened.

I took those “reasons” to heart because they rang true. These people come to us “to assist us through a difficulty, to provide us with guidance and support, to aid us physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are; they are there for the reason we need them to be.” Once their work is done, the relationship is over.

The note went on to say that those who come into our lives for a season are there because our turn has “come to share, grow or learn.” These folks are said to bring us an experience of peace, or to make us laugh; they may teach us something that we’ve never done, and though they usually give us an unbelievable amount of joy, we need to understand that their time in our lives is only for a season.

Lifetime relationships, the note said, teaches us lifetime lessons, things we must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Our job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what we’ve learned to use in all other relationships and areas of our lives.

I have had friends who fall into more than one of these categories at a time. The two who came into my life for a reason did give me guidance and support, and they helped at a time I needed emotional support. But some of these same friends also helped me to grow and learn, they made me laugh and they certainly taught me some things that I continue to use today. I’m thankful for all of that, even though things didn’t work out.

My favorite and most precious friendships are the lifetime ones. I can count those on one hand and still have fingers left over. These are the folks who know exactly who you are, the ones you can bare your soul to and they won’t think any less of you. Maybe best of all, they won’t go and blab your secrets all over the place. Your heart is safe with them, and it always will be.

One of those friends is in town for a short time. Most of her visit here has flown by, and we’ve met up for lunch twice at a favorite restaurant. Throughout our history together we’ve sat in most every booth in the place. We’ve met off and on since around 1992, and there was a time when we both did something fun with our journals. We poured our heartfelt thoughts out on paper, and sometimes we saw where our tears had smeared the ink. Once we met up for lunch and gave our food order, we traded journals and read what we’d each gone through during the week. We never held our feelings back; it was an unforgettable experience.

Anna and her husband Steve will leave Illinois Sunday morning. It’s true that she’s only a phone call away, but I’d much rather see her sitting across from me in a booth at the Barnhouse.

This is the kind of friend to treasure—one who is there for a reason, a season and a lifetime. Safe travel, my friend.

The perfect Mother's Day gift

2010-05-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

Mom and me...date unknown

In my dream, there is the small kitchen with the window facing the sidewalk that leads to town. White eyelet curtains move quietly in the warm lilac-scented breeze, and the girl, chin resting on folded arms watches as a young woman makes her way toward town. It's almost always the same dream; sometimes, though, the point-of-view is reversed as the young woman turns back toward the tiny house and her eyes lock on those of the girl in the window.

There are no sounds of birdsong, no voices, and I'm sure the smell of lilacs is simply imaginary. What matters here is that the young woman and the girl are the same person.

I started having this dream after I read somewhere that we should ask ourselves this question: Would the person you were as a child be happy with the grown-up you've become?

Sunday is Mother's Day and there will be a plethora of columns written about the subject. I've written about my own mom in these pages a few times, but the other day I was thinking about those who will face the holiday this time around for the first time without their mother. If the son or daughter had a close relationship, it will be hard. If they didn't, it will still be hard. The bonds between parents and children are infuriatingly complex, but that doesn't stop us from trying to unravel the mystery.

Mom and Dad divorced when I was three weeks old. I met Dad once, for about an hour, in 1975. He died 18 years later on Christmas Day, 20 years after my mom passed away. In February a small envelope came in the mail that held photos of my mom, dad and another relative along with a note from someone claiming they had found these among their late mother's belongings. There was a promise of more to come, and indeed there were more photos. I saw my mom and dad as a happy couple, my dad and his horse, Goldie, and more. So many smiles, so long ago.

Sis and I grew up with a single mother who had her own jaded view of the world. She disliked and distrusted anyone who was not white, all churches, and most men. We could have grown up to be racist, non-church-going men-haters, but we made our own decisions based on the way Mom lived her life. Sis and I became good cooks (like Mom), and while I seem to have inherited her love of the dark and creepy horror stories, I also love music and poetry.

As grown women, and as mothers and grandmothers, sis and I are hopefully examples of love and acceptance. We've tried (and mostly succeeded) in weeding out what we perceived to be unacceptable traits in Mom while trying to hold onto the beautiful parts of her that made her who she was.

This will be our 37th Mother's Day without Mom. We have our own families now, and we pray that our children and grandchildren will follow our example: Find all that is good in us--embrace it and pass it on to future generations. For some of us, that would be the best Mother's Day gift ever.

A bit of catching up to do

2010-04-30T12:28:00.000-07:00

(This is just one of dozens of lilacs on the bush outside my kitchen window. Their scent reminds me of my mom. Can't believe she will have been gone 37 years. I wish the boys could have known their grandma Tony...what a gal!)

What’s it been? By my count, it looks like 10 months and two weeks since we last got together.

One can pack a lot of experiences into that time frame. Along with the usual and sometimes unusual behaviors associated with a now four-and-a-half-year-old Lab, hubby and I have had family members and friends diagnosed with cancer, we lost a wonderful friend in January (the same month a cousin had a stroke), and I fell through our front steps on Ash Wednesday evening while on my way to church services.

I have to stop here and tell you about that. We live across from city hall and this incident happened around 5:45 and there were still some folks parked across the street. I was running late when I put a foot on the second step and Poof! As I sat down hard, the world went gray and I heard a voice: “Margi, are you OK?” I could see what looked like a head floating in the distance and the first thought that came to mind was, “Why would God ask if I was OK? Doesn’t He know?”

But it wasn’t God; the voice had come from a city hall employee who saw me fall and was trying to be helpful. After getting my bearings I called hubby from my cell phone to ask if he’d come outside, pull me out of the hole and get me to the car. I got no sympathy from a colleague at work the next day. “Did you know the step was rotten when you stood on it?” she asked. When I said yes, she smiled, shook her head and walked away.

I won’t go into the rest of the fun and not-so-fun times from the last few months, but I will tell you that the girls and I went shopping the other day and it was a hoot and a half. We had the usual laugh fest on the way to Peoria, an unforgettable breakfast (though we all wish we could forget it), time spent at a favorite bookstore and a stop at a favorite restaurant on the way home.

Waitress Liz at the Steak ‘n Shake by the Shoppes at Grand Prairie is one heck of a young woman. I remember her from when we pulled into the parking lot a couple of years ago. Another customer was letting their yellow Lab out for some exercise and I was attracted like a magnet. I petted the pooch and headed inside. Liz was our waitress then, for the first of many times, and she politely asked if we could wait a minute so she could run out and pet the doggy. Well, duh. That’s the kind of person we firmly approve of, so out the door Liz went. She was one happy camper when she returned to take our orders.

Fast forward two years and after Liz took our orders Monday afternoon, she told us about Bear, her yellow Lab, and Coal, her black Lab, both two years old. She showed us pictures and told us tales and we had a wonderful time.

In fact, it almost made us forget about the oatmeal fiasco from breakfast. Almost. But that’s for another time. Besides, maybe I’ll soon have some good news on that front for my shopping buddies. I just have one favor to ask for the next time we go out for breakfast: Please, ladies, order the eggs. Thank you.

Finally, Facebook fatigue

2010-04-03T12:43:00.000-07:00

I had time this week to take photos of a sweet squirrel who tried like mad to get inside our front porch. Time away from Facebook equals time to do something else. Glad I did.

Too much time spent on Facebook drove me a bit batty, so I offer this message. My solution won’t suit everyone, and it may need re-visiting but it’s working. For now, anyway.

It finally hit me.

Last week I was slumped in the chair, chin in hand, eyes half-closed as I read Facebook updates. Lots of folks had posted their latest levels in whatever games they were playing, others wrote about the weather and some had uploaded new photos.

Games, weather and photo postings—I can handle those just fine. What was causing the creeping depression within my heart was what I found on a “friend’s” wall. In an effort to explain what a trio of numbers meant to someone who had asked, this guy wrote: “It means arey coad.”

Sigh.

I know this person very well. And I make mistakes too, but I was under the (apparently false) impression that anyone over the age of 8 could spell “area code.”

But there’s more to the story. This person is not one of my “friends”; I was able to find out what was going on in his life simply by clicking here and there and before I knew it, there I was, reading an awful lot from someone who wasn’t even connected to me in the normal Facebook way.

Which, I realized with a dawning horror meant that some folks could be seeing my messages, etc. to my FB friends. Suddenly I was alert.

More clicks and more time passed and I found that friends of my friends had several people on FB who, for lack of a better word, hate me. I’m not trying to tell anyone that everyone has to love everyone else. I’m just saying that I don’t feel comfortable knowing that people who haven’t been my friend for going on a decade don’t need to be reading up on my FB writings.

It’s just a quirk of mine.

I’ve been telling anyone who would listen what a cool place Facebook is. One of those people asked me to come over one day and sign them up. The night before our appointment is when I came to the conclusion that FB wasn’t such a happy place for me after all.

It wasn’t just that I knew “they” could see me; worse, I could see “them.” I found out too much and it was keeping me up at night. I was becoming moody and withdrawn as I agonized over things that were said and done, things that were none of my business. Something was going to have to give.

I decided it was time to take a break from FB. It was easier than I thought it would be (why revisit anything that gives you grief?) and the thought of dropping the site altogether started to sound good.

My friend and I kept our appointment to get her up and running on FB, but before we began I told her what had happened. She, too, was having second thoughts and so we laughed, headed for the kitchen for cookies and coffee and talked. Face to face, not FB-style.

The suggestion was made that I drop FB altogether but I nixed that idea. “No,” I told her, “this time I’m going to think and pray about it. Maybe there’s something else I can do, but in the meantime I’ll put up a note that I’m taking a break for a while.”

During the few days I’ve been away from FB, I rediscovered time—time for reading, getting some long overdue writing started, and more.

There was this one morning, a couple of days ago. The strong breeze coming through the kitchen window was snapping the curtains. I could hear birds singing (no TV, no radio). The refrigerator motor clicked off and the quiet was perfect for reading. There were fewer than 30 pages left of a book that was close to 1200 pages long and I wanted to savor the time left with this story.

Some time later I came to the end of the book. I stood, refilled my coffee mug and stood at the kitchen window. The novel’s characters were still with me and as I sipped coffee and watched birds flitting from tree to tree, I took a second to glance at the clock above me. It was startling to see how early it was, to realize I’d had time to finish a book and could now move on to other things.

My absence from FB afforded me more time, but it also gave my mind time to clear itself out. I knew I would not be going back to the old ways and that meant decisions needed to be made.

Instead of closing my FB account, I decided to clean house. I would have to de-friend some folks and that was going to be difficult. I don’t have the right to tell people who to have as friends, but I can break the connection that brings my enemies easy access to my part of FB.

Still, it’s confusing. I know that I can still click around and find those who haven’t set their privacy settings high enough. I’ve tightened the security around my FB site, and I hope that’s enough but who knows for sure? I’ll try things this way first and see what happens.

It wouldn’t surprise me if some folks get peeved and de-friend me. (I de-friended my sister and she was fine with it.) That’s OK. It’s a free country (thank God) and I won’t hold a grudge. That would be hypocritical, and time-consuming.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. Instead of flitting around on FB, I’ll be joining hubby and the dog for some quality time in the real world. It’ll be fun later to catch up with friends who are too far away to visit in person, but there needs to be balance in our lives. Hopefully I’ve taken the first step in that direction.

Time, as they say, will tell.

Teaching our children a thing or two, or three

2010-03-28T15:52:00.001-07:00

“I believe that words have power. They weigh a ton.” (House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, March 26, 2010)

Observations from the past week

It happened two days in a row. I was out of sorts over some personal problems, and one situation in particular was eating at me. Someone I love shared that a relative of hers had kicked a small dog. “The little guy lifted his leg and peed on his boot, and he got booted across the floor,” she told me.

I saw this happen in my mind’s eye and I could feel the anger toward this person I’d never met coursing through me. Questions swirled. If this monster of a man could kick a small dog (a Yorkie, as it turned out), what else was he capable of? Did he abuse his wife, his children? How many times had he kicked the dog? They had other dogs; did he hurt them too?

Maybe it’s a good thing this guy lived at least an hour away or I may have gone back to my old ways and tried to do something about this. I tend to get in way over my head when I try to come to the defense of victims, whether they’re animals, small children, the elderly. So I tried to put this out of my mind but I couldn’t.

The next day I was still bursting into tears at odd times as the mental image of the scene above replayed, along with the possibilities of what his children were experiencing and learning from their father’s behavior. On the way to Walmart to pick up a couple of things, I began crying again. “You’re going to have to go in,” I told hubby. He nodded, no questions asked. He knew how much I was hurting.

After he left the car, I leaned back and closed my eyes. In less than a minute I heard them. A young dad and mom and their child made their way to an older car. A brightly wrapped toy was perched behind the child in the cart. I’m not comfortable writing the exact conversation here, but trust me when I tell you that it was littered with F-bombs from both parents.

But that’s not all. Mom had to threaten her son with this: “If you don’t get your butt in the car seat, I’m throwin’ this toy right out the window!” I’m not sure why she couldn’t have said something like, “Remember, you need to buckle yourself up in the car seat so you’ll be safe, honey.” I guess she was in a hurry to continue her colorful conversation with the man in the family who was uncouth enough to gather up a wad of saliva and hurl it onto the parking lot.

After this all-American family left, another cart rumbled by. This time, a mom and daughter made their way to their car singing a song and laughing. There was no swearing, there were no threats, just fun and smiles and laughter. Wow, I thought, talk about contrasts.

The second time for this experience came at noon yesterday at our local Dairy Queen. A frazzled grandmother and her granddaughter and grandson were finishing lunch. Here’s the gist of the conversation, courtesy of Grandma:

“I can’t afford this. Mommy can’t afford it either.”

“What’dya put ice in your hot chocolate for? You just made it cold. I just won’t get you nothin’ here no more. Period.”

Grandma went on and on and on about how tight money was, how wasteful the kids were, and how hard mommy had to work, not to mention how tired she herself was. These were kids about five or six years old getting an economics lesson far before they needed to but the woman couldn’t seem to stop talking about how scarce money was.

Almost as soon as they left, a grandma and grandpa arrived with their granddaughters. Mommy joined them a bit later but before she got there, the first four talked about their morning, laughed, ordered lunch and planned their next weekend. There was no grown-up talk about wasting money, money shortages, that sort of thing. You couldn’t help but smile at the fun they were obviously having.

I worry about the kids whose parents show by their behavior that life is scary, hopeless and absent of laughter. I think about the little ones who hear coarse language more often than not, who watch the adults in their lives treat others with no respect. That goes for parents who hold grudges forever and a day, who wouldn’t know forgiveness if it bit them and who make people pay dearly for every mistake they ever made.

One more thing I observed recently has to do with our President. The quote at the top of this page came on the heels of an appearance by our country’s leader to expound on the passage of health care reform on his stop in Iowa. I watched a clip on various television newscasts that made me angry and sad at the same time and I’m sure most of you saw it too. The health care reform had already passed, and here was our leader mocking those in the opposing party who had been against the legislation. He laughed as he spoke about Armageddon, and the crowd laughed with him. It was a sign of immaturity in the one man I hoped would never show it.

With our First Lady championing the physical health of our children, I hope she caught what her husband said and I really hope she gave him a talking-to (away from their daughters). She should tell him that he did not set a good example when he made fun of his opponents. A healthy character is a very good thing.

And if Mrs. Obama somehow missed this teaching moment, maybe Ms. Pelosi could repeat what she said last Friday. For once, I agree with her.

Unconditional Love

2010-02-20T09:26:00.001-08:00

I wrote this poem a long, long time ago. In fact, it was typewritten. And, I had a sketch on the page that was drawn by our cousin Dave Washburn. Odd thing is, the drawing is that of a Labrador, a type of dog we had never owned.

Today, we are madly in love with our own Lab mix, a rescue who was found somewhere out in the countryside. On the day we took her home, we were told that she was going to love the outdoors since she hadn't been outside in almost three months. Boy, were they right.

I guess I must have written this for not only our furry friend, but for all of those who blessedly found their forever homes - finally.

Unconditional love

Though there had been other trips
This one seemed not quite right
The pup scurried to a corner
In the car, in the black of night

His small sturdy body
Lay trembling on the seat
The man scarcely glanced his way
His eyes looked old and beat

The daughter insisted on coming
On this highly suspicious trip
The young girl’s eyes were red
And her nose kept wanting to drip

“Please, daddy,” she cried,
“Don’t take him away!”
But her father refused to listen
And her fears he wouldn’t allay

The frightened pup grew still
As he crept closer to his friend
And he gave what comfort he could
Whatever love and warmth he could lend

Soon the two grew quieter still
The silence alarmed the man
He took a country road too fast
And barely missed a van

His heart was pounding, and
He thought he might be ill
To dump this tiny puppy
Was a very bitter pill

The silence from the back
Was deeper than the night
It accused him and disturbed him—
What he was doing wasn’t right

He tried too hard to make it seem
The only thing to do
But a voice deep down inside him cried,
“No! That’s not true!”

A stirring from the two in back
Caused the man to tense
What would his daughter think of this?
To her, it made no sense

The time had come, he stopped the car
Yet he left the engine running
That which was left to do
Required very little cunning

The pup, on wobbly legs stood up
And with the softest bark
From the back seat of the car he jumped
Into the waiting, unfriendly dark

The girl reached out, she stifled a cry
Her eyes she hid with her hand
She tried to swallow and couldn’t—
Her mouth felt full of sand

“Oh, daddy,” she whispered, her sobs began
As she climbed to the side of the man
He put his arms around the girl
And wiped the tears that ran

The pup sat on the road
And watched the taillights fade
A whimper from inside his heart
Sliced the air like a blade

One can only guess that in his heart
The pup felt the fault was his own
That if he’d been smaller, cuter, whatever…
He wouldn’t be here now, forever and ever alone

So, remember this, please
If your plan is like that above
A dog attaches itself to you
With unconditional love

We miss you, friend

2010-01-23T12:16:00.000-08:00

Here is where Dwen sat, surrounded by friends. We miss him every day.

It’s a blustery day here in Illinois. Shouldn’t come as a surprise, though, since it’s past mid-January. I’ve been sitting at home trying to decide whether it’s worth it to slip-slide to the cold car and schlep to McDonald’s to read and write a bit.

I’ve been avoiding my favorite fast-food place for a while. Our friend Dwen and I met there lots of times and since he passed away at 11 a.m. Monday, January 4 I haven’t felt much like going there.

Dwen was most often seen sitting with his group on the northeast side of the restaurant, reading a paper and chatting with his friends. Once his buddy Derek left at 11, Dwen would walk over to talk with me about a lot of things, and I’ll tell you this: He was never dull—ever.

He was 94 years old, he collected unused napkins (everyone knew this, and they brought theirs to him whenever they spotted him), and he was sharp. There was nothing wrong with Dwen’s memory, whether you were talking about last night or 70 or more years ago. In fact, he often worried about friends much younger than he was who would show signs of faltering memories.

Dwen was opinionated and he pretty much didn’t care if you agreed with him or not. But unlike some folks with that attribute, Dwen didn’t get all huffy and hold grudges if you didn’t see things his way. I loved him for that, and for so much more.

I loved how he lived life, how he played tennis up until just a few months before he died. I think he finally quit playing sometime in September of last year but that was because, he said, a tendon in his right leg was hurting him. Still, he rode his famous white bicycle all over the place; it was a familiar sight outside of McDonald’s.

I miss seeing that bicycle, and I miss the man who used to ride it. My heart is heavy, still, and whenever I drive past McD’s, I find it impossible to glance to my right to see if Dwen is there. I know he isn’t, I know he’s gone, but I want to turn back Time and talk to him just once more. This time, I want to thank him for a friendship that meant more to me than I ever realized.

And now I must ask myself: Why do we too often wait until it’s too late before we say aloud what’s been in our hearts? I wish I’d told Dwen how much hubby and I loved him, how much we appreciated everything he ever did for his lady friend (hubby’s mom) for the past few years. Mom simply can’t see herself attending church without him; the breakfasts afterwards are not the same without the two of them arguing over whether to order oatmeal or pancakes.

My faith tells me we will see Dwen again someday, and we’ll comfort ourselves in knowing our friend is no longer in pain. We trust that he heard us tell him that we’ll take good care of Mom—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

See you later, Dwen—we all loved you. And though I know you might have scoffed at my tears over losing you, I want to share this quote by Washington Irving:

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief..and unspeakable love.”

And that, Dwen, is why we cry—still.

Living for just a little while in my imagination

2009-11-17T18:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-12T10:51:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-06T16:12:00.001-08:00

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

2009-10-29T10:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-19T13:51:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-15T20:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-29T08:34:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-25T09:12:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-20T15:44:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-08-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-15T09:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-28T08:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-28T12:55:00.000-07:00

(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.