She's gone, finally. I hope.

One (hopefully) last hate-filled rant came quietly into my email box tonight from a former friend and business partner. I will say she does know me well, a little too well, but that's my fault. God willing, I'll never be that open with anyone like that ever again.

I've re-read her note several times. She obviously dislikes me intensely, and in a few ways that surprises me. She's a Buddhist and she's the one that taught me they (the Buddhists) are a gentle and loving people, a peaceful people. And I never thought they were a materialistic people, but maybe I'm wrong.

Like I said above, hopefully this is the end. She gave me something, I no longer have it, she demanded it back and now she's finally faced the fact that it is gone forever. Lots of "things" hold sentimental value to us, we're human after all, but honestly I thought this whole thing was going to go on forever. For her own mental health I hope she gets over this once and for all.

Christmas dinner, wonderful anniversary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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"

“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

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.

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

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

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?

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

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.