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.

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.

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.

Christmas memories on a snowy Christmas Eve

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.

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

"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.

A bit of catching up to do

(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.

Seeing the future versus faith and strength

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, son

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


Has it been 36 years already?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Dad and Mom

Remembering Luke Anthony and his grandma

He would have been 32 years old today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm God, and you're not

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really can’t argue with that.

This, that and the other

(This photo/artwork adorns the cover of my novel, "The Elephant in the Room", a work I completed last November for National Novel Writing Month.)

The past few weeks have been a bit stressful.

First, we were hoping hard to hear from our oldest son. The last time we saw him was before Christmas in 2002. The last time we heard his voice was on the telephone, and that was March 21, 2003. Then, of course, he wrote a letter, mostly intended for me, his mother, and all I can say is: We never, ever, ever taught him to speak to his parents that way.

Still, a son is a son and we love him. We wish we knew where he was, if he's alive, sick or well, happy or not - anything, just to stop the wondering. I'm not sure his dad does the same, but I often get my hopes up around special times, like anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving. We wonder if he is working somewhere, if he's still in the United States. It's heartbreaking to have his boys ask us if we know where he is only to have them obviously disbelieve you when you tell them you have no idea where their dad is.

Second, we've had a lot of sudden expense and other trials over the past few weeks. The boiler shut down two nights in a row this week, just as the temps hit double-digits BELOW ZERO. One morning it was 53 in the house, the next morning it was 49. We got things going again, and we're keeping the thermostat at 67. Kind of chilly, especially this time of year.

Third, our like-new tire kept going flat on us (on the car) so we had to have it repaired. Funny story: hubby put Fix-A-Flat in the tire so he could get it to the shop to be repaired only to find out that if one uses that product, the store usually refuses to repair the tire. They're more than happy to offer to install a new tire, but they won't repair the current one. We finally found someone, and it seems to be OK now, but it set us back a bit.

Fourth, yesterday the washer went out. Something was buzzing and the smell was awful. Almost all of my work clothes were in the dirty cold water and now the washer is torn apart in the back room and the clothes are wet and I need to hop in the car and toddle off to the laundromat in this frigid winter weather. Fun.

Fifth - this brings up the wandering thoughts I've been having about finding out I have a few half-siblings who are not hurting a bit for money. Mom was married to their dad for a very brief time, and after Dad died, I got zippo. Nothing. I'm mentioned in his will for a few grand but there were stipulations that had something to do with his wife also passing away. She has refused any contact with me; for some reason, she just seems to hate me, as if I had anything to do with my own birth and existence.

I found that my half-siblings are living quite the life. I even wrote to my half-sis once, including my maiden name along with my married one. She was pleasant enough, and quick to answer my real estate questions, but she did not acknowledge our sisterhood so I guess all my sibs hate me too. Or at least they're choosing to ignore me as though I don't exist.

Sometimes, life isn't fair that way and we just have to suck it up and deal with it. The way I am handling this is to write my memoirs. I've taught others how to do that, and I've even helped a family member or two with theirs. It's my turn now, and I truly believe that the only way to get all of this stuff out of my head before it drives me around the bend is to get it down on paper.

It'll be such a relief. I recommend that everyone give it a try.

Memorial Day and memories and gardens

I can hear the neighbor's lawn mower buzzing. Every few minutes, the police scanner breaks in with news about a fight, someone speeding, or some complaint that can't wait.

It's summery today, and I think the garden's going to get planted. At first I wanted a big garden, like mom used to have, then later, like hubby's dad's. He grew every bit as much as my mom did; well, maybe not. She grew eggplant and he didn't, but that's OK.

I wanted to have lettuce, cantalope, radishes, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, peppers. We're getting all of that except for the lettuce, cantalope and potatoes. And that's OK, too.

When the garden shows some growth, I'll post pics here. With food prices so high, it'll be nice to be able to go out and pick our own.

It doesn't have to be Memorial Day weekend to bring thoughts of those who aren't here. I miss my mom, friends who've gone ahead, Aunt Doris and Uncle Ray, my father-in-law, and I also miss friendships that have gone astray. More than anything, hubby and I miss our oldest son - we haven't heard from him in over 5 years. It's a heart-wrenching thing to live with, not knowing if your child is alive and well, or, well, not.

Here's hoping someone will read this and get the message out: we miss you, and want you to call home. The number's in the book.

Wondering about things on an early Tuesday morning

Fog today, and the chill goes to the bone even though it's in the mid-30s. At 6 in the morning, though, that's not bad in mid-March.

I was thinking about family birthdays (our youngest will turn 32 this month), and I realized that it doesn't seem all that long ago when I was his age.

And that brought up another memory - that was about how old I was when I saw my dad for the first and last time.

We'd taken our oldest on his second birthday to see his grandpa. Clint was a happy two-year-old, checking out everything in dad's house, having a blast being in a place that was new and exciting. Hubby and dad had a beer or two together and chatted for quite a while. I, on the other hand, wasted the entire time sniffling on the couch - I couldn't seem to stop the tears. I'm kind of mushy that way.

It had been hubby's idea. He wanted me to see my dad, and I really believe it's because he had a normal childhood (and by normal I mean having a mom, dad and siblings who all got along - at least most of the time).

He knew that mom, sis and I had struggled over the years just to eat and stay warm and he didn't want me to hold that against anyone, least of all one of my parents.

He was right.

When parents divorce, and the one you end up with does nothing but speak badly about the other, it's too easy to build up bitterness, mistrust and anger toward the absent parent. I wish mom hadn't done that, and it didn't help that her siblings jumped at every opportunity to do the same. Who knows what kind of relationship I missed out on simply because grudges were born and held for decades?

Anyway, I eventually did find out when my dad passed away (though I didn't get that information until nearly a year afterward), but I forgot when he was born. I'll have to go back to the obituary to find out.

And the reason I want to know? I think it's important to send up a prayer of thanks because without both dad and mom, I wouldn't be here and although my childhood was too often a nightmare, I survived and I love my life and most of the people in it.

A post from Kewanee, Illinois

Well, we're into the dreary days of mid-winter...blech.

The skies are gunmetal gray (I love that term, even though I hate the color). Winds are picking up, but most of the snow has melted because of a lovely couple of days with 60-plus degree weather. I know we all loved it; well, most of us did.

Enough about the weather. Let's talk dogs.

Sarah Jane will turn 2 on the 25th of this month. She's still a handful, and we love her to pieces. Snow wasn't a problem for Sarah this year, thank goodness. She walks every day with hubby, around the park, around the house; she can take the cold pretty well, but she doesn't much care for rain and sleet. Who does?

I still miss our Max. That dog had a wild ride in Life. She came up from Texas, and though she was a pup when she arrived, we didn't have much of a hand in her initial upbringing. I'll always wonder if she would've been a bit different, more tolerant of other dogs and people and even cats if we'd raised her from the get-go.

For a short while, a very short while, she and our dog Cujo got along reasonably well. One night Max just suddenly decided she wanted to be the boss and she attacked Cujo. For the next five years we had to keep the pooches separated and that took a toll on everybody.

Cujo tore up the floor in the back room where she had to stay while Max was out. Max was stressed inside her pen (where she spent far, far, far too many days) while Cujo was out. Max did try to make friends with one of the cats, but Spook scratched the dog once too many times and after that, we worried that Max would kill the cat.

Max was such a good dog after Cujo died. She didn't seem to have any ill effects from spending so much of her life in a pen. When she suddenly became ill and died two days later (on Mother's Day almost two years ago), we were devastated. We loved her so much.

Max had a way of looking right through you. She understood certain words and phrases, and we knew our house was safe with her inside. And, she was beautiful to look at, very much like a wolf.

We have Sarah now, a yellow lab-mix, a much more active dog than we're used to. Cujo and Max couldn't care less if we were home or not, as long as there was food and water in their bowls, and someone let them out to go to the bathroom. They weren't the cuddly type.

Sarah, on the other hand, thinks that she should be the center of everyone's world. And she's huge - 90 pounds, and we've never had a dog that big. But her heart is just as big, and we love her, too.

Guess I'll go now. I hope with all my heart that if our son is out there somewhere he will see this blog and it will give him one way to keep up with his family. We miss him, and wish he would at least let us know that he's OK.