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.

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.

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.

Surprising conversations around Mom's table

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riding the storm with those we love and who love us

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May God be with you, Patti and 'Mas.

Living with a few physical limitations

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Uncle Mick - for everything

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Uncle Mick. For everything.

Still lost, still looking for answers

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding comfort in cyberspace

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends for a reason, a season or a lifetime

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We miss you, friend

Here is where Dwen sat, surrounded by friends. We miss him every day.


It’s a blustery day here in Illinois. Shouldn’t come as a surprise, though, since it’s past mid-January. I’ve been sitting at home trying to decide whether it’s worth it to slip-slide to the cold car and schlep to McDonald’s to read and write a bit.

I’ve been avoiding my favorite fast-food place for a while. Our friend Dwen and I met there lots of times and since he passed away at 11 a.m. Monday, January 4 I haven’t felt much like going there.

Dwen was most often seen sitting with his group on the northeast side of the restaurant, reading a paper and chatting with his friends. Once his buddy Derek left at 11, Dwen would walk over to talk with me about a lot of things, and I’ll tell you this: He was never dull—ever.

He was 94 years old, he collected unused napkins (everyone knew this, and they brought theirs to him whenever they spotted him), and he was sharp. There was nothing wrong with Dwen’s memory, whether you were talking about last night or 70 or more years ago. In fact, he often worried about friends much younger than he was who would show signs of faltering memories.

Dwen was opinionated and he pretty much didn’t care if you agreed with him or not. But unlike some folks with that attribute, Dwen didn’t get all huffy and hold grudges if you didn’t see things his way. I loved him for that, and for so much more.

I loved how he lived life, how he played tennis up until just a few months before he died. I think he finally quit playing sometime in September of last year but that was because, he said, a tendon in his right leg was hurting him. Still, he rode his famous white bicycle all over the place; it was a familiar sight outside of McDonald’s.

I miss seeing that bicycle, and I miss the man who used to ride it. My heart is heavy, still, and whenever I drive past McD’s, I find it impossible to glance to my right to see if Dwen is there. I know he isn’t, I know he’s gone, but I want to turn back Time and talk to him just once more. This time, I want to thank him for a friendship that meant more to me than I ever realized.

And now I must ask myself: Why do we too often wait until it’s too late before we say aloud what’s been in our hearts? I wish I’d told Dwen how much hubby and I loved him, how much we appreciated everything he ever did for his lady friend (hubby’s mom) for the past few years. Mom simply can’t see herself attending church without him; the breakfasts afterwards are not the same without the two of them arguing over whether to order oatmeal or pancakes.

My faith tells me we will see Dwen again someday, and we’ll comfort ourselves in knowing our friend is no longer in pain. We trust that he heard us tell him that we’ll take good care of Mom—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

See you later, Dwen—we all loved you. And though I know you might have scoffed at my tears over losing you, I want to share this quote by Washington Irving:

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief..and unspeakable love.”

And that, Dwen, is why we cry—still.

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.

The fine art of shunning is alive and well

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

The weather matches my mood today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.