Off to Branson and the million-dollar bathroom

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


I think the conversation went something like this:

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

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

Me: “OK.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good memories soften the bad times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martyrdom not all it’s cracked up to be

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

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

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

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

Him: "What kind?"

Me: "A cola's fine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Clever dog and a bargain-happy hubby

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

See you next Saturday!

I'll be back - really!

Sarah Jane was wondering: Where have you all been?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come see what Sarah Jane has been up to!

Margi

Flappity flappity flap and other stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a good day.

Remembering Luke Anthony and his grandma

He would have been 32 years old today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turning a hot temper into cool action

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turning toward home on this Mother's Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The winner is the wolf we feed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life’s too short – feed the Good wolf.

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.

Time to move? Maybe.

Here it is, the 7th of March, and we're still waiting for a break in the weather. Oh, we had a taste of what 50 degrees feels like a few days ago, but it seems like a distant memory now. We've really had it this winter; it's hung on too long, our power bills are through the roof and places like Florida and Arizona are sounding like Heaven.

Maybe it's time for the good life - balmy breezes, sunshine, joining friends who've already experienced warm winter months instead of week after week after never-ending week of frigid temps and howling winds.

Even the dog doesn't much care for the cold and the snow.

Yup, it's time to start looking. Life's too short to spend this many days holed up in a house that never seems to get warm enough.

Extra: still summer in Kewanee

(Afternoon sunlight through the trees in Veterans Park in Kewanee, Illinois. A beautiful, special place.)

Yeah, I know. There are probably lots of people wondering where fall is, and I used to have fits when hot ol' summer lasted until just past Halloween. I mean, who wants to dress up in a costume and sweat while running around the neighborhood hauling in a mother-lode of candy? Been there, done that.

But when one hits their 50s and starts gently strolling down the other side of The Hill, and they live in Illinois (motto: if you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes), then one learns to appreciate all of the days and nights we can run around without jackets, boots, hats and gloves. We like the lower power bills - you know, that glorious, all-too-brief time of year when the air conditioner runs less and less, and the furnace doesn't run at all (unless you're in your 80s like a certain mom-in-law.)

Hubby's getting a lot of outdoor home repairs and remodeling done now. The paint dries faster, that sort of thing, but we are coming into that time of year when the sun disappears sooner and it gets a little too dark to use power tools. And don't forget, this year we don't turn the clocks back until (I think) the first Sunday in November instead of the last Sunday in October. I hope that particular experiment was only good for one year. I can't stand Daylight Savings Time - and making it longer really frosted my cookies.

We're off to spend an evening visiting with hubby's mom - cookies, coffee and conversation around the kitchen table. It doesn't get much better than that.