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.

Storytelling on a rainy Sunday afternoon

(A dear friend and fellow writer, unrelenting rain and wind, and the determination to speak our written words aloud - this is what brought us all together on a Sunday afternoon to the Galesburg Public Library.)

It's hard, on a bright sunny day like today to remember what Sunday was like. But I got soaked to the skin so many times that it's harder to forget that it poured all the live-long day. Any other time I would stay safely inside my warm cozy home curled under a blanket watching a tape of Corner Gas episodes and laughing until I fell asleep in my chair.

Thing is, I had to be at the Galesburg Public Library to receive the third-place winning certificate and ten bucks for my short story, Catching Up and Saying Goodbye. It was also expected that as a grown-up, I would read my work to the audience. Sure I would.

My friend and I left town an hour earlier than we needed to so we could stop at Big Lots to looks for Big Bargains. She found a few, and I proceeded to get sick. I never once thought to blame it on the weather because I knew the problem came from imagining reading in front of a bunch of strangers who would probably snicker, or worse, walk out as soon as I stumbled up to the podium.

We spent almost too much time at the store, and the longer we stayed the worse I felt. The rain was steady, and we weren't sure where the library was. Asking a clerk or two or three for directions didn't really yield the best results, so we headed out into the deluge.

As I pondered whether or not I was going to read or just pop into the library and grab my money, there was a knock on the car window next to my head. Some poor drenched woman was holding up a plastic bag. "Did you forget your paper plates?" she asked as she used the bag to cover her head. We thanked her, took the wet sack and I rolled up the window. Just then, another acquaintance waved through the raindrops and chatted for a couple of minutes.

We pulled out into traffic, and surprisingly we found the library rather quickly. There were no parking spots by the door, so I was dropped off with about ten minutes to spare. Once we got our bearings, we headed for the second floor to scope out the place. I would have to decide pretty soon, and that was enough stress to make me feel even worse.

The room was pretty big, with lots and lots of folding chairs, most of them empty. There must have been about 30 people or so, many of them young adults sitting at the front of the room. My friend and I headed to the back for cookies and juice. I grabbed a program. Maybe if I was listed in the top three to read first, I could get it over with and leave.

I found the thumbprint cookies (my favorite), poured some pink lemonade and opened the program. There I was alright - dead last. And there was an intermission. This was not going to work, and my friend knew it just by looking at the expression on my face. We approached the woman in charge, who apologized but said that yup, the program was right, I was last.

At about that time, it was decided that my story would be read, whether I did it or my friend did. Since she'd taken time out of her day to drive me there in her car, I hated to ask that of her too. And so we ate our cookies, drank our juice and listened to the other winners read their works. I couldn't be more thankful that we stuck it out.

The youngest were third, fourth and fifth graders and most of them were more than happy to read their poetry and stories in front of everyone. They posed for pictures, gave one another fist-bumps, and clutched their certificates and checks in their hands as they made their way back to their seats, grinning all the way. If they could do this, so could I.

We both were especially touched by the teen girls' poetry. One spoke of her grandmother, now in a nursing home, and she wrote with such heartbreaking tenderness that most of us were crying at the end, including the poet herself.

The two men who won first and second place were extraordinary storytellers. We won't soon forget the tale of the single dad and his two daughters, told by a man who had to have experienced this bittersweet tale. He wove word pictures that brought tears to our eyes. The second-place winner told a spooky story that was right up my alley, and I wondered why I hadn't thought of his topic.

I don't remember a whole lot about reading my piece except that people didn't leave or giggle at the wrong spots or even talk to one another while I spoke. They were all respectful and attentive, so it wasn't a horrible experience by a long shot.

When it was all over and the pictures taken, we took the elevator down, dodged raindrops and headed for a cup of coffee. We watched cars go by as we sipped and talked and tried to dry out. It was almost time to head home, and we were ready.

Those of us old enough to know better should realize by now that the anticipation of something is oftentimes far worse than than the event itself. That was certainly true last Sunday, and all I can do is give a big Thank You - to my friend for her support, to the judges for picking my story, and especially to the poets and storytellers that day who enriched our lives on that rainy afternoon in Galesburg.

Bravo.

Dog steals neighbor's dog's bone, underground fire interrupt work

(Ah, work distractions. Who doesn't have them? I have to say, though, that I procrastinate enough without outside influences, but these are sort of funny so I thought I'd share some typical experiences around our place.)


Sometimes I like the way my downstairs office is set up, and sometimes I think it would be better if I worked inside a closet. That's because last week there were too many distractions outside the big window on the other side of my desk.

The first interruption was Sarah the pup. Hubby was off somewhere and it was such a nice day, so out the door went the dog. I clipped her tie-out to her collar, brought out her water dish and went back inside to get to work.

Sarah did her usual shtick - barking at squirrels, people, rabbits, Aerial the fire house dog, and blowing leaves. I got kind of used to the noise, though I worried about the neighbors becoming irritated.

It wasn't long before I noticed how quiet things were. Maybe the dog was sunning herself and chewing on rocks. About that time there was an odd sound coming from the front of the house: someone was banging on the door.

Usually I check the peephole but I just opened up the door and there stood our neighbor. "This is your dog, right?" he asked. Sarah was jumping around, anxious to get inside where she could hide. Despite numerous experts' silly opinions, I believe dogs do know when they've been naughty and our dog has had plenty of experience in that area. She wiggled herself past the two of us and headed for the kitchen.

The neighbor had a little more to say. "Her name's Sarah, right?" he asked. "She's really friendly, she came right to me when I called her name." Thank goodness for that, I thought. There are too many ways to lose a dog, and we don't want to imagine any of them. I thanked our neighbor, then found Sarah so I could give her a hug. Stupid pooch.

The next interruption came a few days later, on a Tuesday. Hubby was out of town, it was sunny and nice and I had a lot of work to do. So, out went the dog. However, since we couldn't find out how Sarah got loose the last time, we blamed the whole thing on me, figuring the latch wasn't properly attached to the collar. This time I checked it four times. This time, there would be no loose dog.

Not quite half an hour later, I took a break from staring at the computer screen and noticed two things: it was awfully quiet, and a giant shadow passed by the window. The blinds were shut, but I know I saw a blob-shaped something go by. It was time to poke my head out and say hi to Sarah.

When there was no answer, something made me look toward the front yard. Ah, there she was. The dog was jumping around having the time of her life because she was loose and she had a prize. I've never seen a bone that big, and it wasn't the kind you purchase at a pet store. This was from some large animal.

I called Sarah and she immediately stopped running and turned around to stare at me in defiance. She put her rump in the air and her head down on her front paws. It was play time. Taking hubby's advice, I acted as though I didn't care what she did next and it worked. She bounded into the front porch and we wrestled for the bone. It stayed on the porch, and Sarah went into the house, deeply disappointed.

Within a minute, the phone rang. It was our other neighbor calling to inform me that Sarah had dug up and stolen his dog's bone. I felt awful; I love that guy's dog - he's been around for years. I apologized, hung up and waited until hubby came home so I could tell him his dog was a thief. Thing is, neither of us can figure out how Sarah's been getting loose so we're not able to tie her out any more, and that's kind of sad.

The third interruption came courtesy of hubby plus a burn day. On Saturday, I headed for my desk and hubby headed for the back yard to get rid of some landscape waste. I guess I missed the part where he set a tree stump on fire in the front parking strip. About half an hour into my writing, I couldn't help but notice the shiny bright red fire truck that slowed down and parked in front of our house. Firemen jumped out and gathered around something in the front yard, and hubby walked up to join them.

The men were talking and pointing at the blackening tree stump that had tiny flames poking out of its holes. Someone had apparently reported an underground fire (I guess I'd never thought of that sort of thing around these parts), so the firemen came to check things out. Hubby was informed that putting charcoal on the stump would work better next time, then off they went. I went back into the house, put my work away and went upstairs to take a nap.

Truth be told, it's nice having a life that's never boring. That doesn't mean I want Sarah the pup to get lost forever or that underground fires are good. Maybe it means I should only work at the office; maybe working at home invites trouble.

Could be. Nothing odd has happened while I wrote this, safe inside the building at the corner of Main and Central.

Making new memories on a train trip

(Good friends are those who have your best interests at heart, and they never stop trying to help you along the path to a healthier lifestyle, and that includes mental health. After listening to all the reasons why I never wanted to take a train to Chicago again because of truly traumatic childhood experiences, my best bud finally talked me into giving it another go. And so I did - with results even I didn't foresee.)

It's not a bit unusual for me to wake around 5 a.m., and it doesn't matter if it's a workday or not. I love the quiet, though lately Sarah the pup has been joining me in the kitchen, but once she's been out for a bit things settle down again.

A few weeks back I was in the middle of reading three newspapers, drinking coffee and watching the early news show, but my mind was on the upcoming train trip to LaGrange at precisely 8:06, less than three hours away.

As kids, sis and I had taken more than our share of train trips to Chicago, and every one of them meant that our mom had an appointment at the research hospital there. At first the trips were a novelty; the depot was a blast with its big wooden benches and never-ending parade of travelers. The train ride itself was mostly fun, except we couldn't afford the dining car so we always brought our own food, and we had to save it to eat at the hospital between mom's doctor visits.

Eventually, the twice-yearly jaunt grew old and besides, the reason behind it was frightening even though, or perhaps because, mom kept her prognosis to herself.

Those times are long gone. The last train ride in recent memory was when our youngest and I rode home to Kewanee after living in Arizona for six years. There were more good times than bad, though the bad was pretty awful. Our train hit a pickup truck and the driver didn't make it, so things were pretty low-key after that.

Those thoughts and more swirled around my mind that Wednesday morning. I wanted to make some good memories for a change, and that meant getting to the station on time. I can't stand being late, and it's a good thing because the train arrived and left right on the button.

I was encouraged by hubby and friends to be sure to visit the dining car. That suggestion was to help get over the childhood angst I had over never being able to do that as a kid, but I got so caught up with finding a seat that I forgot to ask where the dining car was. (Answer: right behind the car I was in.)

I tried to sit quickly so I could wave to hubby, but that didn't happen. I was carrying too many shoulder bags to maneuver gracefully down the narrow aisle, and before I knew it I'd thrown myself into a seat so others could get by.

Once my bags were safely placed on the window seat, I took stock of the folks around me. There was the tall young man across from me, sound asleep with his legs curled up as far as he could get them. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and he must have been awfully tired because newly-embarking passengers and the jolt of the train never woke him.

The two young women in front of me were probably the most fascinating. It took just over two hours to get to LaGrange, and these two were able to sustain nearly non-stop giggling the entire way. Hats off. (I really wanted to say something else, but let's use that - it's more polite).

I could see folks walking back and forth with cups of ice, sodas and chips but I never asked anyone where they got the food. I was too busy listening to music on my MP3 and letting my imagination run away with me. And what a trip that was!

My first thoughts were of J. K. Rowling and how she dreamed up a young boy wizard one day while riding a train. I never saw Harry, or anyone who looked like him, even when we pulled into the Princeton train depot, the town that celebrates Platform 9 3/4 almost every year, so I was off to The Twilight Zone.

A Stop at Willoughby is a TZ favorite of mine. James Daly played a sad stressed-out man who longed for a simpler lifestyle. As he rode the train home one night after work he fell asleep and dreamed of a place called Willoughby. The year was 1888 and the people there lived a stress-free life so unlike his own. It wasn't long before the poor man decided that he'd rather live in the past than face his future so off the train he went. The last scene is of his body being placed in a hearse owned by Willoughby & Son Funeral Home.

Maybe that was the wrong path for my thinking to take, so I looked ahead to meeting my friends for a fun meeting at a Borders Bookstore. It turned out to be too much fun, because now all I can think of is going back. This time I'd pop into the snack car and pass the time there, spend hours at the bookstore, find a diner and have lunch, go back to the bookstore then hop
the train for home.

Seems to me like I've managed to replace those old musty memories with some bright new ones, and I can't wait to do it all over again.

Newspapers getting blasted from all sides

It's been hard to watch and read the news. I'm not sure when it started, but everything seems so bleak - if you believe all that you see, hear and read.

Someone somewhere commented that it was time to change this perception that all is gloom and doom. Let's take the newspaper business as an example.

Here's what happens: folks gather at the local eatery, say bad things about their local paper ("there's nothing in there - I get my news from that other paper"; "I get a paper but I don't read it"; "Don't they have a proofreader?"; "I heard they're going under"), then those remarks get repeated in other settings, advertisers hear them and cut back on their advertising, then the paper hurts and gets rid of people, then there are fewer of them to gather local news...and, well, you've got yourself a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then, the original folks can claim they were right all along.

Even before I got into the newspaper business I never understood businesses that were reluctant to advertise. How are we supposed to know when you have a sale? Or a new product? There have been some businesses I was surprised to find were still around because I hadn't seen any ads from them in ages.

I don't know - I don't have all the answers. Maybe someone can enlighten me.

On writing the best memoir(s) ever

It's Sunday morning, cold, sunny, a bit too breezy. The light snow ended about an hour ago. There was just enough to cover up the previous snows that had become dirty-looking. I'm glad there wasn't more because I'm getting worried about hubby shoveling all this white stuff, especially the kind the weather forecasters have been calling "heart-attack snow."

After church, we all met for breakfast at a favorite restaurant. We caught up with family and a friend, and saw the grandkids come in with their "Uncle" Mike and "Grandpa" Terry. The guys have quite the extended family and it was good to see them enjoying a big breakfast.

It's been a reflective time, these past few days. I saw a fascinating piece on the show Sunday Morning, about a memoirist who's written five memoirs. I recorded the program so I could watch it again and take notes because I've been awfully ticked off lately about celebrities who are paid gazillions of dollars for their memoirs (read: Britney Spears), and that means there's not a whole lot of money left to pay those of us who aren't famous folks.

It didn't help that there have been *fake* memoirs in the public eye lately. Between too much dough being thrown at those who most definitely do NOT need it, and ordinary folks making up their life stories, the rest of us could feel like giving up. But I don't plan on doing that - I simply can't.

One thing I remember from the show this morning - the guy said he had to write down his life, he simply had to. That's exactly how I feel. It's got to come out, but now I think I have a guideline to go by. I needed that because I need structure. And the other cool thing about this guy was that he and his brother don't remember things exactly the same way. That's how life is, we don't always remember things exactly the same way. That said, it's important to add that this doesn't mean the writer is lying, it just means he or she remembers in their own way.

As for me, I can't even wrap my mind around lying in a memoir. What would be the point?

I'm looking forward to writing my memoirs now, and that means I'm thankful to whoever that guy was - excuse me while I watch that piece again. Every memoirist should check this guy out.

This, that and the other

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

The past few weeks have been a bit stressful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas and catching up

(This photo was taken last year, and yup, we're having the same awful cold, snowy, icy, windy winter weather as December of 2007. Sarah Jane loves it.)

Long time between posts, huh? It's been a busy time, full of work, play, shopping, an historic presidential election, holidays (three of them!), birthdays and lots more.

Halloween was no big deal, as usual. The high point was when the kids came by (Mike stayed home to hand out candy), and Luke sat on the step with Sarah Jane and said, "I love this dog." Beautiful.

Thanksgiving was weird, but it almost always is. One year I made meat loaf (a specialty of mine), homemade potato salad (ditto), and we took it all over to mom's. We thought it was pretty neat, but not everyone else did. This year we stayed home, and we thought mom was going with a friend to another friend's house only to find out at almost the last minute that she wasn't going anywhere. We felt bad, and eventually my sister-in-law made up two trays of food to take over so at least there was a semblance of a Thanksgiving meal. Like I said, weird.

Christmas is less than a week away, and more than a few of us are sick. I've had a horrendous cold or something for almost a month. I've missed some days at the office this week (which I'm sure they appreciated because no one wants to be around a constant cougher/sneezer/germy person.

We've done some shopping and I know what I'm getting. Can't wait to open my bread machine; I've already bought some box mixes, and I want to learn from-scratch recipes too. Should be a blast.

We're supposed to go to mom's for Christmas Eve, but she's sick now and it usually takes quite a little while for a cold to work its way through for her. Tonight she's dealing with a temperature, coughing, that sort of thing. I pray she gets well quickly.

Here's a shout out to all my friends and family. Know that you're in our prayers, our hearts, our daily thoughts - you're loved and we hope to see you soon.

Yowza, what a day

OK, it's not exactly a bad day. Yesterday had its moments; quite a few of them, in fact.

Today, Saturday, it's typical for Illinois as we head into the last week of October with Halloween coming up this Friday. Love that day, just love it.

Another of his birthdays went by without a word. Last we saw of him was December, 2002 in a Peoria truck stop. It was a weird gathering, really, and those feelings we were having turned out to be legit.

That would be the last time we saw our oldest son. We really hope he's alive and well and we pray for him. What's especially hard is when we hear about this young man or that one whose identity isn't known, but the police found a body. It seems like I hold my breath until the details come out. I think I grow older a little faster each time that happens. Why, why can't he just let us know that he's OK? We'll settle for that.

Pondering on a gloomy autumn day

Hello to the class!

Hi everyone!
Hey, maybe it's time for you to start your own blog. Share your day, your week, make plans for upcoming reunions, show off pictures - you know, get closer to family and friends who have moved away.
It's easy to do this - just ask and we'll be happy to help you! It's a perfect way to add to your memoir.

Margi

Taking the time to spend time - together

Wonderful time together with "the girls" today - shopping, talking, sharing.

These are the memories I'll treasure, when we're doing more laughing than crying, not that anyone cried today. Oh, wait. I did.

We added prayers to our prayer lists. We built one another up, met fun people and shopped just a little. We know very well that it's not about spending money - it's about spending time with each other...just because.

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.

New month coming up and we're ready

Gosh, I wonder. If we knew what was going to happen on any given day, would we even get out of bed, or would we just wait until a better day showed up?

I guess I'm tired. I'm physically and mentally worn out. Today, at 2:20 p.m., I finished the script with my writing partner and we alternately laughed and cried. It's the hardest writing - by far - that we've ever done. Script-writing is far different than any other kind, and I think we may be hooked on it. I mean, we're talking about writing a pilot script so we must like the genre.

But we worked so hard on this. We love the show we wrote for, we put our heart and soul into this project, and when we crossed the finish line, my friend burst into tears and I just felt numb. Weird.

We have our winning certificates, we'll probably frame them (they're gorgeous), and then we'll combine her half with mine, do some editing and a bit of re-writing, then prepare it for send-off. After that, we have the best idea for a pilot. It's a winner, trust me on this.

New look, same blog

Yup, it's the same blog - I just fancied it up a bit. I love it.

It's getting to be that time. I should get back to work, but I'm tired. The fog is still here, and it brings to mind a scary thing mom used to say when it was foggy outside. "Nice night for a murder," she'd say, pulling the kitchen curtain aside and peering out into the night. What a kidder.

Funny, mom really didn't laugh much. She preferred horror shows above all else, and I never could figure that out.

That's the way I used to feel. Now, though, I think I finally understand why.

Wondering about things on an early Tuesday morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was right.

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

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

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

Ugh, it's that time of year again - DST

Why? Can someone explain why we need Daylight Savings Time to start early?
It was bad enough we started the whole thing in the first place, but last year there was an experiment to see how much energy we could save by beginning this awful practice early and ending it late.
I'll tell you something, I haven't been the same since the weekend. Sunday flew by, Monday I was so sleepy I couldn't see straight, and today my motivation is out the window. I desperately need to take a nap, but don't feel I can afford it.
The column had to be written, and there are three articles to get to, and I'm thrilled the column is indeed finished.
It was easy to write the piece once I realized that my mind has been stuck somewhere in the past for the past few days.
There's a wedding picture of my mom and dad that hangs on the wall in the foyer alongside the stairs. I got to thinking about them the other day, got out a folder with some notes I've taken over the years (with the thought of using it in my memoir). Reading about our days in Sheffield, mom's illness, her side of the family, and looking at pictures stirred up feelings that had to be put down on paper. I will add those notes to the originals, and put something together in a week or so.
Maybe being tired and introspective isn't such a bad thing. Some memories are comforting, and those are the ones I plan to visit.
Gotta go. Time for a nap.

Fixing the house and waiting for spring

It's hard coming up with a topic for this week's newspaper column. Of course, I could write about the dog - most of the readers seem to love hearing about Sarah Jane, but she hasn't done anything remotely stupid over the past few days. I'm sure she'll come up with something soon, though.

Looks like a shopping trip coming up in a few days, and, as usual, I'll spend my time in Barnes & Noble. I'd live there if they'd let me. Coffee, treats, books, magazines, music - what's not to love?

We're still working on the house. I should say that hubby is doing most of the work, now that he's retired, and I *go* to work - finally at a job I love. The people are fantastic; they're friendly, compassionate, smart and funny.

We're waiting, somewhat impatiently, for our friends to return from Florida. They seem to have found something there, and I remember one couple telling us that there are a lot of Kewanee people living there year-round. We lived in Arizona for over six years, and I wasn't thrilled. Hubby and the kids loved it; I hated it. But Florida sounds colorful, and of course, there are the beaches, something Arizona lacked.

We'll see. It depends on the housing market in our area, which really hasn't been too awful. There is still quite a bit to do to get the place ready, but we're getting there.

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.

A post from Kewanee, Illinois

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

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

Enough about the weather. Let's talk dogs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Extra: a December 2007 update

Hi all,

Looks like I won't be posting columns here from this point on, but I still plan on blogging away. Have you ever known a writer who could keep their pen (or computer) quiet for long? Me either.

Anyhoo, there's plenty going on in Kewanee. Deep down somewhere in my soul, I'll always be a Sheffield kid because my early childhood was formed there. It's Kewanee, though, where I've lived the longest.

Friends and family live here, I'm used to the insect population (we keep a wary eye on one another), and we've come to that place in our lives where our attention has shifted from a narrow focus on our children to focusing on hubby's mom. Millions of us are at that time in our life, so we know we're in good company.

Since it's less than a week from Christmas, I wanted to say to everyone who reads this, have a super blessed Christmas and an even better New Year. 2008. Wow, where did the time go?

Column: Watching the Today Show is no cure for cabin fever

By Margi Washburn

It's not yet winter, according to the calendar, but I'm sick of it already. What is it about December 1st the last two years? Last year we were whumped with ten inches of snow, which was too much of a surprise for Sarah the pup. We can laugh about that now, but it wasn't a bit funny then. And this year, the lousy ice, sleet and wind kept the TV 6 weatherman from his own book signing. There's some irony for you.

I like to run all over the place in December. It's fun to check out the sales, mingle with the crowds, get some bargains, and generally get from one place to another without risking life and limb. After all, most of us are stuck inside our workplaces and homes during the sometimes frigid and snow-packed months of January and February. March isn't much of a picnic either, come to think of it.

Now I'm stuck in the house a month early, and it's making me batty. The dog isn't used to having hubby and me both home for such extended periods of time and it's thrown her off somehow. She thinks it's play time from around 7 in the morning until we find some way to get the heck out of Dodge before she drives us completely around the bend. We may live in a big house, but sometimes it isn't nearly big enough.

I'm not the kind of person who can simply sit and do nothing, nor can I do just one thing at a time. One can listen to only so many hours of Christmas music while playing computer games, and daytime television is completely out of the question.

There's always the anticipation that the postman might deliver interesting mail, but bills are what we usually get. Checking one's email every half hour isn't as much fun as it used to be, and surfing the Internet doesn't float my boat, either, unless I need to find something.

I love to work puzzles, so that accounts for maybe half an hour of my day. I cut out the Jumble and the Word Find because I love the challenge, and hopefully the effort will keep my mind sharp. I missed a few of those puzzles over the last week because Sarah was apparently jealous of the time I spent on them. Shortly after I placed them next to the recliner, she sauntered over, grabbed them, stood in the doorway until we saw her, then she sucked in the small pieces of paper and ran. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, she had chewed and swallowed the puzzles.

Just for fun one day I forced myself to watch far more of the Today Show than usual. First, there was depressing news. Then, there was a segment complete with talking heads about how too many of us are depressed. After that, there were dire statistics on our general fattiness as a nation, followed by a snippet complete with candid photos of Jennifer Love Hewitt and her alleged cellulite problem. That led into a piece about how, as a nation, we're far too fixated on our weight. This segued perfectly into a brief news flash that it is far better to be fat and fit, than thin and lazy. To top things off, the marathon news program ended with calorie -laden holiday foods prepared on camera, with the show's hosts and guests stuffing their faces and smacking their lips. I think I heard my brain screaming for someone to please turn off the boob tube.

I know we're not the only ones suffering from cabin fever so early in the season. The other night someone called to invite us over for coffee, and when I heard the giggle in her voice I asked what was so funny. "Oh," she said, "it's just that when I went to call you, I tried dialing you with the remote control." I didn't tell her that I've done the same thing; I just laughed along with her.

Let's hope we get a break in the weather soon. It's fun bumping into friends and acquaintances around town, meeting for coffee, or just driving around looking at Christmas decorations. While you're out, though, you might want to stock up on some things. I heard on the Today Show that we're in for a long winter.

Extra: we miss our family Christmases

The column below is a thinly-veiled prayer that we will someday soon find out that our oldest son is alive and well - somewhere. We haven't heard from him since mid-2003, and that was in the form of a letter. The last time we saw him was in December of 2002.

None of us suspects foul play. We only want to know he is all right.

Major family changes have happened since we last saw our son. His grandpa fell ill and died after a few years of excruciating pain from post-heurpetic neuralgia (I don't know if that was spelled correctly.) He got a case of the shingles in August of 2001, and his was one of those rare instances that turns into what he had. The entire family had a miserable few years along with dad as we watched him go from a fiercely independent and hard-working proud man to someone who needed help just to get out of bed. It took a toll on mom most of all, as we all tried everything we could think of to help the both of them.

We've lost a cousin to a drunk driver - he was hit while walking home in the wee hours of an early November morning.

Hubby has retired, his mom has had a mini-stroke and a mild heart attack. Two nights ago, she tripped on the carpet and fell, tried to forget about it and went to bed only to wake up and realize she couldn't put any weight on her left foot. Now she's in a soft cast and has to be waited on because she can't do much for herself.

It's nearly Christmas, and we ache for our son to call home. His younger brother is here, and we know he misses him, too. How could he not?

We're thankful for our children; both sons have made us proud, have worried us, and have enriched our lives far more than we ever thought possible. We pray they both know how much we love them - we always have and we always will.

Column: Our thoughts and our hearts come home at Christmas

By Margi Washburn

Hubby’s dad had a saying that I love to repeat. As he and my mom-in-law readied for a trip, whether in town or a few miles away, dad would say, “Well, let’s get goin’ so we can get back home.” I know just how he felt.

Home. What does that mean to you?

Tonight we’re watching the Celtic Woman group sing Christmas songs. As stunningly beautiful and talented as these women are, I found myself closely watching the audience reaction to the music.

Many mouthed the lyrics, some stared wide-eyed, and still others sat quietly crying.

It occurred to me that though there were different reactions, there may have been one reason: I believe our hearts turn toward home during special occasions, whether it’s a birthday, or holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My thoughts are varied depending upon the song. The Little Drummer Boy reminds me of school Christmas programs. Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman are songs we loved to sing around the piano when we threw Christmas night parties at our house.

O, Holy Night, O, Come All Ye Faithful and Silent Night are especially suited for church, as are Away in a Manger and The First Noel.

Hubby and I watched the program, both of us lost in thought just like the audience members. I knew they were revisiting years past and reliving their favorite Christmas memories. No doubt some of those memories included family members and friends no longer here to celebrate with them, but that didn’t stop the visions in their hearts and heads. That would explain the glistening eyes and tear-stained faces.

Our Christmas memories from our time in Tucson are not often in my thoughts. There was the time it snowed on Christmas Day and the neighborhood went wild. It made me so heartsick for family back home I would have grabbed hubby and the boys and left everything just to see the rest of the family for that one day.

There was one other memorable occasion. A couple of things happened during our last Christmas in the desert. In anticipation that we would sell our home quickly in order to move back to Illinois, I sold many things, including our Christmas tree and all the decorations. As the season approached and we had not sold the place, I got a bit depressed and my co-workers noticed.
One friend had just finished her ceramic class, and a week before Christmas she approached me, a bit shyly, and told me she wanted our family to have a tree. She explained that it would be different, and if I wouldn’t mind, she would like us to use it, then give it back. She handed me a large, green tissue-wrapped bundle. When we unwrapped it later at home, we found a snow white ceramic tree with dozens of tiny colored lights. I cried on the spot.

When I told my friend Lucy about the tree, she let out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad someone gave you something. I was about to suggest you find a tumbleweed and throw some cheap lights on it.” I miss Lucy.

At the end of the Celtic Woman special, audience members sprang to their feet in a standing ovation. Something tells me they were thanking the musicians for taking them back home for a little while.

You know, Christmas parties are fun, shopping, too, but there comes a time when my thoughts begin wandering and somewhere inside I begin to ache to go home.

Home is where I’m most comfortable, where I can dress like I want, check out what’s in the fridge, raid my chocolate stash, read a book, play Solitaire on the computer, snuggle under a blanket in the recliner or simply sit at the kitchen table with a cup of hot chocolate and remember Christmases past, when everyone I love was home.

That reminds me. There is one song I haven’t yet mentioned, and that’s because no matter where I am when it begins to play, the words stop me in my tracks every time.

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is more than a song for some of us. It’s more like a prayer, and somehow that seems perfect, especially now.

Column: The bargain of the season includes an unexpected trip

By Margi Washburn

I never thought I’d see the day.

The day was last Friday, and as one of the two people who live here, I was responsible for setting the alarm so someone could join the hundreds of hardy souls waiting before 6 a.m. for one store’s doors to open.

To be fair, I did promise to go along but due to severe lack of sleep and a wonderfully busy Thanksgiving, I was just too chicken to stick my nose out the door. Too dark, too cold, far too early.

This store opened at 6, so naturally I woke at 6:01. Hubby threw back the covers, and the two of us half-racing downstairs woke Sarah the pup and now the whole house was bustling.

I felt awful about waking up late because I know what it’s like to want a certain something, whether it’s a gadget, an appliance or whatever I’ve had my eye on but couldn’t afford. This time, it was something hubby had been wanting for over 20 years. He wanted a ShopVac.

This was the perfect buy, in his humble opinion. He talked about it often from the moment he saw the ad. It was big enough, powerful enough and it had attachments. He would clean the basement, the attic and everything in-between. This would replace the one I gave away many years ago, and the one that he bought recently at an auction for $20 that nearly blew up within five minutes of using it. That one ended up in the city landfill.

It was hard waiting to find out if all of the rushing around would pay off. Did he get there on time? Did he get discouraged at the number of cars in the parking lot, the long lines, the crush of the crowds?

Well, yeah, all of that happened. He came home with the prize and that’s when the day got really interesting.

Once all of the gizmos were connected, it was time to plug the vac in and watch Sarah go bonkers. As soon as the roar commenced, the dog attached herself to me. If the offensive noise drifted off to other parts of the house, Sarah kept a wary out for the return of the new monster.

One place that needed a good vacuuming was the stairway in our foyer. While hubby moved some furniture and found an outlet, I got ready to work on the computer in the adjoining room. It never occurred to me to check and see if the dog had gone quietly berserk (she had), but it didn’t take long for me to find out.

I turned from the printer to the desk chair, saw a mound of brown fur, overcorrected, toppled the chair and landed on my face. I hadn’t felt this much pain since the time Sarah pulled me through the living room and I broke my pinkie finger.

I’m not sure if it was the sound of the fall, or if hubby’s peripheral vision caught sight of his wife sprawled face-down with the dog on her back, but he abandoned his early-morning bargain and ran to see if I was all right.

Once I managed to turn myself over and check for broken bones, the next step was to ask the dog to stop licking my face. I could hear the vacuum running all by itself in the foyer, which meant that hubby was breaking rule number one out of 23: do not leave appliance when plugged in.

The pain from the fall was pretty intense Friday and most of Saturday. The leg is much better now, with only a giant bruise around a swollen knee. In all of the excitement, I almost forgot to be thankful about that.

Column: Sunny Saturday gives Black Friday a run for its money

By Margi Washburn

I love bazaars. They’re uplifting, colorful, the aromas make my mouth water, and there are smiling faces almost everywhere.

Today is supposedly the busiest shopping day of the year. Black Friday, they call it, but I prefer what I call Sunny Saturday. Most holiday bazaars fall on a Saturday, after all, and it makes for a great opportunity to find unique Christmas gifts.

In our family, we eagerly look forward to dragging ourselves out from under warm covers, splashing cold water on our faces, ramming a comb through tangled hair and donning layers of clothing so we can stuff ourselves into our car, park a mile away from our destination, and hoof it to the front door with our breath puffing out in front leading the way.

Just kidding. We really do look forward to these times together. It’s just that last Saturday, someone who shall remain nameless, kind of slept in and didn’t fully open their sleepy eyeballs until the driver honked the horn in the driveway beneath the bedroom window.

At first, the driver, who was the most recently invited, thought that this was some kind of dirty trick. She used her cell phone to call the third person in this trio to ask if she was ready to go. I, of course, had been up since before 5 a.m. and had been ready for nearly an hour and a half. The bazaar had started at 7, and it was now 7:20.

I suggested the driver come get me, then we’d go back and pick up Mrs. Sleepy. We did, and we apparently didn’t miss too much at our first stop. We walked out with delectable goodies, some gifts for the littlest ones, and a much-coveted cookbook with Kewaneean Dorothy Atwell’s recipes.

The next bazaar didn’t begin until 9, so we went off to have breakfast. After plenty of coffee, we discussed high finance, as in: “How much cash do you have? Do they take checks? I don’t want to write a check for every little thing.” The one who had the most cash in her purse generously doled out some to the other two. And we were off.

We circled the site a couple of times, then the driver dropped us at the front door and went off to find a place to park. She asked us to wait inside the front door for her so we could synchronize our meeting times. We promised we would, then both of us promptly went in search of the restrooms. I made it back in time to tattle on the other one for running off.

I knew we’d be inside this glorious place for well over an hour. The three of us met and caught up with folks we hadn’t seen in too long a time. We hugged, laughed, talked and shopped. We took the time to check out each vendor and we were deeply impressed by the hard work they obviously put into their craft.

Eventually the three of us ended up at one of the tables where we sat to collect our thoughts and decided whether we’d seen everything yet. I had a ball watching people shop and talk, enjoying themselves and the atmosphere of a holiday bazaar.

We eventually went our separate ways. Hubby and I went to an auction, and on our stroll up West Central Boulevard, we came across a trio of sassy squirrels. I got some great photos before we headed home.

We found out later over coffee in our homes, the bakers outdid themselves again. I can only imagine how much their families and friends look forward to a visit from these folks. And it isn’t just their cookies, pies, cakes and breads that impressed me; these people are good-hearted and friendly, and it shows.

There may be one or two bazaars left before Christmas, and we’ll probably go to them simply because the memories of the time we spend together is the perfect gift.

Still, I may run into a few of you this morning because it’s awfully hard to pass up a good sale, and those times can make for good memories too.

Column: It was the tightwad versus the big baby

By Margi Washburn

(Sunset over Veterans Park in Kewanee - if only the camera could have captured its true beauty.)

I’m a tad past middle age and I still haven’t learned that one shouldn’t assume anything.
For instance, I assumed that if any of our appliances went on the fritz, we would do quite a bit of grumbling to each other, lament our predicament in front of family and friends so they would show deep concern, and then we’d cancel eating out for the next six months and go out and buy what we desperately needed.
Will I never learn?
You know, of course, that we went through the refrigerator meltdown a few weeks back. The auction we attended and all upcoming such events showed nary a fridge. And so began the shopping.
I’ll tell you one thing. I was under the impression that guys don’t like to shop. They know what they want, they grab their car keys, drive to the store, stomp in, buy what they need and head straight for home. No stopping for breakfast or even coffee because they’re on a mission.
Well, let’s clear something up. That’s the biggest misconception out there. Hubby price-compared until I wanted to smack him upside the head.
We got tips from well-meaning friends, and we checked those out, too. One memorable Sunday, we were headed to Galesburg to check out Sears because the night before they had a terrific sale on appliances. Guess what? The very next day, the sale was off. I could feel my eyes stinging.
After wandering around for a few minutes, we found a willing clerk who cleverly explained that we were lucky we’d missed the latest sale because the appliances were actually cheaper now than they were the day before. I wondered if the two of us had the word stupid written on our foreheads.
But then the world got a whole lot brighter. “How desperate are you? Can you wait one more week?” My smile froze, yet my head was nodding because she looked like she was bursting to tell us a big secret.
“Next Sunday night we’re having a friends and family sale from 6 to 9.” She pointed to the refrigerator we wanted. “This model will be 30 percent off. Well, actually 27 percent because of the way we figure it.” She stopped talking and waited for us to process the good news.
I was thinking that I would take the figures back to Kewanee, show local businesses this great deal and we’d get our fridge right away. We could haul it ourselves and save money.
Hubby, on the other hand, was thinking that this was it. We’d wait, and continue using the dorm refrigerator that was taking up valuable counter space.
I opened my mouth first. “OK,” I said, “what about delivery?” After punching in our zip code, we got more good news: it would cost another $65 and we’d have to wait until the following Friday to get delivery. My mind was made up.
And so was hubby’s. He thought that was a fine idea, and off we went with the promise to return in a week.
I couldn’t talk over the lump in my throat, and instead of sympathizing, I was roundly criticized for not having any patience. No argument there, but I was tired of being without a major appliance.
The next two days I called around and tried to find someone to match the price, but no one could. Notice I didn’t use the word “would”; the price we got was simply too good.
I asked good friends what they thought. They were quick to sympathize and tell me that hubby was wrong, that we should just slap down the money and get our fridge here. But someone refused to budge, and that led to a few slamming doors whenever I’d leave the house muttering that someone was a “fat-headed tightwad.” Little did I know that he had a nickname for me.
I’m sure you ladies can remember how tears used to move your hubby to change his mind and give you your way. That doesn’t work forever. And when I finally admitted what I was calling him outside of earshot, he told me that he was calling me a big baby. Imagine that.
Sunday did indeed come, and he went over to pay for the fridge. He took the truck and brought that gorgeous appliance home himself because he said he felt it was his turn to compromise. If I could wait that long for the best bargain, he said, then he could take care of the rest.
I’ll spare you the Laurel and Hardy routine that ensued Sunday night when I tried to help hubby haul in our newest appliance. He managed to get the thing inside and hooked up in spite of my help, and the next morning I poured a cup of coffee, sat at the table and turned to stare and smile at the shiny, new refrigerator.
Oh, and by the way, I noticed that two of the auctions this week each have a refrigerator for sale. Like they say, timing is everything.

Extra: an observation, or two or three

I guess I'm kind of tired. Physically, yes, but also mentally because things have been so blasted tough financially lately.
We're not only watching our own checkbook take a beating, but we're keeping tabs on hubby's mom, too. Dad went on ahead of us almost four years ago, and mom's income went down - a lot. But her expenses kept chugging along, and she's added more prescriptions due to a mini-stroke and a mild heart attack (probably brought on by the stress of having so much less income.) Sigh.
She worries too much about being unable to buy Christmas presents for her family. No matter how much we reassure her that we're all in the same sinking boat, she's of a generation that took great pride in taking care of themselves and everyone else, if need be.
We're hurting too, and can't help much. Winter's around the corner, along with high heating bills, colds, flu, pneumonia (mom gets her share of those during the winter, thanks mostly to her grandkids visiting while they're sick). Mom's like many of us: too much month left at the end of the money - and it's not at all funny.
I'm thankful that mom has a dear friend she met at church. He takes very good care of her, though she refuses his money, but he brings her to his house for supper almost every night. They watch movies, listen to "their kind" of music, and reminisce about the Olden Days.
Right now, though, I'm half-listening to the news. They're talking about the sinking stock market, a family with no health insurance, and a multitude of other horrendous news that is enough to make a person want to crawl inside a hole, pull the cover over yourself and never come out.
This, too, isn't a very uplifting message. That means it's time to slow down, get quiet and tune back into our prayer life. To reach out into the future we cannot see and pull out promises that our life will, indeed, get better.
See you later, dear reader.

Column: "Fat people gotta go. They're contagious"

(Denny Crane, attorney, on Boston Legal)

By Margi Washburn

There used to be what some of us girls call a “foo-foo” restaurant downtown on the corner of Tremont and Third. Posies and Pies had a proprietor named Pat, and served some of the best pie I’ve ever eaten.

I popped in about twice a week and usually ordered a burnt hamburger with extra pickles, fries, a diet Coke and a piece of pie. Whenever Pat got my order, she’d yell out, “I know who’s here!” I loved that place.

One day I was sitting there, my food freshly delivered, when a quartet of slim, well-dressed men and women arrived. As they passed my table, the two women glanced at my lunch and made a face. I know that face.

Basically it says that the person ordering that kind of meal is destroying their body and probably deserves to look lumpy and out of shape. I could’ve predicted the four of them would order small salads with their dressing on the side, and that’s what they did.

I’ve always cared a little too much what others think, and that day was no different. I could feel their eyes upon me and suddenly I wanted to be anywhere else. Then things took an interesting turn.

That was back in the day, as they say, when smokers were welcome to light up just about anywhere, and that is exactly what at least one of these folks did. The smoke glided up and over and made its way to my table.

Now I’m not knocking smokers; in fact, I second-hand smoke almost two packs a day myself. I’m just saying, why don’t folks who criticize big people take a good, long look at their own life and lifestyle before passing judgment on others?

I guess what got this whole thing started was when I heard some (ahem) well-meaning folks point out that certain elected officials and some city employees were, well, fat. They didn’t couch their comments in politically-correct terms, and they insisted that their observations were influenced by the latest reports on obesity. No one came to the defense of these people, and my own face turned red on their behalf.

I put that episode out of my mind, and wouldn’t you know it, something happened over the weekend to bring it back to mind. We were in Davenport and I was meandering through a mega-store’s electronics department. I love technology, and my eyesight isn’t all that great, and I carry a big purse. Add it up: big woman, big purse and putting my face a little too close to the merchandise and pretty soon you realize you’re being followed around by a nervous young clerk who thinks you’re going to run off with the store’s goodies. He may as well have announced over the public address system: “Fat woman with big purse in aisle 3!” He seemed much more relaxed when I walked away and no alarms went off.

I’ve walked into upscale clothing stores with slim family members and friends, and while the clerks are polite, I’ve noticed that they steer me toward a chair to wait while they attend to the others.

Then, there’s the on-going fictionalized case of the employee fired by William Shatner’s Denny Crane character on Boston Legal. The reason? She’s fat, says Denny, and he claims he has the gene that will do the same to him if he doesn’t get rid of the woman. He told his best friend Alan that fat people have to go, that they’re contagious. Then he asks Alan to defend him in the upcoming court case. This I have to see.

I’ll be tuned in next Tuesday night at 9 p.m. because I have to find out if there is a defense for treating overweight people with disrespect. Who knows? Maybe all of the perfect people out there in the world who have no bad habits or room for improvement can teach us folks a thing or two.

Or, perhaps we can finally get through to some of them and they’ll understand that we are so much more than our appearance. It’s just that our faults are a bit more visible than theirs.

Column: To freeze or not to freeze, that is the question

I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. Hubby and I don’t have week after week full of trials and tribulations. This is where I should add that it just seems that way.

Not long ago, fellow columnist Diane went through the Refrigerator Blues and now it’s our turn. You know how it is when you reach in and notice that the can of soda isn’t quite as cold as it used to be. But I have to admit, we had some warning.

It started several weeks ago when I noticed puddles of water on the kitchen floor. My cynical mind focused on Sarah the pup, who, it turns out, is as innocent as the day is long. Besides, the puddle did appear to be plain old water.

We didn’t connect the occasional problem with our fridge because the two were physically far apart from one another. Yes, we know that water runs downhill, but who figures they have hills in their kitchen?

A couple of weeks ago we noticed more water and problems with the ice cubes. We’d put in a bag of ice, and within a day or two it would harden into a giant chunk that needed to be chipped. Apparently it was melting, leaking out onto the floor, puddling under the kitchen table, then the freezer would miraculously begin working again.

Well, we’re into serious business now. It seemed like a good idea to pull out the ol’ side-by-side and peer into its innards. No can do, because there’s a metal plate that covers the whole thing. We settled for using my rarely-used vacuum cleaner on any openings, pushed the fridge back and waited for the healing to begin.

Nuts. That didn’t work, as we found out the next morning as we slid through the welcoming puddle on our way to the coffee pot. Time for a more drastic measure.

I dug out the owner’s manual from deep inside the bowels of an old filing cabinet and found out the fridge is past its tenth birthday. Oh, and the warranty ran out seven years ago.

So, out came the air compressor with its handy-dandy attachment for blowing dust out of refrigerator coils at the speed of light. Of course we couldn’t see light, each other or much of anything else when hubby got done because of the severe indoor smog. We had years-old dust and gunk in our hair, on the cupboards, in the dog dishes and up our noses.

Surely after all of that effort and sacrifice we could count on a revitalized fridge. Once again, we were sadly mistaken.

Then, the weather forecaster helped us out. The temps were to dip, so that made our front porch a temporary shelter for milk, leftover meatloaf, and even pop if we’d had any left. Apparently, in our frustration over the possibility of having to purchase a major appliance, we’d been hitting the soda pretty hard and now we were out. If we bought more, we had no ice to put in it, so it’s a good thing it was time for bed.

Hubby hauled the milk onto the porch, and since the bottom part of both the fridge and the freezer were decently cold, we moved other foods south. We left a glass of water inside the freezer on the middle shelf, and another on the bottom.

We skirted the small puddle the next morning and opened the freezer. The water in the middle was cold, but still water, and the glass on the bottom was frozen. Interesting.

It was Sunday, and we found an auction that listed just about everything you can imagine, but no fridge. We knew we should wait and see what the repair technician would tell us on Monday, and we knew that would cost $50, yet there was a possibility it wouldn’t cost all that much to fix what we already owned. We’re the impatient types, so off we went to the auction, and true to their word, there was no fridge. We headed home to eat up leftovers and worry what the next day would bring.

Guess what? Monday morning brought good news. The fridge seemed to be recouping its losses, and we were thrilled. Still, we kept the borrowed dorm fridge – just in case. And I canceled the service call, since the future looked rosy.

Tuesday morning there was still no puddle, but now the middle glass of ice was floating in a bit of water.

I’m not positive, but I think our refrigerator is of the female persuasion. She keeps changing her mind, and messing with ours. Now I wonder if I should change mine and call the repairman.
Maybe I won’t need to worry about it. In a week or so, I can roll the whole shebang onto the front porch and use the free frigid air we’re supposed to get.

Cool.