Still lost, still looking for answers

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding comfort in cyberspace

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends for a reason, a season or a lifetime

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The perfect Mother's Day gift

Mom and me...date unknown



In my dream, there is the small kitchen with the window facing the sidewalk that leads to town. White eyelet curtains move quietly in the warm lilac-scented breeze, and the girl, chin resting on folded arms watches as a young woman makes her way toward town. It's almost always the same dream; sometimes, though, the point-of-view is reversed as the young woman turns back toward the tiny house and her eyes lock on those of the girl in the window.

There are no sounds of birdsong, no voices, and I'm sure the smell of lilacs is simply imaginary. What matters here is that the young woman and the girl are the same person.

I started having this dream after I read somewhere that we should ask ourselves this question: Would the person you were as a child be happy with the grown-up you've become?

Sunday is Mother's Day and there will be a plethora of columns written about the subject. I've written about my own mom in these pages a few times, but the other day I was thinking about those who will face the holiday this time around for the first time without their mother. If the son or daughter had a close relationship, it will be hard. If they didn't, it will still be hard. The bonds between parents and children are infuriatingly complex, but that doesn't stop us from trying to unravel the mystery.

Mom and Dad divorced when I was three weeks old. I met Dad once, for about an hour, in 1975. He died 18 years later on Christmas Day, 20 years after my mom passed away. In February a small envelope came in the mail that held photos of my mom, dad and another relative along with a note from someone claiming they had found these among their late mother's belongings. There was a promise of more to come, and indeed there were more photos. I saw my mom and dad as a happy couple, my dad and his horse, Goldie, and more. So many smiles, so long ago.

Sis and I grew up with a single mother who had her own jaded view of the world. She disliked and distrusted anyone who was not white, all churches, and most men. We could have grown up to be racist, non-church-going men-haters, but we made our own decisions based on the way Mom lived her life. Sis and I became good cooks (like Mom), and while I seem to have inherited her love of the dark and creepy horror stories, I also love music and poetry.

As grown women, and as mothers and grandmothers, sis and I are hopefully examples of love and acceptance. We've tried (and mostly succeeded) in weeding out what we perceived to be unacceptable traits in Mom while trying to hold onto the beautiful parts of her that made her who she was.

This will be our 37th Mother's Day without Mom. We have our own families now, and we pray that our children and grandchildren will follow our example: Find all that is good in us--embrace it and pass it on to future generations. For some of us, that would be the best Mother's Day gift ever.

A bit of catching up to do

(This is just one of dozens of lilacs on the bush outside my kitchen window. Their scent reminds me of my mom. Can't believe she will have been gone 37 years. I wish the boys could have known their grandma Tony...what a gal!)


What’s it been? By my count, it looks like 10 months and two weeks since we last got together.

One can pack a lot of experiences into that time frame. Along with the usual and sometimes unusual behaviors associated with a now four-and-a-half-year-old Lab, hubby and I have had family members and friends diagnosed with cancer, we lost a wonderful friend in January (the same month a cousin had a stroke), and I fell through our front steps on Ash Wednesday evening while on my way to church services.

I have to stop here and tell you about that. We live across from city hall and this incident happened around 5:45 and there were still some folks parked across the street. I was running late when I put a foot on the second step and Poof! As I sat down hard, the world went gray and I heard a voice: “Margi, are you OK?” I could see what looked like a head floating in the distance and the first thought that came to mind was, “Why would God ask if I was OK? Doesn’t He know?”

But it wasn’t God; the voice had come from a city hall employee who saw me fall and was trying to be helpful. After getting my bearings I called hubby from my cell phone to ask if he’d come outside, pull me out of the hole and get me to the car. I got no sympathy from a colleague at work the next day. “Did you know the step was rotten when you stood on it?” she asked. When I said yes, she smiled, shook her head and walked away.

I won’t go into the rest of the fun and not-so-fun times from the last few months, but I will tell you that the girls and I went shopping the other day and it was a hoot and a half. We had the usual laugh fest on the way to Peoria, an unforgettable breakfast (though we all wish we could forget it), time spent at a favorite bookstore and a stop at a favorite restaurant on the way home.

Waitress Liz at the Steak ‘n Shake by the Shoppes at Grand Prairie is one heck of a young woman. I remember her from when we pulled into the parking lot a couple of years ago. Another customer was letting their yellow Lab out for some exercise and I was attracted like a magnet. I petted the pooch and headed inside. Liz was our waitress then, for the first of many times, and she politely asked if we could wait a minute so she could run out and pet the doggy. Well, duh. That’s the kind of person we firmly approve of, so out the door Liz went. She was one happy camper when she returned to take our orders.

Fast forward two years and after Liz took our orders Monday afternoon, she told us about Bear, her yellow Lab, and Coal, her black Lab, both two years old. She showed us pictures and told us tales and we had a wonderful time.

In fact, it almost made us forget about the oatmeal fiasco from breakfast. Almost. But that’s for another time. Besides, maybe I’ll soon have some good news on that front for my shopping buddies. I just have one favor to ask for the next time we go out for breakfast: Please, ladies, order the eggs. Thank you.

Finally, Facebook fatigue

I had time this week to take photos of a sweet squirrel who tried like mad to get inside our front porch. Time away from Facebook equals time to do something else. Glad I did.



Too much time spent on Facebook drove me a bit batty, so I offer this message. My solution won’t suit everyone, and it may need re-visiting but it’s working. For now, anyway.

It finally hit me.

Last week I was slumped in the chair, chin in hand, eyes half-closed as I read Facebook updates. Lots of folks had posted their latest levels in whatever games they were playing, others wrote about the weather and some had uploaded new photos.

Games, weather and photo postings—I can handle those just fine. What was causing the creeping depression within my heart was what I found on a “friend’s” wall. In an effort to explain what a trio of numbers meant to someone who had asked, this guy wrote: “It means arey coad.”

Sigh.

I know this person very well. And I make mistakes too, but I was under the (apparently false) impression that anyone over the age of 8 could spell “area code.”

But there’s more to the story. This person is not one of my “friends”; I was able to find out what was going on in his life simply by clicking here and there and before I knew it, there I was, reading an awful lot from someone who wasn’t even connected to me in the normal Facebook way.

Which, I realized with a dawning horror meant that some folks could be seeing my messages, etc. to my FB friends. Suddenly I was alert.

More clicks and more time passed and I found that friends of my friends had several people on FB who, for lack of a better word, hate me. I’m not trying to tell anyone that everyone has to love everyone else. I’m just saying that I don’t feel comfortable knowing that people who haven’t been my friend for going on a decade don’t need to be reading up on my FB writings.

It’s just a quirk of mine.

I’ve been telling anyone who would listen what a cool place Facebook is. One of those people asked me to come over one day and sign them up. The night before our appointment is when I came to the conclusion that FB wasn’t such a happy place for me after all.

It wasn’t just that I knew “they” could see me; worse, I could see “them.” I found out too much and it was keeping me up at night. I was becoming moody and withdrawn as I agonized over things that were said and done, things that were none of my business. Something was going to have to give.

I decided it was time to take a break from FB. It was easier than I thought it would be (why revisit anything that gives you grief?) and the thought of dropping the site altogether started to sound good.

My friend and I kept our appointment to get her up and running on FB, but before we began I told her what had happened. She, too, was having second thoughts and so we laughed, headed for the kitchen for cookies and coffee and talked. Face to face, not FB-style.

The suggestion was made that I drop FB altogether but I nixed that idea. “No,” I told her, “this time I’m going to think and pray about it. Maybe there’s something else I can do, but in the meantime I’ll put up a note that I’m taking a break for a while.”

During the few days I’ve been away from FB, I rediscovered time—time for reading, getting some long overdue writing started, and more.

There was this one morning, a couple of days ago. The strong breeze coming through the kitchen window was snapping the curtains. I could hear birds singing (no TV, no radio). The refrigerator motor clicked off and the quiet was perfect for reading. There were fewer than 30 pages left of a book that was close to 1200 pages long and I wanted to savor the time left with this story.

Some time later I came to the end of the book. I stood, refilled my coffee mug and stood at the kitchen window. The novel’s characters were still with me and as I sipped coffee and watched birds flitting from tree to tree, I took a second to glance at the clock above me. It was startling to see how early it was, to realize I’d had time to finish a book and could now move on to other things.

My absence from FB afforded me more time, but it also gave my mind time to clear itself out. I knew I would not be going back to the old ways and that meant decisions needed to be made.

Instead of closing my FB account, I decided to clean house. I would have to de-friend some folks and that was going to be difficult. I don’t have the right to tell people who to have as friends, but I can break the connection that brings my enemies easy access to my part of FB.

Still, it’s confusing. I know that I can still click around and find those who haven’t set their privacy settings high enough. I’ve tightened the security around my FB site, and I hope that’s enough but who knows for sure? I’ll try things this way first and see what happens.

It wouldn’t surprise me if some folks get peeved and de-friend me. (I de-friended my sister and she was fine with it.) That’s OK. It’s a free country (thank God) and I won’t hold a grudge. That would be hypocritical, and time-consuming.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. Instead of flitting around on FB, I’ll be joining hubby and the dog for some quality time in the real world. It’ll be fun later to catch up with friends who are too far away to visit in person, but there needs to be balance in our lives. Hopefully I’ve taken the first step in that direction.

Time, as they say, will tell.

Teaching our children a thing or two, or three

“I believe that words have power. They weigh a ton.” (House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, March 26, 2010)

Observations from the past week

It happened two days in a row. I was out of sorts over some personal problems, and one situation in particular was eating at me. Someone I love shared that a relative of hers had kicked a small dog. “The little guy lifted his leg and peed on his boot, and he got booted across the floor,” she told me.

I saw this happen in my mind’s eye and I could feel the anger toward this person I’d never met coursing through me. Questions swirled. If this monster of a man could kick a small dog (a Yorkie, as it turned out), what else was he capable of? Did he abuse his wife, his children? How many times had he kicked the dog? They had other dogs; did he hurt them too?

Maybe it’s a good thing this guy lived at least an hour away or I may have gone back to my old ways and tried to do something about this. I tend to get in way over my head when I try to come to the defense of victims, whether they’re animals, small children, the elderly. So I tried to put this out of my mind but I couldn’t.

The next day I was still bursting into tears at odd times as the mental image of the scene above replayed, along with the possibilities of what his children were experiencing and learning from their father’s behavior. On the way to Walmart to pick up a couple of things, I began crying again. “You’re going to have to go in,” I told hubby. He nodded, no questions asked. He knew how much I was hurting.

After he left the car, I leaned back and closed my eyes. In less than a minute I heard them. A young dad and mom and their child made their way to an older car. A brightly wrapped toy was perched behind the child in the cart. I’m not comfortable writing the exact conversation here, but trust me when I tell you that it was littered with F-bombs from both parents.

But that’s not all. Mom had to threaten her son with this: “If you don’t get your butt in the car seat, I’m throwin’ this toy right out the window!” I’m not sure why she couldn’t have said something like, “Remember, you need to buckle yourself up in the car seat so you’ll be safe, honey.” I guess she was in a hurry to continue her colorful conversation with the man in the family who was uncouth enough to gather up a wad of saliva and hurl it onto the parking lot.

After this all-American family left, another cart rumbled by. This time, a mom and daughter made their way to their car singing a song and laughing. There was no swearing, there were no threats, just fun and smiles and laughter. Wow, I thought, talk about contrasts.

The second time for this experience came at noon yesterday at our local Dairy Queen. A frazzled grandmother and her granddaughter and grandson were finishing lunch. Here’s the gist of the conversation, courtesy of Grandma:

“I can’t afford this. Mommy can’t afford it either.”

“What’dya put ice in your hot chocolate for? You just made it cold. I just won’t get you nothin’ here no more. Period.”

Grandma went on and on and on about how tight money was, how wasteful the kids were, and how hard mommy had to work, not to mention how tired she herself was. These were kids about five or six years old getting an economics lesson far before they needed to but the woman couldn’t seem to stop talking about how scarce money was.

Almost as soon as they left, a grandma and grandpa arrived with their granddaughters. Mommy joined them a bit later but before she got there, the first four talked about their morning, laughed, ordered lunch and planned their next weekend. There was no grown-up talk about wasting money, money shortages, that sort of thing. You couldn’t help but smile at the fun they were obviously having.

I worry about the kids whose parents show by their behavior that life is scary, hopeless and absent of laughter. I think about the little ones who hear coarse language more often than not, who watch the adults in their lives treat others with no respect. That goes for parents who hold grudges forever and a day, who wouldn’t know forgiveness if it bit them and who make people pay dearly for every mistake they ever made.

One more thing I observed recently has to do with our President. The quote at the top of this page came on the heels of an appearance by our country’s leader to expound on the passage of health care reform on his stop in Iowa. I watched a clip on various television newscasts that made me angry and sad at the same time and I’m sure most of you saw it too. The health care reform had already passed, and here was our leader mocking those in the opposing party who had been against the legislation. He laughed as he spoke about Armageddon, and the crowd laughed with him. It was a sign of immaturity in the one man I hoped would never show it.

With our First Lady championing the physical health of our children, I hope she caught what her husband said and I really hope she gave him a talking-to (away from their daughters). She should tell him that he did not set a good example when he made fun of his opponents. A healthy character is a very good thing.

And if Mrs. Obama somehow missed this teaching moment, maybe Ms. Pelosi could repeat what she said last Friday. For once, I agree with her.

Unconditional Love

I wrote this poem a long, long time ago. In fact, it was typewritten. And, I had a sketch on the page that was drawn by our cousin Dave Washburn. Odd thing is, the drawing is that of a Labrador, a type of dog we had never owned.

Today, we are madly in love with our own Lab mix, a rescue who was found somewhere out in the countryside. On the day we took her home, we were told that she was going to love the outdoors since she hadn't been outside in almost three months. Boy, were they right.

I guess I must have written this for not only our furry friend, but for all of those who blessedly found their forever homes - finally.


Unconditional love

Though there had been other trips
This one seemed not quite right
The pup scurried to a corner
In the car, in the black of night

His small sturdy body
Lay trembling on the seat
The man scarcely glanced his way
His eyes looked old and beat

The daughter insisted on coming
On this highly suspicious trip
The young girl’s eyes were red
And her nose kept wanting to drip

“Please, daddy,” she cried,
“Don’t take him away!”
But her father refused to listen
And her fears he wouldn’t allay

The frightened pup grew still
As he crept closer to his friend
And he gave what comfort he could
Whatever love and warmth he could lend

Soon the two grew quieter still
The silence alarmed the man
He took a country road too fast
And barely missed a van

His heart was pounding, and
He thought he might be ill
To dump this tiny puppy
Was a very bitter pill

The silence from the back
Was deeper than the night
It accused him and disturbed him—
What he was doing wasn’t right

He tried too hard to make it seem
The only thing to do
But a voice deep down inside him cried,
“No! That’s not true!”

A stirring from the two in back
Caused the man to tense
What would his daughter think of this?
To her, it made no sense

The time had come, he stopped the car
Yet he left the engine running
That which was left to do
Required very little cunning

The pup, on wobbly legs stood up
And with the softest bark
From the back seat of the car he jumped
Into the waiting, unfriendly dark

The girl reached out, she stifled a cry
Her eyes she hid with her hand
She tried to swallow and couldn’t—
Her mouth felt full of sand

“Oh, daddy,” she whispered, her sobs began
As she climbed to the side of the man
He put his arms around the girl
And wiped the tears that ran

The pup sat on the road
And watched the taillights fade
A whimper from inside his heart
Sliced the air like a blade

One can only guess that in his heart
The pup felt the fault was his own
That if he’d been smaller, cuter, whatever…
He wouldn’t be here now, forever and ever alone

So, remember this, please
If your plan is like that above
A dog attaches itself to you
With unconditional love

We miss you, friend

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that, Dwen, is why we cry—still.

Living for just a little while in my imagination

Footprints in the snow. They tell a story, but you have to take the time to figure out what that story is, what it means. But it's worth it, trust me.

First, I’d like to send out a big “Hello!” to Carol. I know she checks in pretty much every day and although I’d like to have the time and talent to write in this blog more often, I just can’t do it. Too much stuff on the calendar. Maybe you could pop in once a week or so and I should have something up then.

Okay, that’s out of the way and now for what’s on my mind today. It’s been rainy, cold and windy for two days straight. That kind of weather can wear a person down (and a certain big, yellow Labrador named Sarah Jane gets awfully restless stuck in the house). Plus, I thought I was coming down with something but it just went away all by itself. There was a lot of sneezing for a couple of days, and a general yucky feeling but after a little over 24 hours, I feel pretty good except for my knees but that’s manageable.

Have you been checking out the holiday commercials? There are certain ones that can make me cry every time. Anything with the voice-over about “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” gets me. And there’s another with a mom showing her daughter the home improvements around their home. She thinks the daughter is off somewhere and they’re communicating with laptops and video cameras. When mom steps outside to show off what they’ve done there, of course her daughter is standing on the porch and they end up in a big hug.

But the one that really turns on the waterworks is a Folger’s commercial. Every year they do one with a child who returns home early one morning around Christmas. Seems like it’s always a son, and he lets himself inside, makes coffee and before you know it, his mom and dad wake up, tiptoe down the stairs and by then I’m crying too hard to see the rest of it. You get the idea.

There is one other commercial and I think it showed up again last year. It’s the one where a little girl approaches a Marine who is standing at attention. She walks over, looks up at him and asks him if he’s Santa Claus. For a few seconds, nothing happens, then he puts out one white-gloved hand to take her list. Just thinking about that one brings on the tears.

Not all commercials about Christmas touch my heart, but I cherish those that do. And at least one of them gives me hope that maybe this year, hubby and I will wake one morning to find our oldest son has come back home. I let my imagination go, especially this time of year, as I imagine him sitting at the table, petting the dog and sipping a cup of coffee.

It’s been too long—for all of us.

The toxic power poles made me do it

One of my desks sits in front of our big living room window where I have a view of a ginormous blue spruce tree that hubby planted almost 20 years ago. The tree is beautiful and a home to birds of many kinds and a haven for bunnies. Doves love it there.

The tree provides much-needed shade from the hot summer sun, and a wind break from chill winter winds.

But I haven’t been watching the action in the tree lately because my attention was diverted by work crews in the process of relocating electrical and other types of wires along with really really tall poles from the west side of the street to our side.

Our driveway has been partially blocked for several days and it’s been hard to get out to run errands or, even more important, to go to work. Plus, there is some kind of chemical smell on the poles that’s stinking up the neighborhood.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with my mind—I’ve been subjected to some kind of toxicity that scrambled my brain cells. How else can I explain what’s happened lately?

See, I belong to our local group of Red Hat ladies. They’re such a fun bunch with never a dull moment during our monthly luncheons. I volunteered to be the one who sends out birthday cards and I love doing it. I get to make up unique cards for each woman on her special day, and I look forward to that. I try to be careful not to miss a single birthday.

One day I was perusing the list when I came across the next recipient. Thing is, I thought this lady had passed away so I put the list away and thought nothing more about it. That is until I was having breakfast one Sunday after church and that’s when I saw her—alive and enjoying her eggs and toast.

I had to tell the family around the table what I’d done. Some friends were with us, and I’m afraid my stature went down a few notches as soon as I told them. “What’ll I do now?” I asked. “I’m sure her birthday has passed by and I was supposed to send her a homemade card. She’s not dead, she’s sitting right over there!” I was mortified.

After breakfast I headed home and looked at the list again. Aha! I still had time to send the card after all, and that made me feel much better. I sat down at the computer, made my fellow Red-Hatter a special card, stuck a stamp on it and mailed it the next day.

A couple of days ago while our little group was gathered for our monthly luncheon, I mentioned mailing the birthday card and that’s when one of the ladies popped up her head and gave me an odd look. “You know she’s passed, don’t you? It’s been a while ago,” she said.

I felt strange and bit out of it as I shook my head. “You mean she really is gone? Then who did I send a birthday card to?”

I was afraid and embarrassed to look around the table that had suddenly gone quiet. “Don’t feel bad,” said the sweet lady to my left. “You know, they say we all have a double. Maybe you saw her double that day.” She patted my arm, conversations resumed and I sat there feeling like an utter idiot.

I think I will blame that whole mess-up on those toxic power poles. Sounds better than the alternative to me.

Seeing the future versus faith and strength

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two messages, 16 faults and, finally, understanding

Life is a journey.

The message below was recently sent to me by a friend, and I have to admit that the timing was perfect:

“People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support; to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.

Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done.

The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on.”

This is just a portion of the message, but it was the part that applied to me at the moment so I kept it in case I needed to read it again.

I’m also reading an unauthorized biography of author Stephen King, and it’s been an eye-opening experience. The other day while reading I was astounded by some things, so I grabbed pen and paper and began making a list. Then I waited for hubby to arrive in the kitchen.

He poured his coffee and sat down at the table. “Let me read you something, and you tell me what it pertains to,” I said. He looked slightly interested, so he gave me his attention.

I read: “Two kids. Single mom. Mother was a worrier, and she worked several job. Kids were told to keep their fears and their thoughts to themselves. Kids watched lots of scary TV shows. Their fears grew to include a lot of different things. Relatives looked down on the small family, didn’t want them to hang around, which created a fear in the kids: What would happen to us if mom left us/got sick/died? One child was considered ‘sickly’ and that one read books—a lot. Family was very poor. One child had very poor eyesight.”

I finished reading and saw that hubby had an answer ready: “You’re talking about yourself, your mom and sister,” he said. As he stood to leave the kitchen, I said, “Nope. That was Stephen King’s childhood.” He could have replied that this explained a lot but he wisely decided to let it go.

The two instances above—the email about friends, and the insights into King’s childhood (and my own)—have had a profound effect on me over the past few days.

I had a friend for a few years who just recently pointed out all of my faults to me in an email that was four pages long (and there were 16 faults listed—I counted them.) I was told, for example, that although this person knew I had traumas in my life (who hasn’t, really?) and that those experiences make me who I am, it was clear that I hadn’t dealt with those rough patches very well, or, at all.

I was tempted to respond to each fault in detail but for probably the first time in my life, I kept silent instead of sending zingers. I’m kinda proud of that.

So here’s a heartfelt thank-you to the sender of the first email that explains the reason for some friendships. I’m also grateful to have found King’s biography. The jury is still out on whether or not I appreciate the list of all of my shortcomings, but I believe we can all benefit from constructive criticism, especially if we learn from it and don’t let it send us into a depression.

So, here’s a collective “thanks” to one and all. It’s been an education, to say the least.

Happy birthday, son

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


Has it been 36 years already?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Dad and Mom

Journaling our way to the truth inside

Our giant yellow Lab let out a long snore, and hubby asked, “Was that you or the dog?”

See, he tells me that I snore—loudly. One Saturday afternoon I was sleeping on the couch and he claimed he heard me snoring through the ceiling and into the room above the living room, also known as The Bat Cave, or his man cave. A lot of guys have those.

Hubby and I have been married for 36 years. We’ve been through a lot together. During our marriage my mother passed away, as did his father. There have been, in my opinion, far too many sad times but in spite of them (or maybe because of them), we grow closer every day.

Humor gets the two of us through a lot. We both have a warped sense of what’s funny and that alone has helped us through many a serious moment. (If it wasn’t for my sense of humor, I would’ve clobbered him for the remark about my alleged snoring.)

I’ve kept track of much of our married life by keeping journals. It’s eye-opening to go back and read about what happened decades ago. When our youngest son was hospitalized for six months after his birth, I kept a daily record and those notebooks are boxed away in our attic. I’ve not read those since 1978, but one of these days I plan to sit down and read about Luke’s life again.

Every now and then I pick up a journal from three, four, five or more years ago and remind myself about what was going on then. Themes repeat themselves, like family relationships, friends that come into our lives, then leave, and the rare friend or two that will more than likely be around until one of the two of us passes from this world.

Pictures are nice and we have plenty of those. They tell stories too, but the writing down of what was in my heart at the time I wrote it is precious to me. Some folks write in journals but destroy them so that no one will know what they really thought and felt. That’s sad, in my opinion, because those words are insights into our true selves.

I still keep a journal and though I don’t write in it every day, it’s better than not having one at all. When I’m gone and the kids and grandkids read through the words, they’ll come to realize that maybe they didn’t know me as well as they thought.

And that’s something that bugs me in a big way: I wish there were more people in my life who I felt comfortable enough with to be myself. I can be who I really am with about three people, and that may not sound like many but they’re lifesavers to me.

That gift, and I believe it is a gift, should ideally go both ways. I need to be the type of person who allows her friends and family to be who they are and not who I wish they would be. It means overlooking faults and flaws and seeing through to the heart.

That reminds me of a Bible verse, and though I can’t remember the words exactly, it goes something like this: “For out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” That tells me that whatever I allow to stew around in my heart and mind will eventually make it out of my mouth and maybe hurt someone.

It’s a constant struggle to push away negative thoughts and feelings, I know, but it’s worth the effort. And when I do mess up and shoot off my mouth it’s nice to have hubby, my sister and my friend Anna around to let me know that they still love me. Time to put that down in my journal before I forget how blessed I really am.

Paw prints on the heart

There's that face....


I can’t believe it took me so long to love my dog.

When I fell hard for Sarah Jane back in 2006, I had no clue that she would turn into such a challenge. I’ve written about her various health problems (kennel cough, mange, an expensive worm, and now seizures) but there was more.

Sure, she pulled me through a doorway and I fell and broke my right pinkie finger. And she got excited sitting next to hubby one night and her head popped up and knocked out one of his teeth. Still, I was feeling much different about this dog than any we’ve had.

Hubby and I have never owned a Labrador. We’re older now, and Sarah is probably the last dog that’ll own us so we should have been more careful. It never occurred to me, however, to investigate the breed of a dog before we adopted it.

The reason I fell so hard for this pooch is because she seemed so resigned to her fate in the steel cage at the shelter. She was reluctant at first to come up to us, and she was so much more reluctant to return to her ratty blanket and ripped stuffed frog when we had to leave. Her eyes haunted me every minute until we picked her up and took her home less than a week later.

Fast forward over three years and we still question our sanity that warm spring morning in May of 2006. Although hubby is retired, he keeps plenty busy with house, lawn and garden repairs and maintenance. I’m busier than I want to be with my job and starting a new online publishing business in addition to pretty much all of the housework I’ve always done. Throw in an overactive Labrador on meds and you have a prescription for lunacy.

We used to ask how long this would last—the seemingly never-ending bid for attention and affection, the eating of all things nasty and forbidden and downright stupid (rocks? Sheesh!) Lab owners would tell us that Sarah would settle down at a year old, and others said it would be more like two, three or even five years. I just heard today that one woman’s dog is giving her fits after 12 years. Oh, my goodness.

I realized after about a year into having Sarah around that I still was not connecting with her with my heart. Sure, she’s cute and she makes me laugh but more often than not, at least then, she was making me say swear words I don’t normally use. She seemed oblivious that I had turned into a ranting she-wolf; all she wanted was for me to take her outside every half hour or so simply so she could sit at the end of her leash next to her master’s leg and stare into space.

Now, though, those trips are fewer though no less untimely. She usually requests my full attention once I’ve finished work for the day and I’m ready for some rest. I’ll plop down on the sofa, settle in and start to relax when Sarah uses her cold wet nose to nuzzle my hand. Then she’ll put her chin on the arm rest and stare up at me until I look down and that’s when it’s all over. She has the attention she wanted, and now it’s time to get up and take her outside so she can sniff the air, gaze at the park across the street and rest up against her master’s leg.

I can’t pinpoint when it happened, but one day as I was petting Sarah, I found myself saying these words: “I love you, Sarah Jane, you sweet thing.” I do remember that she leaned back into my hand, and closed her eyes.

It was like she knew she had finally claimed my heart.

The fine art of shunning is alive and well

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

The weather matches my mood today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little pieces of Heaven

I remember where I was the day I knew I wanted to be a writer.

A friend and co-worker had loaned me a paperback novel by Stephen King. If you’re at all familiar with King, then you know about Cujo, the story of a Saint Bernard whose descent into doggy madness after contracting rabies made for one heck of a horror tale.

This book had it all: A troubled marriage, a little boy trying to make his parents love one another again, another troubled marriage, a boy and his dog, a broken down car and mind-numbing desperation. I was enthralled.

And when I turned the last page of that novel, I said to myself, “I can do this. I can write like this.”

That was back in 1984, and I’ve been writing ever since.

I thought the joy would be in publication, and it is. And I thought that having folks come up and tell you how much your words meant to them would bring happiness, and it does. But the deepest love I feel for writing is the journey itself.

Tomorrow, September 21st, is Stephen King’s birthday. My birthday is two days later, but I love birthdays (and as hubby says, especially my own) so I begin the celebration a week ahead of time.

Maybe we should have gone to Borders yesterday when it was sunny and in the 70s. Instead, we drove off into a virtual downpour and we made it just fine. There were lots of people out and about, getting wet and not seeming to mind it.

Hubby dropped me off and I walked into one of my favorite places on earth. Writing magazines in hand, I made my way to the coffee café, ordered a chocolate coffee, found a table and settled in. “This is what Heaven must feel like,” I thought, as I sipped the perfect hot drink for such a day.

The voices of children, moms, dads, grandparents and more rose and fell around me. Friends chatted in hushed tones, people with laptops surfed the Internet and some were writing. The readers were there, too, deeply engrossed in the written word and watching them gave me hope that my words could have that effect someday. Someday, that might be my book they’re reading while they shut out the world and become engrossed in the story I created from my imagination.

The trip to and from the bookstore was almost as enjoyable as the time I spent reading and writing today. Going places with my husband is always an adventure. Even after almost 37 years of marriage we find things to talk and laugh about, and we grow closer every minute we’re together—yet another example of what Heaven must be like, a place where we spend our time with those we love the most.

Once home, the dog greeted us as if we’d been gone for four years instead of four hours. To see the love in those eager brown eyes makes my heart melt every time, and it makes me wish that we, as humans, could be as loving and forgiving as these four-legged furry friends. Heaven has to have dogs—after all, Sarah Jane and those who came before her have given us a glimpse of what it’s like to be loved unconditionally. Everyone should have the chance to feel love like that.

The sun is out now, and the raindrops are glistening on the trees. The dog would rather stick nearby than be outside alone, and hubby is taking a well-deserved nap. The week ahead is a busy one, but for right now, this minute, I wanted to take the time to reflect on a day that brought a little bit of Heaven to earth—even if just for a few hours.

Cell phone furniture and other necessities

Cookie Monster watches over my cell phone as it rests in its own bean-bag chair.


I love gadgets and gizmos. I have my share of things I thought we couldn’t live without; some I’ve given away, some I’ve sold and others sit unused and nearly new inside dark cupboards and closets.

Sis and I were raised by a single mom who cooked and tended bar for a living, so we never had much. Food, shelter and hand-me-down clothing—those were the essentials, and mom saw to it that we had most of what we needed.

When I got married, I thought I hit the jackpot. Gone were the days of counting and accounting for every penny. Hubby never ever asked me to explain purchases and it felt both wonderful and weird. Eventually, though, I got used to buying what we needed and many things I wanted without having to jump through hoops.

Years passed and mistakes were repeatedly made, and before long I could see that maybe I wasn’t the best in the household finances department. Lessons were learned the hard way and my mistakes caused others to suffer, so I did a 180. Once in a while, though, I slip off the rails and make little boo-boos. Hence the photo at the top.

Apparently I’m still influenced by those around me. I saw a Staples button that, when pressed says, “That was easy!” It cost $5 and part of the proceeds went to a charity I believe in, so I justified the purchase to hubby by using that reasoning. Well, I tried to convince him but he just shook his head. That stupid button is around here somewhere, no doubt covered in dust.

Thing is, I love the expensive gadgets as much as the cheap ones. Computers are at the top of my list, and so is anything that has a computer chip in it. I have a so-so cell phone, but that’s OK. Someday I hope to get a BlackBerry or an iPhone (ha!), but until then I have a PDA (personal digital assistant) full of information I carry with me at all times. Hubby argues that a small notebook would serve the same purpose and cost about $97 less than the PDA did.

Also on board in my purse are the following: A digital voice recorder, a digital camera, extra batteries, cords for the camera and PDA, plus, of course, notebooks and pens.

I thought I was doing pretty well with reining in my spending until I saw someone at work with an itty-bitty bean-bag chair that was designed to hold his cell phone. It was adorable. And I had to have one.

Instead of showing off my $3 purchase, I took the sack from Staples to work with me, placed it on my desk and rested my phone on it. That ritual lasted about a week before I began to forget the newly-purchased phone furniture. The chair sat there for a few months, the phone traveled and stayed inside my purse, until one day when I grabbed the chair and took it home.

One of the many things I love about my husband is his comic reaction to some of things I do. This was going to be fun. I put the phone chair on top of the chest of drawers, placed my cell phone on it and invited hubby over to check it out.

“What is that?” he asked.

“It’s a chair for my phone,” I replied.

He slapped his forehead. “Unbelievable,” he said, as he walked away muttering to himself.

At least it was only $3. I’ve come a long, long way but I can always do better. We’re never too old to learn, right?

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!