Column: Every birthday is worth a week-long celebration

(I'm not ready for the ol' rocking chair just yet. In fact, I'm giving it away (hopefully) to someone who really needs it.)

By Margi Washburn

It takes seven days to celebrate my birthday. Most everyone who knows me understands that, and I’m guessing the delight I have for the occasion has a lot to do with mom, sis and Grandma Daisy. We made a big deal out of birthdays, even during lean times, and I never want to lose that feeling toward turning another year older.

On Monday, I sent off a book proposal to a New York agent. It takes me far too long to send out things like that, and no doubt it’s because I’m afraid the whole package will come flying back to my mailbox at warp speed with a standard rejection letter in it. It’s not back yet, so I’m hoping for the best.

Tuesday was the United Way kickoff campaign. It started with a piping hot delicious breakfast that I thought about for a long time after it was over. What started off as a feature assignment turned into an eye-opening experience of how many folks are helped by the 19 agencies that make up this organization.

Wednesday was a day for tears. I belong to a group called Henry County Freecycle. We give away nice things we no longer need to those who could use them, and that keeps a lot of stuff out of our homes and out of the landfills. I had an easy chair that I hadn’t used in over a year. A man expressed interest in it, and he emailed a note saying that he would come over later that day to pick it up. Hubby lugged the chair downstairs and helped the man load it into his truck.

Less than an hour later, I opened my email to find a photo of a very happy young boy, shoes kicked off to the side, sitting in his new chair. He was giving the camera a thumbs-up, a grin spread from ear to ear. This was one happy little guy, and so I cried.

Before I got off the computer, I heard a knock at the door. It was the little boy who lives down the street, along with his dad. I saw a plastic sack. “Can I pick some peaches, please?” he asked. I knelt down, told him he sure could, then looked at his dad. “I try and have him ask every year,” he said, and of course I remembered the two of them from previous Septembers. I closed the door, went inside and cried – again.

On Thursday, Sarah the pup got sick. Once again, this being a morning newspaper, I’ll refrain from giving the details, but suffice it to say that I had to cook a bland diet for the dog for three days.

Friday morning I found myself at the tennis court with hubby and two friends. The two guys played against us girls, and even under those conditions, hubby plunked his partner in the head with a ball. That alone was worth the price of admission, as they say.

This was also the day that Sarah’s appetite came back with a vengeance. She was only allowed two bland meals per day, for three days. No treats, no table scraps, no exception. We tried to find things to do away from home to avoid being shadowed from room to room to room.

On Saturday, the dog was hungrier than ever. I started giving her little bites of carrot and some plain bread. We decided she could start on real food the following morning; she did and she was fine.

Sunday was my day to do whatever I wanted. We went out of town, and the first thing I did when we got to Moline was to walk into IHop and legitimately order off of the senior menu. That was such a blast for me, though everyone I tell seems to think I may be a little touched in the head.

I visited a few favorite stores, got a screaming good deal at a favorite grocery store and we headed home. That night we had delicious cake, ice cream, coffee and lots of laughs around the kitchen table.

We never know how many birthdays we’ll be blessed with, so I plan to celebrate every single one of them. I hope you will, too.

Column: Creating memories over coffee, toast and conversation in the morning

(This is a bench in Veterans Park, just across the street from home. It's where hubby and Sarah the pup sit and watch people and other doggies walk by.)

Most of us have favorite things, like movies, books, ice cream, candy bars, soda, chips, seasons, relatives.

My favorite movie, at the moment, is Fargo. I can’t pass a wood chipper without thinking about that weird guy using it. I’m not going to describe what he was doing because this is a morning newspaper, and you might be having a bite of toast right now.


I love butter pecan ice cream, diet Coke, Lays potato chips, dark chocolate Milky Way candy bars and fall. Some of my relatives read this column, so I won’t say here who’s my favorite and who isn’t.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my favorite time of day. When I worked full-time, I couldn’t wait until the day was over and I was pulling back the covers to go to sleep. There were too many bills to juggle, work-related headaches and not nearly enough time to just relax and stop the worry-o-meter. Sweet sleep was the answer. Thing is, when I worked eight hours a day I would at least sleep through the night. Of course maybe the problem now is old age, because it seems I’m awfully busy for someone who doesn’t punch the time clock.

More than a few years ago, my favorite time of day was Saturday morning. The kids and I would watch Looney Tunes cartoons and even if we’d seen Bugs versus Daffy or Yosemite Sam a hundred times, we’d sit and laugh and watch them again.

There were a few years when my favorite time of day was Sunday morning. That was when we attended the Evangelical Covenant Church on Williams Street. It took us a while, but we eventually got involved with various committees, choir and such, and even taught Sunday school. Sunday mornings like that started the whole week off on the right foot. Then our church closed, and my favorite time of day was gone.

For the past several years, the month of November lends itself to another favorite time of day: the night. That’s when thousands of people the world over stock up on munchies and their favorite drinks and hole up for a month while they write the Great American Novel. There’s something about nighttime for me when it comes to writing fiction, so I’m looking forward to that.

My favorite time of day now is every morning I can sit at the table and talk with my hubby over a pot of coffee. We’ve never been able to do that throughout our married life because he worked all of the time. Sure, there was the time he was laid off for a few months, but he always found a way to support his family.

Today we watch the morning news together, sip coffee, eat cereal and toast and figure out what we’ll do that day. Maybe it’s because we’ve crossed that invisible time-line in our lives, but we both seem much more aware that moments and mornings like these are probably the most precious times we share. I don’t know if I ever want to try out another favorite time of day because this one seems to be the best of them all.

Come November, if, as they say, the Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll have two favorite times of day. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Extra: just a bit about myself

(The bench at left is one of several where hubby sits while Sarah the pup nibbles on small tree branches. They take a walk in this park two or three times a day, which pleases Sarah no end.)

Officially, I'm a baby boomer, born in 1952 to a mom who left her husband when I was a mere three weeks old. Life could only go uphill from there, right? You know better than that, but you should also know that life is beautiful, something to be cherished, remembered and talked about.

I've always loved to read. When I was in first and second grade, I'd carry home so many books that mom warned me I was going to go blind from reading too much. I responded by reading even more. It seemed to me that the more I read before losing my sight, the better off I'd be.

My sight is still around, mom isn't, but her influence is strongly felt by my younger sister and me. Sis turns 50 this year, and although we live an hour apart, we're much closer as friends than we ever were as kids. As for immediate family, I have a hubby who retired this year and who is "fixing up the house", two sons and two grandsons. Extended family includes pretty much the same group as yours, fiercely loyal at times, and completely frustrating most of the time.

We've had our share of pets - dogs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs and hamsters. At one time, we had four dogs and four cats. Now, it's just two older people and Sarah Jane, the yellow lab-mix. She's 18 months old and weighs 83 pounds. So far, she's knocked out one of hubby's teeth and she took me on a romp through the house until I had to let go of her collar so I could fall face-first in a doorway. I now have a broken pinkie finger as a souvenir.

When I sit down to write a column for you to read, I look for common ground, hoping you identify with an experience or a memory of mine. Most of us have significant others, in-laws, friends, siblings, co-workers and probably a few folks who don't like us one bit. All good fodder for a column, which brings me to the title of mine.

"Murder, She Wrote" was a long-running mystery show, that starred Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher, mystery writer and amateur old-lady, busybody sleuth. Hubby is fond of the busybody title, and the kids used to call her something else, but I loved the whole idea. Stephen King is from Maine, and this show's locale was Cabot Cove, Maine so I was hooked. In fact, I was so enamored with both King and the show that a former supervisor wrote a piece about my writings, calling it, "Horror, she wrote." Cute. Still, I couldn't be happier with this column's title.

Cute? Maybe, maybe not, but it's me, and I hope you enjoy what I've written. It's my hope that we all connect on some level, as if we've known each for years and we get together for a cup of coffee once a week.

Column: Standing guard at the kitchen window with girlie weapons

(There's the nearly useless flyswatter and my favorite brand of wasp killer. I used them both and I'm not a bit sorry about it.)

At around three o’clock Sunday morning, hubby was startled awake by silence. I know, but stay with me.

Summertime means the air conditioner and the fan run all night. Too often I wake in the middle of the night to find that someone fell asleep and forgot to turn off the TV, so if the electricity happens to quit during that time, the sudden quiet would be noticeable.

Thing is, hubby felt the need to inform me. “Something’s wrong,” he whispered as he nudged me.

I found a small flashlight with weakening batteries and handed it over. I think I hit him in the head with it first, but it was an accident.

We made our way over the doggy gate at the top of the stairs, then down to find a bigger flashlight with even weaker batteries. Hubby peaked out the window at our neighbor’s house and pronounced it dark as well. That led to my comment that perhaps it was dark over there because it was after 3 a.m. This seemed like a good time to stick one’s head out the front door to see it the lights were off all over.

The police department and the new Black Hawk center both had lights, but we assume they also have backup power. Everything else was black.

A quick call told us the whole town was out due to maintenance. We both moaned and groaned about how hard it would be to get to sleep without our fan and air conditioner, then we were out until about 7.

Still, if you’re uncomfortable sleeping, you won’t be well rested. We went about our usual Sunday morning routine which is basically nothing. At least that’s what I was doing, sitting in my comfy chair in the living room when I heard a loud bang from the kitchen.

Well, there he was on a ladder making a gigantic hole where the window used to be. This was going to be a Sunday to remember.

If any of you are afraid of hornets, wasps, bees and don’t much like the idea of birds flying around inside your home, you’ll understand how I felt. This window is on the south side of the house, and in less than two hours, the sun would be planted in a most appealing spot for stinging insects.

About this time of year, those little guys start to lose their food supply and they get a tad cranky. What joy for them to find a huge opening into a kitchen full of food, and the only thing between them and lunch was a wild-eyed woman holding wasp spray and a fly swatter that had seen much better days.

Hubby must have measured that opening ten times, and I understand that it’s best to be as sure as you can be before hauling out a window and carrying it up a shaky ladder and shoving it in a hole. However, that three foot by four foot space was a nightmare to guard with girlie weapons. I can only pray the neighbors to the south of us weren’t watching, because I’m sure I looked like an idiot.

We decided I would lift the window from the inside and push it through. I had to hold onto it while hubby put in the first couple of screws, and there were some dicey moments when my sweaty hands almost lost it. In spite of me, we have a nifty window that opens and lets in fresh air.

If that was all that happened Sunday, it would be enough. Instead, my modem went toes up and I was on hold for 30 minutes before being told someone would actually come out that night and fix the problem. I was so afraid I’d missed out on important email, I packed up the laptop, drove within the speed limit to McDonald’s, jumped online and found out that no one sent me a thing. By then I had a headache, and all I wanted to do was go back home.

The technician came out as promised, hooked up the new modem and I was good to go. By then, the day that started at three in the morning was about to wind up. We slept through the night with no more problems. I even smiled as I thought of how happy I was we’d made it through the previous day in spite of its quirks.

This morning, the toilet handle broke.

Column: When grocery shopping and home improvement collide

By Margi Washburn

Most times when I’m grocery shopping, I’ll eye what I bought, and see if I might be able to manage getting everything into the house with one trip. It’s often worth some discomfort to avoid that second trip, but it can make for a hazardous journey from the car to the kitchen.

To get to the kitchen with two arms full of bags, I sometimes focus only on avoiding a fall, or not stepping into a hole that Sarah dug fresh that morning. It’s one thing to drive into that hole, and quite another to drop into it without warning.

I’ll also try to avoid asking hubby for help bringing in the groceries. If he’s busy, I get an eye-roll. If he’s not busy, I get an eye-roll. It’s best to make one haul and be done with it.

Turns out he was busy the other day when I lurched up the front steps to let myself into the porch. I was focused on having the key to the inside front door ready, hence I didn’t notice the ladder with hubby on the top of it until I smacked it with the door.

So many thoughts buzzed around inside my head as I took in the situation. First, neither of us was going to fall, so that was good. Second, I wondered if I’d hit the milk against the eggs when I fell back a step, pulling the door with me.

“Sorry,” I said, as I stepped inside, more carefully this time.

“I didn’t fall,” he said, pointing out the obvious. This time I gave the eye-roll.

It didn’t occur to me until I opened the inside door that Sarah was on the other side listening to us. It took all of me and every grocery bag to push her back inside so she wouldn’t bolt out the door and knock over the ladder. There was also a mysterious cord hanging down, and that would’ve been pulled outside, too.

Trips to the store can take the energy right out of a person. You have to haul the stuff into the house, put it away, then look down at the dog who’s wondering why you forgot once again to get her treats. I found a cracker, gave it to her and after she gulped it, she decided it was time for a potty break.

We have a heck of a time getting the dog’s leash on her unless she’s in a confined space, like the front porch. I may have mentioned that someone was on a ladder out there, improving our home, so there was no asking him to take the dog out. One eye-roll a day is plenty.

I chased Sarah around the foyer, got her collar attached, and that’s when hubby came through the front door and went straight through to the back room. I wasn’t about to navigate around the ladder, so I led Sarah toward the back door.

Before I got the door knob turned, I heard a voice on the other side. “Board!” he said, and that’s about when I banged into a long, white board laying across the workbench.

I bit back what I wanted to say, grabbed the leash closer to the dog’s collar and squeezed past the chest freezer to get to the outside door. I figured the rest of the way would be easy enough, until I turned the corner and tried to lead Sarah down the final three steps. Butted up against the bottom stair were two tables, making it nearly impossible to step off the deck.

I’m fairly certain I said something disrespectful at that point, and with no one to see me, I rolled my eyes all over the place while Sarah found the spot she was looking for. We came back inside, a bit wiser this time, and I finished putting away the rest of the groceries.

It’s easy to gripe about hot weather, grocery shopping, home improvement messes and dogs who never grow up. But it’s much more fun to find the humor in it all, laugh a little and hold back on the eye-rolls.

Column: Sometimes irony is funny, and sometimes it's just ironic

(Sarah enjoys a relaxing evening in her favorite recliner)

By Margi Washburn


The store on the south side of town many of us still refer to as The Book Emporium had it right.

There were books, of course, including new releases, paperbacks and used. The lottery was available there, and I’m not sure if that was a good or bad thing, but it was popular. Folks could get greeting cards, ornaments and other knick-knacks. I’m convinced, though, that the most popular attraction was the wide variety of magazines.

Along with weekly news magazines, one could find subject matter of all kinds. Titles pertaining to astronomy, dogs, cats, crafts, TV, celebrities, hunting and dozens more filled the display alongside an entire wall.

My favorites were the writing magazines. Writer’s Digest and The Writer were always available, and they were positioned where I could reach them. The reasons I bought a new edition every month were many, but the main one was that I wanted to learn how to write better.

Friends and family had their own special interests. An uncle always checked out the latest news about car races, hunting and guns. Hubby loved the astronomy section, and our youngest perused the music magazines.

Those days are gone, but our craving for special reading materials is still alive and well. The local library carries quite a few magazines, but they can’t afford what we became used to.

It’s funny, but if you’re a published writer or a budding one, I don’t think you’ll find what you need around here. And here’s one time I hope I get corrected about something; if I’m mistaken, call or write and let me know where I can find my two favorite writing magazines for sale in Kewanee.

Know what else is funny? I’ve stopped in at several Waldenbooks stores and stood staring at their magazine selection. My eyesight leaves a lot to be desired, but I could not find a single writing magazine in their racks. Occasionally a clerk will ask if they can help me find something, and here’s how that goes:

Me: “Do you have any writing magazines?”
Clerk: “Right here.” This is when they point to the motorcycle and car section.
Me: “No, writing, not riding.” And this is where I pretend to write something on the palm of my hand, which leads the clerk to shake their head and walk away.

See how funny that was? Here you have an entire bookstore that is soundly based on people writing what they’re selling, and they have no magazines to inspire and teach us.

Oh, here’s another funny example of irony. I once worked in a library, and their hours were a tad odd. There were many ideal hours that the place could be used to hold writing seminars, critique groups, that sort of thing. I decided to approach one of my bosses and ask if I could set something up. Her answer left me dumbfounded.

I was told that the library could not be used for a writer group of any kind, but she was certain that a building down the block would be fine. She pointed out that the $10 per-use fee could be collected from any participating writers. Isn’t that special?

As the door clicked shut behind her, I picked my chin up off the front counter and sat down. Thousands of books lined the walls all around me, written by men and women from all walks of life, writers who poured their hearts out onto pages that our grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren read. If writers were not allowed to meet in a library, of all places, then where?

I did end up renting a building, and I paid the fee, but we only met once. It was too discouraging to continue and impossible to explain to everyone why we weren’t in the obvious location.

So here I am, in my mid-50s, and I want to continue learning. We should all aim to improve our minds, keep our skills sharp and up-to-date. I happen to gravitate toward writing, but I’ll bet there are a whole lot of folks reading these words who would love to see the selection we used to have in that nifty little store on the south side. Until something changes, I guess we can always fill out that handy subscription card, but it won’t be the same.

Sarah says howdy to her teacher and buds

Margi Washburn

Let me say upfront that I have the deepest respect and trust in our doggy obedience class instructor. Peg Roginski is much more than that; she’s a dear friend and wise in many ways. That said, when she told our class that our pooches would get used to coming every Tuesday night I had serious doubts.

After all, we were only looking at a five-week course. Sarah the pup is one smart cookie, and yes, she knows the word cookie now, but I didn’t believe she’d miss class.

That first night, Sarah and I went and left hubby home. I never thought to ask if he’d like to come, but when we arrived and there were guys holding the leashes, I hoped the next week would be different.

Sarah found her soul mate in another lab, this one a purebred by the name of Kaya. There was also Daisy the Great Pyrenees, and Bonnie, a cute little fuzzy dog that obviously adored her master.

Daisy was a hoot. She’s getting close to three years old, and that first night she pretty much sat on her rump and stared at Peg and her owners. Her response to initial commands seemed to be, “Who, me?” She was content to watch everyone else, and it was so warm I couldn’t blame her.

Bonnie wanted to stare at her master, and she’s a smart one, too, eager to please and full of pep.

Then there was Kaya and Sarah. The two of them were so excited, Peg pointed to the floor to show everyone how their paws were sweating. Kaya’s owner decided then that they would walk her to class every Tuesday to get her calmed down a bit. For them it was about a mile, for us it would’ve been about four. We’d have to figure out something else.

That first class was all about sitting. Sarah was good at that because we’d taught her, but that was pretty much it. I’m afraid she may have appeared smarter than she was, and I was right.

Hubby came along for the next class, and with a long walk around the park beforehand, we were hoping she’d be a bit calmer. I noticed that Kaya seemed a bit more composed, but guess who was still full of stuff?

To top it off, that night’s lesson was on “sit”, then “down”. Sarah was so far beyond excited, that Peg had to come over and try it herself, because the dog’s behind wouldn’t stay on the floor while the rest of her went forward.

“This is going to take a while,” said Peg, as she sat down to work with Sarah. This pleased the dog so much that from that moment on, Peg was a really special buddy. And, Sarah learned how to go down just like her teacher wanted.

We brought along the proper treats, tasty goodies that wouldn’t upset Sarah’s stomach, but she was always looking to see if someone else had something better. She found Kaya’s stash in the windowsill one night and knocked them onto the floor. I know she found out that Daisy was getting lunchmeat from her master, so when the chance presented itself and Daisy missed a piece, Sarah cleaned it up for her.

All of us appreciated the “stay” command, and most everyone understood and obeyed the “leave it” command, except Sarah still has a problem with that one. We like to call her a Labrador “evader” because she never really retrieves anything; she keeps stuff and tries to eat it.

That last class came too soon. Peg had nothing but wonderful things to say to us, and she gave all of her students a special gift to take home.

I felt the need to apologize for Sarah not being quite as quick a learner as the rest of the class, but Peg told us that Sarah had come a “really, really long way.” Hmmm.

We tried to keep up with what we’d learned, and I know we’ve let things slide a bit. But you know what? The craziest thing happened during the first couple of weeks following that last class.

Hubby and I got ready to go out the next Tuesday night, and instead of running up the foyer steps to watch us leave the driveway, Sarah threw herself at the front door and let out a mangled moan. She sat at the door and refused to budge.

I think we both got it at the same time, yet neither of us could believe it. Sarah wanted to jump into the backseat, toodle on down to class and romp with her buds.

It’s high time to admit it, I guess. When Peg said her students were going to miss class on Tuesday nights, she knew exactly what she was talking about. Just ask the doggy who misses her favorite teacher.

On second thought, please don't grow up

By Margi Washburn

I just saw a news story about a tiny Iraqi baby whose mother and uncle were killed a few weeks ago. The little girl was left outside in the garbage, and the temperature was over 110 degrees. She was being well taken care of by American medical personnel, along with our military men and women.

As I looked into her bright wide eyes, all I could think of was how thankful we all must be that she doesn't know about the tragedies that have surrounded her life so far. And I know it's too much to hope that she won't someday learn to hate those who deprived her of her loved ones.

A couple of days ago I read a comment in a newspaper that sent chills up my spine. Someone had called to leave their thoughts, and usually I don't pay much attention to those who make anonymous gripes, but this caught my eye. This parent was admitting that they were teaching their son to hate America, simply because of something that was happening at their job. Just like that, we have another child growing up hating because their parent taught them to do so.

It would seem that most folks aren't that blatant about teaching their children to hate. Instead, kids learn by observing the behavior and conversations inside their homes, or wherever they happen to have contact with the adults in their lives.

For instance, a friend shared that while they were chatting over coffee at a relative's house, his brother-in-law made an ethnic joke. It was doubly bad because it was two races in one joke, and everyone but my friend and his wife howled with laughter. The wife looked uncomfortable because it was her family that made the joke, something they've done for years, and she knew her husband was awfully close to losing his cool.

The men and women sitting around the table that day all had kids of their own, and one of the parents who had taught the adults there was also enjoying the joke. Worse, one of the children was sitting there too, a grandson learning from the adults that it's OK to laugh at someone just because their skin is dark. Good lesson, and if all goes as they plan, this little guy can pass it on to his friends and his own kids someday.

I know my friend needed to vent; he and his wife may not have what it takes to stand up to her family and tell them that enough is enough. I was thinking about it later though, and smacking myself for not telling him to tell his brother-in-law to grow up already. Then it hit me.
Why should he do that? The guy is grown; in fact, he's almost 50 years old.

I have no easy answers for this never-ending cycle of prejudice, but a part of me insists on seeing hope for each new life, that somehow this little boy or girl will learn at the knees of moms, dads, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents that hatred based on nothing more than skin color is simply not acceptable.

There are far worse problems today than a family sitting around a table and laughing at other races. I know that, yet it makes you wonder if that isn't how some criminals get started, by believing that they're better than some folks, so why shouldn't they be robbed, beaten or worse?

A week or so ago I saw two boys around eight or nine years old pushing each other around. They looked like brothers, and they were gearing up for a showdown. Both were holding sodas and when the taller of the two got close enough, he spit in the other's can. The younger returned the favor, then the cussing started. It seemed as natural to the both of them as breathing. My head was spinning with scenarios inside these boys' home.

It seems only fair to mention that kids don't learn every bad behavior from their family and friends. Let's give credit to television, movies, music and peer pressure too.

This struggle between right and wrong is an old, old one and one person can only do so much in their tiniest of corner of the world. But we should never give up trying, and that is why I saw the hope in that baby Iraqi girl's eyes. Maybe she'll be influenced by the people who see her for what she is, a miracle of life that came from an almost hopeless beginning.

And the next time my friend is sitting at the table when the jokes begin, he won't simply sit there and let it happen, and he won't ask them to grow up. I think he knows better than that now, and I wish him the best when he and his wife have the courage to take a stand. Let's hope they do it soon.

Guys and their selective memories

By Margi Washburn

I found him sitting at the kitchen table watching the Today show go into its third hour. It was going to be another scorcher, so I couldn't blame hubby for preferring the cool house to framing the front door.

His coffee cup was nearly full, and a glance at the pot showed it was as empty as when I'd left an hour before. Odd.

"So," I said, "must be tough working hard on a day like this."

"So," he shot back, "must be tough working those long hours. Were you gone a whole hour?"

That out of the way, I asked if he wanted me to make another pot of coffee. He declined, and added an apology. "I drank the rest of yours, sorry. Hope you didn't want it."

I may not remember things as well as I used to, but I knew I'd poured the last of my coffee from my Bugs Bunny cup down the drain on my way out.

Before I knew it, I was telling him exactly that. "Well, then," he said, then stopped.

We both looked at the counter at the mug by the microwave. "You mean I just drank coffee from yesterday morning?" I found the whole thing hilarious, and he did too, then he stopped laughing. "You know, this reflects on your housekeeping. It shows you don't clean your microwave."

No, it doesn't. It shows me that someone doesn't pay attention to which mug I'm drinking from, or that I stood in front of him pouring coffee down the drain.

This exercise in paying attention and what happens to our memories got me to thinking. While many women fret that men don't remember things, some of us know all too well that there are things they don't forget.

Many moons ago when we lived in Tucson, I was selling some of our furniture. I had one couple almost hooked on a sofa, but the guy was hesitant. I got the brilliant idea to throw in hubby's wet-dry vac for free and the deal was done. The vac hadn't been used in months, so out the door it went.

I have to say, some people get their feathers ruffled when you give away their stuff. It's been well over 20 years, and I still hear about it whenever we see a wet-dry vac. "Remember when you sold mine? Oh, wait, you gave it away," he'll say. I've asked why he doesn't just buy a new one, and he tells me he likes reminding me of what I did.

Another such reminder came up the other night at supper. We were having tomato burgers, as in tomatoes from the farmer's market. These are the deep-red, juicy, aroma-filled kind, not the bouncy, rubber ball variety we get the rest of the year. I asked him to grab a couple of napkins on his way to the table, and he asked if I wanted him to just tear one in half. Ah, another thing he didn't forget.

Again, we were in Tucson. We both had great jobs, a new home, a new car and I was trying to cut expenses. The kids were helping set the table for lunch one day when I had an idea. I suggested they cut the paper plates in half, and you would've thought the world was coming to an end. They couldn't wait to tell their dad about this latest cost-cutting venture, hence today's question on ripping a napkin in half.

It's kind of funny, really, that some guys have the ability to remember goofs so well. Let me tell you, women have good memories too.

Instead of dwelling on those, though, I think I'll wipe out the microwave with half a napkin and brew another pot of coffee. I haven't used microwave popcorn for about a week now, which is probably why I didn't find the coffee mug. So, while the coffee's brewing, I'll take out my new popper and make a big batch of popcorn. He might want a snack when he comes in from working so hard.

Calendars are good for more than pictures of cute puppies

By Margi Washburn

"So, basically, you bought a calendar to remind us of one of the biggest mistakes we've ever made. And we get to look at it every day this year."

Hubby was paging through one of the new calendars I'd bought, and silly me, I thought he'd love it. It was special, twelve months of labrador retrievers, and more than half of them could have been our very own Sarah."Don't you like it?" I asked. There was a sigh, a smile, and then a pat on the dog's head. "I guess," he said, as he hung it on the kitchen wall.

I don't blame anyone for their lack of enthusiasm about the calendars I buy. They're important to me, and although I haven't figured out just why, I look forward to finding the half dozen new ones that find their way into our home every January.

Some are free, and they come in various forms. There's the little cardboard one from a local gas station that I keep on my desk at work. Someone gave me one they got in the mail, along with a Farmer's Almanac. That went on the wall in front of my computer at home.The huge desk calendar with lots of big squares is to my left in my home office. I write social and work reminders on that one, and cross off each day in light blue marker.

The one to my right is small and thin and I use it to keep track of my working hours. It used to go in my purse, but I keptignoring it there.Usually our youngest will buy me a Get Fuzzy page-a-day calendar for Christmas, but this time I bought my own. I love getting my favorite comic strip for half price, and I get 365 strips for under six bucks. How could anyone pass that up?

So, I guess that's about six calendars, and four of them are in one room. A psychiatrist would have a blast with that information.Tracking the days, weeks, and months isn't all I do. We go through heck on earth whenever it's time to change the clocks, whether it's that time of the year or the electricity goes off. Between our wristwatches, the VCRs, and the dozen clocks, we're about ready to pull our hair out by the time we'refinished.

Does having this many reminders mean that we're always on time for appointments and parties? Actually, yes, it does. But I think my fascination with calendars has become more pronounced over the years simply because there are so many to choose from.

For instance, we already had the doggy calendar, and all of the labs are adorable, but we were in a real, honest-to-goodness pet store one day, and I saw the other half of Sarah. We now know she's a lab and Rhodesian Ridgeback mix, so when I saw a calendar of Ridgebacks, I got excited. Thankfully, hubby was there to pour water all over my enthusiasm with one withering glance, though we did check out every picture. Yup, here was Sarah, too, with the line down her back, the dark brown toenails, and the wrinkly forehead.

That wasn't all I found in that store, and if I'd been alone, our bank balance would have been much lighter than it is now. There was a gigantic ball of twisted rope, one of our pup's favorite things in the world to chew on, and it was just under $30. Thing is, Sarah manages to completely shred any ropes we buy, no matter how tough they appear to be. It would be easier to simply put a lighted match to our money and watch it burn, because too many of our pet toys end up in the trash bag within half an hour after they meet our dog.

In retrospect, it could be that as I get older I've become more obsessed with time, but I don't think so. I think we all want to have places to go and people to see. It's comforting to fill in those blank squares with lunch dates and shopping trips, and reminders that our lives are full. Time is precious, and though none of us needs a calendar to tell us that, it's nice to know there are so many perfect ones to choose from. That goes especially for the one hanging in my kitchen.

Come on down, the road's fine, and bring my cookies

By Margi Washburn

Hubby's mom seemed so sure that the road down to her house was fine. "You shouldn't have a problem," she said. "Everyone else is getting up and down just fine." I had serious doubts about our ability to do the same, and I voiced them to hubby for the tenth time.

"We don't have front-wheel drive in your car," I said. "Little Red would work fine, maybe, but my brakes are iffy. Real iffy." It freaked me out to drive my car under the best road conditions, but as you all know, the roads have been a trifle icy and snow-packed since the storm of the month. The road in front of mom's is one of the worst because it goes downhill, and should someone with iffy brakes attempt to visit her, and their brakes would fail, they would wind up in the creek. Well, I should amend that; right now there's a mini-mountain of snow jammed at the bottom of the hill from when the road was plowed.

Hubby assured me that we should try to visit his mom on the Monday evening after the storm. We had an hour, because she was getting ready to leave but she wanted her cookies. I had done her a favor the Saturday before by picking up a few pounds of cookies from the First Baptist Church cookie walk. This appears to be the church's last such venture, and mom has gone for years, but this time she was socked in with snow and couldn't make it.

I was getting nervous having that many delectable goodies in my house, so I reluctantly agreed we should go and drop them off. We decided to take the little car, and sometime around 5:30 we arrived. We didn't slide into the pile of snow, and the driveway was in pretty good shape.

We visited for a bit, and watched Wheel of Fortune. Mom was getting picked up around 7, so we put on our heavy coats, stuffed ourselves into the car and backed up. And there we sat.

One of my few faults is that I wait until my dashboard screams at me in red letters that the car is dangerously low on gas. I had ignored its warning for almost two whole days, which was supremely stupid, because now I couldn't keep my eyes off of the accusing message. I wanted to turn on the heat, but was afraid it would use more gas, so I shut it off. Besides, it was easier to hear hubby make many, many comments about being stuck at the bottom of the hill in the dark.

There we sat, spinning our tires, and filling the air with the smell of burning rubber. At about that time, mom's ride came down the hill in a car just like the one we'd left at home. It had no front-wheel drive and it was headed straight for us.

Hubby flashed his brights on and off at the driver. There was a hesitation, then the car came down the hill. I dialed my prayer partner, and I'm afraid I scared her by speaking gibberish for a few seconds.

When I could see that the car was going to miss us by a few feet, I asked my aunt to pray for us. She was laughing and so was I, until the driver in the big car got stuck. It was time to call hubby's brother and ask for help.

I could see mom silhouetted in the light from her garage as she watched the two cars spinning their tires. Hubby got out and met the other driver, who shared a bottle of sand with us. Eventually, the big car made it over halfway up the hill; he and mom walked up there, got inside, and drove away.

We spent a few more harrowing minutes stuck, then hubby whipped the car into a neighbor's driveway, backed into his mom's, and tore out of there so we could get up the hill. Now I had to call and cancel the help that was on the way.

It figured that my brother-in-law had already left, so we sat at the top of the hill and met him. We all had a good laugh, then went our separate ways. I was never so glad to get home in my life.

Here's the thing. Mom's is a favorite place for lots of folks to drop by for coffee, sweets and stimulating coversation. It's been that way for years, and once the ice melts off the road, she's going to get a lot of company. I guess it's a good thing hubby and I risked life and limb to deliver those wonderful cookies the other night. You know, just in case someone wanted to set aside a special treat for a certain couple, because I'm sure they'll be back.

Crossing the finish line at 8:59 p.m., November 26, at 50,068 words

By Margi Washburn

This was my fifth year to try and become a novelist in one month. I failed four times.

There were reasons, or excuses, for the times I didn't make it. Most of them were because I didn't have enough faith in myself. The story stunk, I hadn't prepared an outline, that sort of thing. It was never because of a lack of support, that's for sure. I can't imagine a more enthusiastic guy than my hubby. True, he has an ulterior motive; he seems to think that any book I write will become a best seller and we'll be able to retire with more money than we'll ever spend. He's too cool.

This time around I met with fellow scribes Susan, and her daughter, Emily. We wrote at McDonald's and the Pizza Hut, and we had a blast. There were few rules for our one-month odyssey, but one strong suggestion was to refrain from surfing the Internet in order to concentrate on the journey ahead of us. Susan and I tried, but when both places offered free Internet service, we couldn't help but jump into cyberspace for a few minutes. We called it research, a vital ingredient for any good novel.

Sometimes we sat and watched customers, and unashamedly eavesdropped on their conversations. It helped if the man, woman, or child was acting silly or was dressed a tad freaky; it added more padding to our starving stories and we took advantage every chance we got.

The first Saturday was dreary, windy, and cold. I forgot my CD player, and I spent too much time admiring Susan's new laptop. I couldn't help it; that was the coolest computer I'd seen in a while. I wanted to know if she'd had it built especially for her, and she had.

I did much better writing away from home. Maybe it was Sarah the pup, or the imposssible-to-ignore reruns of Law & Order, but I had to get away from the house. Once in a while I went to the library, but being around so many newspapers, magazines and books can be distracting. Besides, the library still doesn't have a coffee shop and I simply cannot write a novel without boatloads of caffeine. I'd hate to be the one and only patron kicked out on their rear for smuggling a thermos of coffee into the stacks, though a candy bar or two has made its way in from time to time.

The usual distractions for November came up, and some that were anything but usual. At the beginning of the month, the most vulnerable time to start something as time-consuming as this, our family lost one of its own, and we stopped to grieve for over a week. Thanksgiving came, and we took the time to celebrate, although this year was far different than any that came before. For one thing, instead of turkey, we had meatloaf and potato salad, two of my specialties. We gathered around a small kitchen table and gave thanks, sincerely and with a few tears.

Even though Susan, Emily and I only met twice, we continued our novels on our own, whenever we could find some spare time. It doesn't matter how much time we spent together, only that we did. They and their family had the usual and unusual interruptions too, and yet they continued the journey.

Last Sunday night I was at a little under 46,000 words and it was around 7:30. Normally, I don't head to bed until around 10, but I had to ask if it was all right to go up early and work on the book. Hubby didn't bat an eyelash at being saddled with Sarah, so I headed to the computer with the secret determination to finish that night.

When I sent the finished novel up to the verification site at 8:59 p.m., and the words, "you won!" appeared in front of me, I burst into tears and couldn't see the computer screen for a few minutes. I kept wiping my eyes, but they would fill up again. A certificate for the winners was available with a click of the mouse, so I printed a couple of them. They will be framed, but I had to bring one to show to the newsroom here at the paper on Monday.

Oh, the title of my novel is, "Old People Shouldn't Adopt Dogs", and it's a page-turner. The main character, a baby-boomer, tries to maintain her sanity despite being surrounded by a multi-generational dysfunctional family. She experiences a variety of jobs, all of which include a number of memorable bosses and co-workers.

The hard part is done, the writing is mostly over, and now the revision process begins. I just wish I could bottle the feeling that came over me so completely Sunday night.

Maybe I'll try to capture it again, next November.

Sometimes all you can do is sit by the window and wait

By Margi Washburn

I was cleaning out one home office and stuffing things into the bigger one when I found a quote that used to hang on the corkboard near my computer. It reads, “One of the oldest human needs is having someone wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.” These words, attributed to Margaret Mead, offer an insight many of us often overlook.

Those of us who have children can identify with wondering where our kids are, especially after they've reached a certain age and that usually continues until they've become responsible adults.Once they have kids of their own, or if they meet that special someone, then they suddenly understand what we really meant when we wanted to know where they were going and when they were coming home.

In the pre-teen and teenage years, the nights and weekends can seem unbearably long. Who are the kids with? What are they doing? Have they tried drugs? Alcohol? Has someone talked them into doing something stupid? The questions are as endless as the night, and sitting by the window staring into the empty driveway can bring the worst kind of scenarios to mind.

Children do eventually grow up and become responsible, but while we wait, we age a bit. As a humorous aside, I found out recently that according to one important source, I am listed as ten years older than I really am. I could be getting my coffee a lot cheaper at restaurants if that was true, but hey, 63 will come soon enough.

Worrying about our loved ones comes too naturally, don't you think? We don't assume they're all right; instead, we imagine the worst. Hubby's mom and some of the family were making regular trips out of state to visit a relative, and without fail, we would hear nothing for days. People would tell me that if anything bad had happened I would have heard about it. That didn't do a thing for me, except make me want to slap them and keep on wondering when the phone call would come.

I guess it doesn't matter how old our kids get, and it makes no difference if deep down we know better, we love our families and friends so much we can't help how we feel.

While on our way home the other night, hubby and I saw an Amber Alert for a missing child on a marquee on Main Street. My mind started down a path and before I knew it, I was asking myself how does a mom and dad deal with a missing child? What kind of thoughts run through their minds?

There is a huge difference between your son or daughter going out for the evening, and you're wondering it they'll hit a party or two before they return safely home. It's another matter entirely if they suddenly disappear and leave no trace. As someone who strings words together for a living, I have none to describe how this must feel.

Wait, there is one thing I know for certain.Wherever that child is, no matter their age or yours, there is something they must surely know and that is this: dad, mom, brother, and family everywhere do wonder where you are. We wonder, we care, we love you beyond measure, and some of us still sit by the window every now and then just in case. It's something we need to do, as much as you need us to. Margaret Mead was right about that.

She told us not be a-scared of the dark and to go on home

By Margi Washburn

I sat in church that Sunday morning and couldn't help but notice how the sun highlighted the child's hair. She was busy arranging papers and crayons before the service started; she had been coming for some time and she knew it would be time to be quiet soon.

When the time came for the children to come forward for their own mini-sermon, she skipped up to the front with at least a dozen other kids. I don't know how much of what was said sunk in, but the little girl was dutifully respectful while the pastor spoke. After their prayer, she walked back to sit with her parents and you could tell she was almost losing the urge to run. Kids love to run, you know, unless it's time to go to bed or to the doctor. But this young lady did not forget: no running in church.

I couldn't help but wonder that day about kids and their ability to forgive and forget. Okay, they don't always forget but it's different somehow. For instance, when hubby and I were visiting his mom one night and our niece was there, we got ready to leave. She's only three years old and as beautiful as they come. She also has that sweet gullibleness reserved for kids that age.

“You going home now?” she asked.

“Yup. It's late and we have to get to bed,” said hubby.

“But it's dark,” she said, her eyes wide as she looked from the window to the two of us.

“Oh, no, we'll have to stay here all night,” hubby said, as he sat back down.

Well, that was going to be a problem because our niece was spending the night there too, and now she wanted to know where we were going to sleep. We could see the worry on her little face so we assured her we would be okay. Coats on, we started for the door.

“You'll be okay,” she assured us. “Go home now.”

A few nights later we were getting ready to leave again, and you can guess what we heard. “You going home? You're a-scared of the dark. It's dark outside,” she said.

She didn't forget, and what she was thinking was written all over her face. At a mere three years old, our niece knew what it was like to be afraid of the dark and she cared enough to remind us.

I guess I can't stop wondering when kids stop caring, when forgiving and forgetting aren't a part of their makeup any more. I wonder when they remember one another's weaknesses and begin to exploit them, to turn against those they care for and instead use what they know to hurt one another.

It doesn't happen to the same degree with every child. And some kids simply refuse to hurt others; instead, they'll suck it up and try to work through the pain on their own. Sometimes that works and it teaches empathy. Other times it creates wound after wound that builds too many scars.

If all schools don't teach classes on a topic such as this, I wish they would. I've heard that some do because it's been reported that the technique used is similar to play-acting. A scenario is given and students act out both sides of a hurtful behavior until, hopefully, empathy is learned.

I have an idea about who could teach such a class. Actually, there are two little girls just perfect for the job. You've met them through this column and you won't find anyone more qualified. They know how to make the sun shine all the time, trust me.

Time to check out those cupboards, basements and attics

By Margi Washburn

A month or so ago hubby and I went to a holiday party. There was the familiar white elephant gift table with pretty, wrapped packages piled high and most of us were curious as kids about what was inside certain ones.

It was fun watching the unwrapping, then we would groan or gasp and watch as folks decided they wanted what someone else had. You remember how it is on Christmas morning with kids and their toys, only we were better-behaved than that. Really.

Hubby ended up getting a leather satchel which I promptly claimed for myself. I held onto it with both hands and kept a look on my face that I hoped would discourage anyone from wanting what we had.

I don't think anyone wanted my satchel. One of the most popular items was a George Foreman grill. I tried to understand why that was such a big deal; after all, we'd received one for Christmas a few years ago and I wasn't really impressed. (Gee, I hope our youngest isn't reading this.)

Maybe I should explain. If one fries burgers in a skillet, you wash one round surface. You put the pan in the sink and let it soak. It's easy. With the grill, I made a mistake. I let it cool down and it got all crusty. It seemed to take forever to clean it, so after I was done, the pretty, white oversized appliance went to live with other seldom-used items in my cupboard.

A week or so ago I happened to talk with the lady who won the grill at the party. She loves it. And she told me how she cleans hers, which is exactly how I'd heard you're supposed to. After you finish cooking and the grill is still warm, you wipe it with a damp sponge. Easy.

So, on a weekend with hubby watching, I dug out the grill. It was beautiful, all shiny and white. Miraculously, the cord was attached so I hadn't lost it. But the booklet was missing.

Ah, another miracle. I found it and guess what I learned? The grill was bought for me in the year 2000. The like-new appliance was five years old and it looked like we'd just taken it out of the box. Hubby just smiled and I knew why.

Throughout the years I have begged for and received a lot of things I thought I desperately wanted. An easel, a new steam iron, an iced tea brewer, a bread machine, a popcorn popper and I'm sure there are others. In fact, as I pulled out the grill I noticed a shiny silver thing with holes in it. Hubby was standing near the counter, so I set it there.

“What do you suppose this is?” I asked him.

“Don't know,” he said. He picked it up, turned it over, set it back down and shrugged.

“Think it goes in one of my pans?”

He nodded, then looked down at the collection of nearly-new pans. I pulled one out and the shiny pot fit nicely inside. A glass lid completed the ensemble.

“Why would that go together so perfectly?” I asked. We both looked at what I'd put together, then at each other.

Hubby laughed; there was no need to bring up for the umpteenth time that I'd bought something I would likely never use, so I took the pans apart and put them back in the cupboard.

The grill is sitting out now just waiting to be used. I'm making hamburgers tonight and I promise to fight the urge to use my favorite skillet. Besides, I just entered a contest to win an outdoor grill. I've always wanted one of those.

He lived in a silent world, and he filled it with laughter and love

By Margi Washburn

One of my favorite people in the world is an uncle on hubby's side of the family. Uncle Marvin looks an awful lot like Willie Nelson, lives in Georgia, and rarely makes it back to Kewanee. I miss seeing him driving around in his pickup truck on his way to a paint job, or stopping by forcoffee at his sister's house. You almost never see him without a giant coffee mug.

I may be the only one in the family who gets by with calling Uncle Marvin by his first name. To everyone else he's Uncle Rich, known by many and loved by us all. And no matter who it is you love, an uncle or aunt or cousin or friend, it affects you deeply when they get bad news.

We don't want our loved ones to get sick, lose their job, or worst of all, lose a child. That's exactly what happened early last Sunday morning.The first thing that went through my mind when we heard the news about our cousin Richie's untimely death, was how it had affected his dad. He was too many miles away to hug, and there wasn't anything we could do to comfort him over the telephone.

A steady stream of people came to Richie's calling hours, so we sat nearby and let old friends pay their respects, give hugs and shed tears. Even with all of those people around, I wanted to stand next to Uncle Marvin and be there for him in case he needed someone. It wasn't necessary because he was surrounded by Richie's brothers, sisters, and other family.At the funeral, even more people came.

Some wore suits and shiny shoes, some dressed in leather jackets and dusty cowboy boots. Some spoke in whispers, others cried, and a few communicated with sign language.All of us knew that Richie was born deaf, and as the pastor noted, he lived in a silent world, but one that he learned to adapt to. When someone couldn't understand what he was signing, he would write a note. He must have written a lot of them, because quite a few people laughed when that was mentioned.

Before pastor spoke, though, the first few notes of the song, “When I Get Where I'm Going” began playing and the tissues came out. The lyrics tell us, “don't cry for me down here” but most of us did anyway.We all found out some things his family shared with pastor. He had lots of friends, and a few of them did some strange things. For one, they painted him green on St. Patrick's Day. They also painted his shoes gray, but Richie just painted them black again and wore them anyway.

You know, Richie couldn't hear music but the selection for his funeral couldn't have been better. The second song was called, “Don't Laugh At Me” by Mark Wills. It's too easy for us to look at people who are different and if we don't laugh on the outside, maybe there's a chuckle inside. These lyrics should remind us how unkind that is: “I'm fat, I'm thin, I'm short, I'm tall. I'm deaf, I'm blind, Lord ain't we all.”

After pastor was finished, the last song was played. It's a familiar one, and it reached deep inside us and made us hear every word. “Jesus, Take the Wheel” played as we made our way past Richie one last time and out into the bright sunlight of an uncommonly warm fall afternoon.We drove slowly to the cemetery and it made me smile when I saw an elderly man on a bicycle waiting patiently for us to pass.

Just before we turned into Pleasantview, a young man on a bicycle saw us coming and rode on ahead. I found out later that his family couldn't make it because they were stuck in traffic, so they sent him to record the rest of the service on video.

It seemed inappropriate to speak the words, “what a beautiful day” when we were gathered together for such an occasion, but Richie would encourage us to say just that. Besides, I believe with all my heart that just as some of us were really hearing those songs for the first time yesterday, Richie was too. He was a special guy, and he had to have been a terrific friend to lots of people to have so many come to say goodbye.Looking out over that crowd, I'd have to say it really was a beautiful day, in a lot of ways.

When the story trips my tears, it's time to change the channel

By Margi Washburn

They say that the reading of scary books soars during troubled times. The same goes for the phenomenal success of horror and suspense movies. I am paraphrasing here, but Stephen King has said that we look to this kind of entertainment to take our minds off of what's happening all around us. We see what awful things are happening to fictional characters, believing that something that frightening could never happen to us.

I always thought my love of the macabre came from my mom. She brought sis and I up on scary stories of all kinds, but I think my sister tends to shy away from that kind of thing. Plenty of people think I'm a bit odd because I love cloudy days, storms of all kinds, horror flicks and books; it's been that way for me for as long as I can remember.

As hubby and I were settling down to watch television the other night, it was about time for the local news. The headlines for upcoming stories were given. Hubby had the remote control, something that's allowed in our home now and then, when we heard that the upcoming news would be about the retrial of Sarah Kolb. Click.

The next channel started in on an inside investigation at a Quad City pet store. We heard puppies yelping and I threw my hands up. “I can't watch that. Sorry.” I began to get out of my chair.

“Well, if you can't watch it, neither can I,” said hubby and he changed the channel one more time.

The lead story this time was on the Baptist church arsonists. At the time of this writing, there have been ten such unsolved fires. My heart broke – again.

Along with the above, stories were coming about rampant fraud with Hurricane Katrina money, a mom who mutilated her baby, another mom who left her child in a car that caught fire, and a husband and father who killed his wife and child. It was more than enough.

“Let's watch Seinfeld,” I said, with a catch in my throat.

I'm not ashamed that we ran away from the truth to watch a Seinfeld rerun for the umpteenth time. We've seen these shows so often we can say the lines before the actors do. But Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer seem like old friends. We even like Newman because he makes us laugh.

We do watch dramas, or comedy-dramas like Boston Legal. Who wouldn't want a lawyer on their side like Alan Shore? James Spader, in our humble opinion, is superb as an attorney for the underdog. We loved watching him get Betty White's character off for murder and for robbing convenience stores – with a gun, no less.

I love to watch Still Standing because the parents are so awful that I know we've done a much better job raising our own kids. Ghost Whisperer and Medium are fun, spooky escapism; besides being creepy, the shows depict loving relationships with family and friends.

As I get ready to leave for work after the nasty storm we had this morning, I notice that my book of choice is a suspenseful story, likely full of murder and mayhem. I'll read it knowing that there's nothing in my life nearly as bad as all of that.

I guess what it comes down to is this: I want to choose my drama. I don't like it to be so personal, so tragic to real families and friends and little puppies and kittens. I want people to make it their personal goal to be kind to one another, care for each other and look for the good in everyone. Let writers use their imaginations to come up with the bad guys and gals. We don't need any more reality television in our lives, do we?

A snowy, cold, windy and beautiful night for a birthday

By Margi Washburn


By now it's Friday and I'll bet most of you have forgotten what last Saturday afternoon and night was like.

The wind blew, the snow fell and driving in that stuff was a bona-fide nightmare, especially if you have a car with no front-wheel drive.

There are probably many families who throw one party a month to celebrate multiple birthdays. Lots of kids have several sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and other loved ones who buy gifts for them throughout their birthday month so they're pretty cool with having their party a little later. Just don't try and skip it altogether because they know where you live and they have your number.

It was dark when I got off of work Saturday. It was also one of the nastiest weather days we've had and we hadn't bought the gifts yet. Before we could do that, I had to throw in some supper and gulp it down. My phone was in my purse so I didn't notice that the grandkids had called three times to ask us where we were. I called to let them know it would be about half an hour.

Really dumb move.

We set out for the store to get a football and a soccer ball. There were two grandsons and a niece to buy for. You can probably see where this is going.

The snow came heavier as we left the house – in the car with no front-wheel drive. “Should we take the little red car?” I asked.

“No, I think this one'll do fine,” said hubby. I hung onto the door handle and prayed.

We slid our way to the store and I sent him to buy the sports equipment. I headed for coffee creamer, gift bags and birthday candles. He was very proud of his find and showed me the bargain he'd made – a football with a pump, just like our grandson wanted, along with the soccer ball his brother had asked for. I tried fitting the toys into their bags and it looked like everything would work.

We checked out, slid our way to the car and I noticed we should have picked up the kids five minutes before. And the snow was coming down harder. I felt a bit of panic as I dusted snow off the car windows.

As we made our way around the S curve, I almost asked The Question. It wasn't necessary. “You think we should go home and switch cars?” he asked.

I made the call to the grandkids. We got home, unloaded the trunk and put the gifts in the other trunk. Little Red was out of gas so we stopped to get some before picking up the kids. One of them was chipper, the other little guy looked like he'd been ready to call it a night.

We told him that his cousin was looking forward to seeing him again since it had been a while. “Yeah,” he said, “she'll probably tackle me like she did last year.” Who knew that eight-year-olds had such good memories?

We got to their great-grandma's house and while grandpa wrapped their gifts in the car, the kids caught up with one another. The gifts were brought in and placed on the counter and that's when it hit me: we forgot our niece's gift. I had a blank card in my purse; the money went in it and it went into the pile.

The kids decided after opening gifts and eating cake and ice cream that it would be fun to play outside – in the dark and the still-falling snow. Out they went with the new soccer ball and football. It didn't take long for the youngest to come in and stare at us with big sad blue eyes.

“My ball is lost,” he said.

Well, if you're going to play with a soccer ball in the snow, in the dark, you're likely to misplace it for a while. But grandpa found it and all was well.

A few minutes later, our niece came in with snow all over her hair. “Why didn't you wear your hat?” I asked.

“I don't have one,” she said.

“It's hooked to your coat.”

She smiled. “I like snow in my hair. It makes it look all glittery.”

I could see that.

Eventually the kids found their way back to the kitchen where we were gathering up things to go home. We said our good-byes, gave hugs and piled into the car. We dropped the boys off and we thought that this had been just another party, no big deal, until I heard the oldest birthday boy say,

“Hey! Grandpa got me a football and it has a pump!”

It was a beautiful night after all.

Sometimes a cheap turkey can be a pain in the neck

By Margi Washburn

Wednesday was a surreal day. Leaves were falling by the hundreds, the buzzy things most of us call ladybugs were out and about and in our hair, the sun had warmed us up to over 70 degrees and there was a sale on turkeys.

Halloween was over, Thanksgiving is looming and the media is freaking everyone out about bird flu. Hubby decided I should run out and grab turkeys before they caught a bug and made us sick. I’d just healed my aches and pains but went out and got a couple of gigantic turkeys to stick in the freezer.

As I type this my back is making funny twinges. I did something similar when we lived in Tucson. Back then I had a short fuse and the day came when turkeys were on sale for something like 29 cents a pound. I ran into a really big grocery story after work and headed for the meat department. It wasn’t hard to spot the sale.

About half a dozen women were gawking into the freezer where the turkeys were waiting. They all looked the same to me, but the lady shoppers seemed transfixed by the mound of cheap poultry. I lost my patience, or I never had any and I reached through the middle of the crowd, yanked a turkey out and slapped it in the cart. I’m sure I said something too, and I’m glad I don’t remember what it was.

The next day as I got ready for work I noticed I could only lift my left arm so far. Strange, but I got dressed and went on to work.

The range I could work my arm got less and less and the pain worse, so my supervisor took me to the emergency room. The doctor asked me if I’d recently moved anything heavy or lifted something I shouldn’t have. Nothing came to mind, but he gave me pain pills and we went back to work.

Well, I don’t take many meds so these hit me pretty hard. As a customer service representative, all I did was wear a headset and talk to customers. It became obvious that slurring my words wasn’t reflecting well on the company so I was asked to do some filing instead.

I giggled as I filed and before long, co-workers and my supervisor noticed that I wasn’t being serious about following the alphabet. Someone decided I should be given a ride home.

In the back of my mind I kept wondering what it was I did to bring on the pain. As often happens, when we’re not trying so hard to figure something out the answer comes.

I’d lost my temper, yanked the turkey and now it was turning into an expensive lesson.

That happens a lot. We get wrapped up in our jobs, our problems and in other peoples’ business and it ends up costing us. Our health suffers, so do our friendships. Sometimes we lose dear friends because we ignore them or we make promises we can’t keep.

My day had started early and was filled to the brim with running around and trying to accomplish things. Thankfully the memory hadn’t faded from the lesson learned in Tucson. I made it a point to enjoy the moments, the time spent with family, talking with friends and listening to what they were really saying. Don’t fool yourself - people know when you’re paying attention to them and when your mind is on other things.

This is the perfect time of year to slow down and look around. You will hear the opposite advice if you listen to the commercials that urge us to buy, buy, buy and hurry before it’s too late. I’ve done that, so you can learn from me. If you’re not careful, you could end up with a pain that no medicine can touch. You’re much too wise to let that happen, I’m sure of it.

Think more of others than you do of yourself

Just as I was about to nap, my muse gave me a swift kick with an idea for a column. Actually, I already had one, and if I do say so myself, it was a doozy. Hence this piece on narcissism.

The original idea was a rant on a utility company, and let's face facts: almost all of us could contribute a colorful soundbite on that subject, but that's not going to happen. These folks have bazillions of our hard-earned dollars, they want many more, and they have a yacht-load of lawyers, so let's just talk about them behind their backs. That's what the local coffeeshop is for.

On the way to the computer, I passed the ever-dwindling windowsill at the top of the stairs. There is less of it, thanks to Sarah the pup, and since she tore off half of the curtain and all of the rod last Saturday, there is only a shade there now.

Back to the subject, though, which is actually something we are all guilty of at one time or another. And there are some who practice this trait pretty much all the time. To put narcissism in the simplest of terms, one could say it's about oneself.

For example, say that friends have taken a trip out of state and you find yourself waiting for a phone call from them. Did they arrive safely? Are they having fun? When are they coming back?
Alas, the phone never rings. Never. You stew and fume and talk about how inconsiderate these friends are; after all, their lack of phone courtesy is ruining your life. Ah, there it is. It really is about you and how their behavior is making you feel.

Were you really concerned with their safe arrival and whether they were having fun? Maybe at first, but as the days crawled by, anger and frustration replaced whatever worries you had and by the time your friends get home, you're ready to punch them in the head. That is, if you're still speaking to them.

It doesn't take a trip away from home to set off this attitude. Haven't you run into someone from Kewanee you haven't seen for months or even years? You live in the same small town and it takes a chance meeting at a store or, more likely, our Hog Days festival before you see one another. Each of you are thinking the same thing: why haven't they called me? Maybe you really are different, though. Maybe you are simply happy to see a friend you haven't laid eyes on in a long while.

There is another example of this behavior that happens all too frequently. I see it as two people who both suffer from the same affliction in different ways at the same time. Stay with me here.

We get busy beyond belief with our job, family, a health issue or two, and a sudden emergency. The days go by and we haven't contacted close friends or even some family members because time got away and though we thought about calling or stopping by, we just couldn't fit it in.

Everyone needed us at once, and the hours turned into days and those turned into weeks.

The neglected person has gone from worried to hurt to angry. You have run yourself ragged, and when it dawns that you've neglected a loved one, your first feeling is guilt. Then you rationalize that so-and-so should understand; after all, you're close friends. Now you've got a good excuse and a sound reason for your behavior, so you shove the person from your mind and carry on with multi-tasking and feeling like no one understands what a busy person you must be.

What a bunch of hooey. One is hurt because they've been ignored. The other is hurt because they're overworked and no one understands them. Each is focusing on how someone else is making them feel when they both should care less about themselves.

When we can get to the point where we put another's welfare above our own, and leave it there, we'll find it doesn't matter whether we get that phone call, visit or e-mail. The only thing that will matter is how well we treat others, not how well they treat us.

It's kind of neat how our puppy knows that it's best to make those around her feel loved and wanted, even if now and then she falls from grace and eats things she shouldn't. Even a dog knows it's not all about them, it's about unconditional love.