Dogs made the whole trip worth it

Meet Thistle, my new yellow Lab friend. Well-behaved, happy and healthy--full of life and love and well worth the trip in a thunderstorm. Dogs rule.



Last Friday afternoon I headed toward Galva to do a feature interview. The sky didn’t look bad, just a few clouds here and there dotted the blue background so I didn’t pay as much attention to the weather as I did to the car behind me. It freaks me out when drivers feel the need to ride within kissing distance to the trunk of my car. I had never been to where I was going, so I wasn’t whizzing along at 55 mph. It was important to watch for the sign that would send me in the right direction.

All turned out well, though, and as I headed over lesser-traveled roads I got kind of excited. Soon I would get to meet some dogs and people who love dogs—a dream assignment.

Upon pulling in, a half a dozen pooches of different breeds greeted me with their versions of hello. Beautiful.

During the interview, I glanced up at a very tall window that showed a sky full of dark, churning clouds. The earlier blue background was gone, and the roof of the building was making sounds not unlike one would hear on Halloween in a haunted house. Then the rains came, complete with thunder and plenty of lightning.

We closed up the interview and I stared out the front door. During an apparent break in the monsoon I made a run for the car. Keep in mind, I no longer “run” anywhere, but as I walked really fast to the car I sent up a prayer that went exactly like this: “I don’t wanna die!” I repeated that line all the way, and once safely inside I followed up with, “Thank you, God.”

After a minute, I started down the road that now sported many large puddles of rain water. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the defroster was on full-blast. Bent over the steering wheel, I could see a gigantic piece of farm machinery heading straight for me. With no place to pull off, I veered right and started praying again. To my surprise, the driver pulled into a gravel drive ahead of me and I made it to the highway. Now all I had to do was make it home down Rt. 34.

The windshield wipers were going at warp speed but even that wasn’t enough as three semis buzzed past me and sent waves of water onto the windshield. More prayer, and soon I was at Walmart, huddled in a pathetic ball of pent-up fear and waiting once again for a let-up in the downpour. Eventually I made it inside, got what I needed and headed home.

It never occurred to me to ask if the interview I’d just done was worth it, or to complain (too much) about the timing of the storm while I was out in the country. All I had to do was load the pictures of the dog I’d just met onto the computer. Seeing his smiling face I immediately brought back the experience of meeting someone new, and hearing them share the love of what they do.

Jobs don’t get much better than this.

Please don't weirdify my happy place

Ah, Dad's and Mom's back porch. We spent so much time together here, talking and laughing and eating and making plans. Dad used to line the top rail all 'round with tomatoes from his garden, then invite anyone and everyone to take what they needed whenever they wanted. I go here in my mind every now and then because it truly is a "happy place" for me.



I had to laugh out loud the other day when I read the cartoon strip Get Fuzzy. The cat’s name is Bucky, the dog’s name is Satchel and their owner is Rob.

Bucky has no respect for Rob, often calling him Pinkie. He doesn’t think much of Satchel either; in fact, he considers himself the smartest of the three. But I’ve been following the storyline where Bucky decides to change his name to Steve because he believed most geniuses nowadays are named Steve. Bucky’s a genius, most men he knows of named Steve are geniuses, ergo, Bucky should change his name to Steve.

Rob dismissed Bucky’s fantasy for a little while, then felt bad about it so he bought Bucky a couple of outfits with the names of two famous Steves on them. If you’ve ever tried to dress up a cat, you can probably see where this is going. It wasn’t pretty, but Rob finally stuffed his cat into one of the outfits, and the line that sent me into a giggle fit was, “Why must you weirdify my happy place?”

Isn’t that the funniest thing? I mean, have you ever been in your happy place when someone’s come along and just messed up your whole space? Maybe they dampened your mood or dismissed your one-of-a-kind idea. In effect, they weirdified your happy place.

I’ve decided to add this little phrase to my vocabulary. It’s my favorite one at the moment, though there are other ditties I like to toss out now and then.

If someone shares a good experience, I often say, “Cool.” That never gets old to me. “Cool beans” is another popular phrase around here. Many times folks will hear us use Seinfeld-isms, those are our own private jokes; we haven’t run into too many people who get what we’re saying and that’s OK.

Stephen King has inspired a few favorite phrases, though I’m not willing to put my job on the line and use any of them in this newspaper. They’re a hoot though, and I like using one every now and then just to see the look on a certain someone’s face. It’s, well, cool.

Now my father-in-law said some funny stuff. One favorite was, “gosh-darn-it-to-heck anyway!” I tend to use that one often, but one we all remember is, “Let’s get goin’ so we can get back.” Thing is, I say that and mean it, just like Dad did.

That reminds me that this Sunday is Father’s Day. My dad passed on over 15 years ago, and my father-in-law has been gone for six years. We miss him something fierce and not just on Father’s Day. He was such a big part of our lives in so many ways and what we wouldn’t give to turn back time and spend more of it with Dad.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? Gosh darn it to heck, I’ve gone and weirdified my happy place. And that’s not cool.

If your dad is still a part of your family, do something extra special for him this weekend. You’ll be glad you did, and so will he.

Thanks, Uncle Mick - for everything

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Uncle Mick. For everything.

Optimize your "dash"

I wrote this column and turned it in early this time around. I had no idea that Uncle Mick would pass away after I wrote it. I'll tell you something, though, and that is our Uncle Mick optimized the stuffing out of his "dash". He lived, laughed, loved and if it wasn't for him, hubby and I would probably have never met. I shudder to think about that. Thank you, Uncle Mick, and please...say hi to Dad, Luke, and everyone else who went on ahead. We'll see you someday. Love always, Margi



Memorial Day is in the rearview mirror and we seem to be hurtling toward the Fourth of July. Yes, June is here but as most of us know it seems to take all of two minutes before it’s time to change the monthly calendar page. Slight exaggeration, true, but time does fly.

Most folks are happy just to be outdoors. We break free from our homes and workplaces and spill out into parks and malls and vacation spots. Happy thoughts break into our daydreams as we imagine life in the fun and sun.

That is, unless you’re mired deep in a struggle you didn’t ask for and would gladly give away. Just because it’s almost summertime and the livin’ is supposed to be easy doesn’t mean our friends and family aren’t dealing with some major issues.

One night before I headed for bed, I hesitated outside my little office. Something told me to check my e-mail, and yet I felt dread. But I’m a nosy sort (still) so in I went and it wasn’t long before I wished I hadn’t.

There were e-mails about friends and family whose illnesses had worsened, along with a death of a friend and former family member. Another message nearly brought a headache but I pushed it aside to deal with the more important needs of the night. It was time for prayer and sleep; one happened right away, the other took a long while.

The Sunday before Memorial Day, I watched a church service that honored members who had passed away since last year at this time. The pastor read from a poem by Linda Ellis, called The Dash.

The dash refers to the line between the dates on a tombstone. A person is born, hence the first date, and of course the second date represents the year he or she died. It stands to reason that the dash stands for what this person did with their life.

I listened to this verse with interest:

“So, when your eulogy's being read/with your life's actions to rehash.../would you be proud of the things they say/about how you spent your dash?”

It made me thankful that I’ve at least written something about my life thus far, and it made me wish all the more that those I care about would write about their lives too. Our “dashes” are worth the effort, and if you can contribute life stories about your loved ones who have passed on, please consider doing that too.

Here are a few triggers to get you going: Jot down birth dates, family members, holiday memories, houses you/they have lived in, reunions, birthday parties, favorite songs/TV shows, etc., pets, hobbies, school friends. There are plenty more ideas and once you get going you’ll be amazed at what else pops into your head.

Yes the weather has turned for the better and it’s good to spend time outdoors and away from the TV. Still, when you have a few minutes in the early morning or at the end of the day, why not start the story of your “dash” before any more time passes?

Here’s another favorite part of the poem:

“For it matters not, how much we own;/the cars....the house...the cash./What matters is how we live and love/and how we spend our dash.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

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.