Disneyland Lights..

I decorated the fireplace mantle today. Nothing new, just the usual stuff: faux greens, faux poinsettias in whites and brilliant bronze, with glitter, no less. And trees: stylized gold and glittery trees, and bottle brush trees in white. And two cherubs.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just a bunch of stuff I already had, and have used in the past. Before I added all the poinsettias, I threw (literally) a string of white lights on the faux greens and pushed and poked them into place.

By the time I had finished putting it all together, it was dusk. I thought it looked fine. And then, I turned on the little white lights. And it was magical.

That always happens: add the little twinkling lights and it's magic. I've known that for years, ever since I saw the lights in Disneyland. There is nothing more magical than being in Disneyland on a balmy summer night, watching the world enjoy the Enchanted Kingdom illuminated by the little white lights in all the trees.

In fact, we refer to them as Disneyland lights. As lovely as they are on the tree and on the mantle, the kids drew the line at having them encircle the bathroom mirror. I tried that one year.....

I am starting to make the switch from the typical Disneyland lights to the newer LED lights. One tree has the old lights, the other two have LEDs. Yes, I know, three trees. Over the top? Not really. Not to me, anyway.

One of the things I truly need this Christmas season is to be surrounded by my own magical kingdom. I want to get lost in the beauty of the season. The true meaning of the season. And all the traditions that have made Christmas what it is to me.

My family will be here for Christmas. All those delightful grandchildren, my own children, and all the children I have “collected” over the years. They will like all the lights I have put up. They understand about magic and magical times.

And when the season's over, I may just leave some of the lights up.

And keep the magic....

Cobblestones....

Someone was talking about battles today. About being kind to others because you never know what battles they may be fighting. I have thought about that all day because it struck a chord with me.

And now, of course, I'm going to tell you why....

It was more than a decade ago, in the early spring. My stepmother was concerned about my father and wanted me to come take a look at him. Being both a dutiful daughter, and a concerned nurse, I went on my lunch break.

Daddy was sitting upright on the couch, with his arms spread across the back of the couch, on each side. I gasped: it was typical behavior of someone who cannot get enough air. Someone in congestive heart failure.

After talking to him, and listening to his lung and heart sounds, I called his physician. I ignored his “brush off” and asked him point blank: “are you going to admit him to the hospital, or do I need to call someone else?” He admitted him.

Three days later, not responding to treatment, Daddy coded and ended up in ICU. I spent every waking hour with him. Each day, as I went to see him, I walked across the cobblestones in front of the hospital.

And, when Daddy died, I went back to work at that very same hospital. Each morning, as I walked into the hospital to go to work, I saw those same cobblestones. And each day, I had the same thought: this is the last place where Daddy was ever outside. I wheeled him, in a wheelchair, over those cobblestones and into the hospital.

He didn't come out alive. Losing him was unbearable and walking over those cobblestones was part of my healing, I guess....

One day, as I walked over them, thinking about Daddy, a man I know interrupted my thoughts with a supposedly cheery greeting: “Hey, smile! Nothing's THAT bad!!” And he kept walking. So did I: kept walking and trying not to cry.

I know he didn't intend any meanness by his comment. He was merely reacting to the fact that I was not smiling, I'm sure.

“Each of us is fighting our own battle......” Those words rang so true this morning.

And about a week later, I happened to see that man again, inside the hospital, in the hallway. I decided to tell him why I wasn't smiling that day. I shared my story with him, and when he started to apologize, I waved him off. No need to apologize, just understand:

Everyone is fighting some sort of battle, at one time or another.....

Friends....

I have been a lucky person. My life has been rich and full and joyful. I can say that and mean it, even though I have had my share of sorrow. For I have the secret to happiness, and it's friends. Friends like you.

For reasons I don't understand, there is always some measure of good in my world. Before the internet, it was a letter arriving in the mail, or a phone call, or a happenstance meeting in the grocery store or on the street. My friends are always there for me, as I am always there for you.

Since the internet has come along and changed our lives, you have found me sitting alone at home, wishing someone knew how I am feeling. And you must know, because you always know when to send me something uplifting to raise my spirits, or something silly to make me laugh and forget the funk I was in.

You send me little bits and pieces of beauty and joy, in the form of glorious photos and/or inspiring words. I have no idea how you know just exactly what I need and when I need it, but you do. You send me things that give me reason to pause and examine how I am feeling, or how I am looking at things in my life.

You help me see things as they really are: the glass is half full, not half empty. Life is valuable for the simplest reasons. And those with the greatest needs are usually the ones who can see that best....

The last time I saw you, we both knew I wouldn't be back. You were well on your way to recovering from your illness and you didn't need to see a home health nurse again. And we both didn't want our friendship, forged of your needs and strengths, to end.

And so, we exchanged email addresses. I want you to know that there are only two patients I have shared that information with, and you were the first. It seemed so simple, we could “talk” to each other, once in awhile, and keep in touch. I had no idea it would be so much more.

Your messages lift my spirits. I have to smile when you tell me you enjoy reading my blogs. It's nice to know that they are entertaining you, in some small way. I hope you continue to enjoy them and more importantly, I hope you continue to send me your uplifting email messages.

I am grateful to have met you, and to have become your friend. And yes, I'll bet you've guessed by now:

This one's for you, Hazel!

They Look Like Onions....

I was in the hardware store yesterday. I call it Orchid Surprise... Several years ago, I went there looking for marigolds for the front flowerbeds. As I walked in to the indoor plant area, I spotted beautiful lavender orchids. What a surprise....

Yesterday, I needed spackle. Long story, and not very interesting.... While I was there, I decided to look for bulbs. Narcissus bulbs. Paperwhites, if you will. I know I'm a little late planting them, but it couldn't be helped: I've been very busy!

Well, I finally found the bulb display, such as it was. The amaryllis bulbs were all gone. The individual narcissus bulbs were also all gone. All they had was a box with 4 bulbs, an ugly green, plastic pot, and some soil. For too much money.

Not what I wanted, so I didn't get it.

I decided later, in the early evening, to try again. Ever the optimist, I walked into the hardware store through the garden department. Maybe we can build something together, ya think? Alas, no bulbs of any kind.

Undeterred, I walked inside the store. A young man, restocking Christmas items, directed me to the next aisle over and pointed west, with his head. I hurried to the next aisle and found only Christmas lights of all types. No Paperwhites. No bulbs at all.

Bummer.

One last try. I decided to go to The Orange Place and see if they had turned up their doing dial. Again, I walked optimistically into the garden department. Again, I asked the young clerk if they had “bulbs, you know, Paperwhites?”

She looked at me blankly, as several other young people had already. Then, she had an inspiration: “Have you looked in Electrical?” I winced.

Just then, another young woman walked up, wearing her orange apron with her name written on it with a Sharpie pen. She didn't know where they were, either, because she has only worked at this store for two days. But, she did call the garden department manager......another very young man.

He suggested that I look right inside the store, where the indoor plants are displayed. And so, I did. Lo and Behold, they had bags of bulbs! I was able to purchase 12 paperwhites and 1 “Red Lion” amaryllis.

A total of six young people didn't know what I was talking about. One sent me to Christmas light bulbs, and another suggested the Electrical Department. The young woman who finally helped me find them said to Miss Electrical Department: “you know, they look like onions!”

As it turns out, I'm not too late to plant them. They've already sprouted in the bag.

Did I mention? I love Paperwhites....

To Life!

It's that time of year.... Seasons converge, mornings and evenings are cool, yet the sun feels warm in the afternoon, games on television, football, basketball both college and pro.

The stores are selling decorations, and Christmas things. Lights, and baubles, and faux greenery. It is still too early for the real greens, lined up like soldiers, in parking lots, waiting for the right family to choose them....

And yet, it's still warm, still sunny, still November....or at least the end of it.

Bright and early this morning, as promised, my trees arrived. No, not Christmas trees; Raymond Ash trees. Tall and skinny, with green and purple leaves. New trees. New promises. New lives.

It has been more than a year since I stood in the living room, looking out the window, as the mighty Modesto Ash trees in the front yard crashed to the ground, felled by a chain saw. I remember, clearly, the pain I felt. The horror of not only having a “friend” die, but of having to witness it, too.

I never doubted that I would replace those trees. I fully expected to do it much sooner than now. But time and circumstances have come together: now is the time, and those sticks in the front yard are the trees. Perhaps there are other trees, other places, other times, but this just feels right.

I remember when my fallen friends were planted. I was five years old. I don't remember where my parents bought those trees but they, too, arrived on the back of a nursery truck. They sat in the yard, in their nursery containers, waiting patiently for Daddy to plant them.

And they were sticks, too.....all those years ago.

Funny, before they were cut down, I couldn't put my arms all the way around my friends. They had grown that much. But then, it was half a century later, too....

As I grew, the trees grew. From sticks to monuments. Monuments to time and patience and inevitability. And then, inevitably, they grew old, and weak, and had to come down.

Their life mimicked mine. They lived through the same family milestones that I did. The same history that I did. Tall, steadfast, comforting. No wonder it was so hard to lose them.

And now, the cycle begins again. The new trees are here. They will be planted today, and nourished, and encouraged to grow. Yet, it will be different. It dawns on me that, unlike before, I will not be around when these trees are half a century old. I will not sit in their shade and listen to their leaves rustle in the gentle breeze.

No, these are not my trees. We will not grow old together. These trees are my belief....

In the future.

Musings About a Norman Rockwell Christmas....

It's raining quite hard here this afternoon. The house is warm and cozy; the Christmas trees add a festive glow to the living room and family room. It's beginning to feel like Christmas to me.

There's a lot I want to do before Christmas, and I know I won't be able to get it all done. Like a kid at a smorgasbord, I always fill my plate too full. And I like it that way.

I love the holidays and the coming together with family and friends. I don't think it's a coincidence that the happiest celebrations occur in the dead of winter. Crops are harvested and the land isn't accepting new seeds yet. It's a picker-upper in the hardest season of the year.

It's not without its sadness, either. This is the season of the year when I miss my parents the most. All my Christmas memories contain moments with my parents. I still decorate my house--her house--and hope my mother will like it. I still miss making Daddy's favorite walnut and date treats, just for him.

I hear a lot about the economy these days. Overheard sentences, in the mall, begin with “Since the economy is so bad....” and I feel badly for those people. Not because they can't buy the biggest, best gifts but because that makes them feel bad.

The holidays are not about gifts. True, December sales support merchants throughout the year, or they used to, but that's not the point, either. If you think about it, where would the economy of your town be if the merchants didn't have good sales?

Would they stay open? Or would friends and neighbors of yours who are employed directly or indirectly in retail still have jobs? Would you still have a job? See? It is a valid concern. At least, if you are affected by the outcome.

But that's not the point, either.

I used to dislike Norman Rockwell for his unrealistic portrayals of holiday scenes. No one has everybody around the holiday table anymore. Or so it seems. And then I realized what his pictures are about: they are about expectations. Soldiers off fighting wars, imagining holiday celebrations back home. Those pictures were the epitome of dreams. And expectations for another time and place.

I have expectations of myself, too. Expectations that I will accomplish certain tasks by a certain time. I will bake and cook and sew and wrap presents and everything else I have thought of to do. I will be able to provide an appropriate ambiance in my home for all the children and grandchildren. Therefore, Christmas will be a certain, wonderful way..... And what if I don't meet my own expectations?

And that, my friends, is the point: do I have to live up to my own expectations? No. Do I need to lower my expectations? No. What do I do? Live. Just live. Get up each morning and do what I can do in that day.

Rest when I need to. Eat when I'm hungry. Sleep when I'm tired. Work when I have to. And find some way to appreciate all the things I do. And all the people I am. And all the good things in my life.

And the rest will just happen....

Leftovers....

What else would you call people who have been married and then divorced? Especially if the ex-spouse remarries. It makes one feel redundant, kinda.

Lots of things qualify as leftovers. I have been dealing with them this week. I am helping a friend sort through all those family papers that are leftover when someone dies. Actually, several family members have died over the years and he is stuck with all the leftovers.

I am helping because I can be slightly more objective. Well, not really. All I did was save everything in better boxes and better order than they were before. And it's been quite a project.

You can learn a lot about another person just by watching them deal with family memorabilia. He is quite sentimental, it seems. Letters upon letters upon letters. From grandparents to parents. Aunts to cousins. From servicemen in Vietnam. Or Europe. Or anywhere.

Marriage licenses. Birth certificates. Wills and Last Testaments. Mortgage papers. Canceled checks. All those things that seem so important. And probably were, at some other time.

It's hard, though, to let go of the leftovers. They are tangible pieces of one's history. They represent where he came from, and who he grew up with, and where. Yearbooks, scrapbooks, training manuals, lettermen's letters, and Vietnam service medals.

Value can only be determined by the holder of the memories. The leftovers only have meaning to the one who is left behind. The one who is trying to keep everything of value, after determining what is valuable. And what is not.

For now, all those treasures are organized in plastic tote boxes, stored safely in his attic. Someday, when it's cold and rainy outside, he can look through them and decide what to keep. And what to throw away. There's no rush: they're safe right where they are. Waiting.

And there are other leftovers: things from another time in my life, too. They have been sorted and given away, thrown away, or kept for another day. One very special thing I found: I have many of the Hallmark Star Trek Christmas ornaments. They are leftovers from other times, other places, other celebrations.

Enough time has passed to make them usable again. I have taken them out of the attic and will use them on the Christmas tree in the family room this year. A new generation of little ones will be delighted to hear Spock say ”Live long and prosper!”

And we will....

My Vessel....

My back hurts tonight. It's been a long, busy day and I'm tired. When I woke up this morning, I was in a bit of a funk: so many things going on right now, and I don't know how any of them will turn out.

I never imagined that I would near the end my career because of a disability. And I still don't know if that's the case. I just know that my back hurts every day. And every night, too. Not enough to take super-duper pain killers, but enough to make me tired. A kind of bone-weary tired.

Everything I think about feels heavy. Solutions seem to evade me. The truth is, it's not my decision to make. I can only sit back and let things play out the way they're meant to be. I don't have the power; others do. I have to acquiesce to them. And it's hard.

I'm not used to being in such a dither. I always knew where I was going and what I intended to do when I got there. That is, until this past summer. The physical stresses of my job caused a back injury. And now my future is a question mark of sorts...

I know that I will be fine, no matter what happens. I know that I have the strength to carry on and the will to thrive, not just survive. I always have and I always will. Just is....

And this morning, when I woke up, there was a song in my head. I was amazed that I remembered the words:

I will sail my vessel
Till the river runs dry.
Like a bird upon the wind,
These waters are my sky.

I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
Till the river runs dry.

Now, at the end of my day, I am listening to Garth Brooks sing the song. I am feeling better now. I have accomplished a lot today and that feels good. I truly am getting stronger. Doing my exercises, walking, dancing. Living. Not waiting for something to happen to me....

I have a lot of my life left. I have things that I haven't done yet. There are places to see. Books to read. Pictures to paint. Love to share. Life to experience....

Choose to chance the rapids,
And dare to dance the tide....

That's my plan!

Loverly....

All I want is a room somewhere,

Far away from the cold night air.

With one enormous chair....

Oh, wouldn't it be lovely!

I remember driving up to the Big Burg with my parents one Sunday afternoon. We went to the theater and saw “My Fair Lady.” My mother smiled for days. True, it was Audrey Hepburn in the movie, but Mother loved Julie Andrews, and musicals, and happy endings.

Not unusual for someone who suddenly went to an orphanage when she was 8. And not surprisingly, she never wanted to see “Annie” despite its happy ending.

So, this morning, I am thinking about my mother, happy endings, and enormous chairs. Well, mostly about the enormous chair. I have one, you know. Technically, it's called “a chair and a half” but it's really just enormous.

When I bought it, the saleslady assured me that it would “wear like iron.” Hmmmm....doesn't iron rust? Oh well. She was right: it has been the stage for many a story. Silently providing a comfortable backdrop for snuggling, watching TV, or even conversation. Quiet, significant conversations between grandmother and grandchild, mother and child, or father and child.

Cousins have occupied it. Or rather, used it as a launch pad, or landing spot, or even as a bed. The oldest, tallest grandchild sits in it sideways to watch TV. The next oldest tried to use it as a bed, with his legs hanging over on to the coffee table.

Whatever its assigned task, it is enormous, comfortable, tolerant, and red. Very red. Kitty Bartholomew, the interior designer, says everyone should have a red chair: it emboldens reticent guests to join the conversation. Ah, I can attest to that.

Conversation starter, nest, locale for a tete-a-tete, launch pad, or landing spot, it truly is lovely, to me.

Or is that lov-ER-ly?

Aftermath....

This is my favorite time of Thanksgiving Day: the dishes are done, the kitchen is cleaned up, it's dark now and the candlelight is flickering. I am so full that I probably won't eat again for a week. Maybe two....

The house is quiet and the football game is over. The giggles have died down and Noelle is typing away on her laptop: sending an email to her mother. She showed me the email and it is liberally sprinkled with emoticons. Cute.

The day started rather early and most of it was very busy, preparing for the big meal. I had a good helper this year: Noelle made the pie filling, fluted the edge of one of the pies (I did the other), made the cranberry sauce, and the onion dip. This morning, she coated the turkey with canola oil before I put it in the oven.

We have plans for tomorrow, too. She wants to decorate the Christmas tree. I don't usually put the tree up this early but, for her, I will. She doesn't have a tree at home: her parents celebrate Hanukkah. She is very excited about having a tree that she has decorated.

At ten years of age, she has celebrated every Christmas at Grandma's house. Her memories of the holidays are memories of my home and my celebrations. That's a big responsibility. And now, she wants to do more of the preparations, and be more involved in the plans.

That seems reasonable. And fun....

Giving Thanks..

The turkey's defrosting. The grocery shopping list is a mile long. Maybe two miles. The house is sparkling clean and ready for company.

This morning, I'm on my way north, to the Big Burg, to pick up my granddaughter. She will spend the rest of the week with me, enjoying the holiday. She has only called me about ten times this morning. I'm so glad her mother gave her a cell phone.....

She is bringing her new laptop, purchased for her by her father. He has been an absent father for eight of her ten years of life. He came to see her a couple of weekends ago, and they had a wonderful time. She wanted to know where she came from, and now she does. And the doors are open; the lines of communication re-established. That's a good thing.

We will be busy for the next few days. Cooking, baking, decorating and just hanging out together. She is wise beyond her years at some moments, and a little, baby child at others. Typical of her age, and very endearing, to me.

She doesn't expect to be entertained. She will be happy just to hang out with me, and do whatever I am doing. She can spend hours in her room and idle away her time in thoughts. Or TV. Or now, her laptop. I have a book to give her: Abe Lincoln Grows Up, by Carl Sandburg. I bought it for her at the Lincoln Museum in Springfield, Illinois.

I think about her wherever I go, whatever I am doing. And the Museum gift shop was all about finding mementos for my grandchildren. Aidan received a book of Lincoln's speeches. Mckay was thrilled with a mint set of Lincoln pennies. Hopefully, Noelle will like her book.

And read it, too.

How we spend the next few days is not as important as the fact that we will be together. We will have time to talk, to listen, to share, and to laugh.

For that, I'm thankful.

Stop the World!!!

I want to get off....

Well, maybe not leave completely. I just want things to slow down. At least a little. I just had a lovely vacation and yet, little more than a week later, I'm back in the rut. Sort of.

It's not really that bad. I have lots of good things in my life. I'm fortunate, to be sure. What I miss, at times, is what I remember as the simpler times in my life. The peaceful times when things happened at a slower pace.

I was thinking today about something very mundane: hanging clothes on the line. I remember shaking out the diapers and hanging them, two to a clothespin, along the wire clothesline in my backyard. I would go out with an old rag, while the clothes were washing, and clean off the wires.

When the clothes were washed, I filled the basket and carried them out in the backyard. It was usually a sunny day and, if it was breezy, the clothes would dry quickly. I would be back out in a few hours to gather them off the clothesline and fold them into the basket.

Nothing smells better than sheets hung out to dry. To me, anyway.

Long, leisurely days filled with babies and diapers and clothes hanging on the line. Pulling weeds with a toddler's “help.” Sweeping, mopping, dusting and cleaning with a little one on my hip. Ah, the antithesis of a feminist, I guess.

There were times to rush and there were times of great activity, too. But mostly, there seemed to be plenty of time. For everything.

I do think the pace of our culture has sped up. I know that leisurely times are few and far between, for me, anyway. There is always something that needs to be done right now and something that needed to be done yesterday. And then, there's always tomorrow. Or the next day.

I also know that some of the things that seem important at the time, really aren't. I remember staying up most of the night, the night before Easter, to make cupcakes that looked like Easter baskets. I dyed some coconut green, for the grass, and put miniature jelly beans on top, like Easter eggs. I used pipe cleaners (remember them?) to make “handles” for the Easter basket/cupcakes.

I was so proud of my creations. I just knew that my kids would love them. They looked so festive. How could I have known that my kids wouldn't like coconut? To this day, my kids don't like coconut. I could have gotten some sleep instead.....

Maybe it's just my rose-colored glasses: things seemed so simple and so sweet back then. I realized at the time how good my life was and I did appreciate it immensely. I had the best of everything: family, home, purpose, and sweet little babies.

And now those babies have babies of their own. And life has gotten more and more complex. And the earth is spinning much faster than it seemed to back then. Or not....

I think I'll just sit down and savor the moment....

Another Day....Another Lesson....

Sometimes, the lessons are more gentle than other times. No bolt of lightening, no clap of thunder, nothing negative, really. Just the way it made me feel about myself. I didn't like it.

Life happens. It happens a little differently for each of us. The idea is: you do things, you mess up, and you learn from it. Or something like that....

So, I was headed into the office this morning, just before lunch time, to turn in some paperwork. I had to stop in front of the elementary school, as the guy in front of me wasn't moving. Or signaling, or anything.

I couldn't tell if there was a small child in the crosswalk, so I sat behind him, patiently. Within about two to three minutes, four cars had lined up behind me, and the car in front was still not moving. I was on the phone (hands free, of course) with my boss and I needed to get going. She needed to talk to me and she was waiting for me. In the office. Downtown. Not here, behind the blue car.

Honk, honk....(not loud, just a tap on the horn, really)

Finally, a car on the side of the street pulled out and the blue car pulled into the spot. As I drove past him, we glared at each other. I didn't like waiting and he didn't like being honked at. Oh well. And then it happened: as I looked at his face, I made a judgment. He doesn't mind waiting because he doesn't have a job.

How do I know that? I don't. And that is what made me feel bad. I jumped to a conclusion, based on my irritation and my own view of things. And then, to make matters worse, I remembered when someone else did the same thing to me.

I was a new nurse, working on the night shift, 11P to 7A, on a med-surg unit. I had graduated from school, passed boards, moved with my family into a new house, and started a new job, all in just a few months' time. I was tired all the time, it seemed.

Staffing was different, back in those days. There were 3 or 4 nurses' aides, 1 or 2 LVNs, and usually just one, maybe two, RNs on duty for the night. The aides tended to the patients' basic needs, the LVNs gave all the oral medications and pain shots, and the RN “owned” the IV's. I used to go in to work early, just so I could get all my IV bottles and additive solutions ready before I had to start running around.

Literally, we ran. Sometimes, the aides would bring back some food for me, when they took their breaks. I learned, pretty quickly, to pack something to bring to work to eat. Breaks were impossible, for the RN. No one else on the floor could do anything with the IV's, and they weren't on pumps back then, so there was no warning when they decided to run out of fluid.

Changing IV bottles, restarting IV's, giving IV antibiotics “piggy back” to the IV, changing the tubing, and redressing the IV site was an all night affair. Plus, there was usually a patient receiving iced-saline lavage, or needing bladder irrigation after a prostate surgery, and those were RN-only functions, too.

So, when I got home in the mornings, I was very, very tired. I usually passed my husband, at the stoplight, as he headed for work. I would make sure the kids ate breakfast, and pack their lunches, then head off for bed and try to sleep.

It started almost as soon as we moved and the kids changed schools. The ten-in-the-morning phone calls. Even though I was trying to sleep, I had to leave the phone on, kids, you know. And so, when it rang, I answered quite sleepily: “hello?....”

And it was always the same person at the other end. The secretary in the office at school. Usually, it was Matthew who forgot his lunch. Once in awhile, it was Robbie. Always, it was me who had to get up, get dressed, and take it to school.

The secretary was obviously not pleased with me. How could I let my child go off to school without his lunch? And now, at ten in the morning, I'm still in bed? Gosh, what an awful mother! I know she tried to hide her disgust but I could feel it.

Finally, after about half a dozen phone calls over the course of a couple of weeks, she was exasperated with me. She asked me why I was still in bed in the middle of the morning. And I answered her question with a question of my own: “what were you doing at 2 o'clock this morning?” And she answered that she was “sleeping, of course!”

Ah, my chance, at last. “Well, I was not sleeping. I was giving IV medications to hospital patients.”

There was a silence that lasted a very long time. And then the floodgates opened: she couldn't apologize enough for what she had thought about me. And I told her it was okay. It was quite understandable, from her point of view, to think that everybody works days and sleeps nights.

She wouldn't let me come down to the school with Matthew's lunch money. She said she would take care of it and I could send it with Matthew the next day. I thanked her for her kindness and she apologized once again.

And so it was: Matthew forgot, she paid for his lunch, and I paid her back. For three years or so.

So, Guy in the Blue Car, wherever you are: I'm sorry for what I thought about you.

Of all people, I should know better....

Straight, No Chaser...

It's a beautiful fall day in Podunk. The sky is hazy but the sun is shining brightly. The dogs are taking a sun bath on the back lawn. The flowers are still blooming, though not as profusely as a couple of weeks ago.

It's my day off, too. I went out for breakfast this morning, then hit the grocery store. And now, the groceries are put away, the washer and dryer are humming along and I've had a little catnap....Things are always better on a day off.

Just twenty-four hours ago, I was rushing. Trying to finish up things at work. It has been quite hectic at work recently and yesterday afternoon was no exception. I kept looking at the clock. I really don't think it was moving at all....

Finally, the work day ended and I rushed home. I had just enough time to get dressed up and head out the door. To the big burg, north of Podunk. To a concert. I've had the tickets for six months. There was no way I could know how busy we would be at work yesterday.....

I first heard about the group right here on Eons. From my friend, TestofF8th. Ten young men who met at Indiana University. Ten young men with the voices of angels. No instruments. No background music. No lavish productions. Just ten young men with beautiful voices. Singing. A Capella.

As the theater lights dimmed, the audience stilled to a hush, and it began. The stage lights came up, someone on the stage counted “one, two....very quietly, and there they were: in their shiny suits, singing such wonderful tunes.

Song after song. Some old, some fairly new. Some inspiring, and all with a sense of humor. Some rock, some soul, and even some Lady Gaga. Each number was punctuated with wild applause as it ended. Some of the songs they sang, I have seen them perform on YouTube. Some I have heard other artists sing.

And yes, I sang along. I couldn't help it. I was enjoying myself. Somehow, the backache I came home from work with was gone. I wasn't tired anymore. The rushing was over and the evening was delightful. Worth the six month wait, truly.

The interesting thing, to me, about this group is that they are so ordinary. In an extraordinary way. No gimmicks, no props, and not even any programs. Somehow, they have stripped the experience of any unnecessary components. No set decorations. No instruments. No gimmicks.

Just ten young men, singing like angels...

Cannibals, Christians and Crashes....

I remember, as a child, watching Victory At Sea with my father. He was in the Marines in World War II, and traveled across the world on Navy ships. He was over the side, in the water, and on the beach, too.

And that is all I know....

He never talked about his service during the war. From his demeanor, I know that he was very proud to serve his country. But he saw no reason to talk about it later. Oh, there was the one time when he was on some Pacific island, and the natives saved his platoon from the Japanese soldiers....

Something about their being cannibals, if I remember.....and something about the fact that most of the men in my father's group were wearing crosses around their necks. It seems the cannibals were somewhat Christianized, to coin a word. They didn't eat Christians.

Nothing else. He would watch the program and make a casual comment about something that he remembered doing. But nothing I can remember.

I do remember the story of his coming home, though. He contracted malaria while serving in the jungle areas of remote Pacific islands. He was quite sick and quite yellow, or so he told me. He was to be airlifted off the island and back to a hospital for treatment.

The plane was full of wounded and sick Marines. And it crashed on take-off. Somehow, another plane flew in and took the Marines out to a hospital. And Daddy was released and sent back to the US. It was the summer of 1945, before Hiroshima, and he “missed” the invasion of Japan.

And he came home.

I know he was injured more than once because, when I was about 8, he had some shrapnel removed from his back. He needed the dressing on the wound changed twice a day, according to the physician, and my mother just couldn't bring herself to do it. And so, I did it.

I remember that it was strange to see such a deep hole in my father's back, and I knew that it needed to be cared for in order to heal. I was just surprised that I became his “nurse” at such a young age. I remember that it seemed to take forever to heal, but it finally did.

I have been watching WWII in HD on the History Channel. I have learned a lot more about what happened back then, and I have watched closely when the story is about the South Pacific.

I guess I hope to see my father......

Dilemma du Jour....

Ah, the sweet smell of victory.....

No, not the Giants winning the World Series. Or the Badgers winning yesterday. Although those victories were great, this is more important to me. Sort of.

You see, there was a bit of a brouhaha between my television service provider and some of my favorite cable channels. I have been without HGTV for more than 24 hours! It seems that the channels wanted more money from the provider, and the provider balked.

Of course, I learned about it from my trustworthy news source: Facebook. I couldn't believe my eyes, but there it was: HGTV posted a message asking me to complain to my service provider because they removed HGTV, the Food Channel, DIY, the Cooking Channel, and GAC from my television service.

Oh Horrors! What am I to do? No House Hunters? No Holmes on Homes? That will just never do! Especially with the holidays coming. How can I decorate my house just like the White House if I don't see the program showing me how it is decorated?

And gracious sakes alive, how will I stuff my turkey without tips from Paula Deen, y'all? Seriously, the very best icing recipe I EVER got was on a Christmas cooking show on the Food Channel. Now really, how can I do without that?

Since I couldn't watch HGTV last night, I had to watch Avatar on HBO. I really enjoyed that movie in 3D in the theater. It was fun, but kinda flat, to watch it in 2D on television. I wonder what 3D televisions are going for now......

It was really difficult to concentrate at work today. All I could think about was: “what will I do without HGTV?" Not really. I was quite busy at work and I only thought about my loss about a dozen times.

And then, as I got ready to come home, I checked my phone one last time. OMG! On Facebook, of course, HGTV has posted that they are in negotiations with my service provider. Be still my heart!!! Will I have HGTV tonight? Is that too much to ask for?

AHA! Another post on Facebook, as I arrived home: It's settled! HGTV et al are back on my television! I am so happy to hear that! I don't know how the negotiations worked out, but there's one thing I am sure of:

It's gonna cost me more money.....

Fall...

This is a confusing time of year. Or maybe, just a busy time of the year. Today, the Yankees are playing the Rangers. Looks like there'll be a game Friday night, too.

Tomorrow night, my grandson's football team plays their rivals from the next town. And Saturday is college football, and another grandson's flag football game. Sunday, NFL action. And so it goes.

Fall....

It started out kinda cool this morning. With a few clouds in the sky and a forecast of possible thunder showers. And now? I have the ceiling fans on, as it is quite warm in the house.

Fall. The leaves are turning more slowly this year because it has been unseasonably warm. Just two weeks ago, I was in West Yellowstone, Montana, and people were wearing shorts and tee-shirts. Same type of weather all across the upper Midwest, during my trip. I took coats and didn't need them. Sweatshirts, too. I did wear my hoodie the last morning, before leaving Santa Fe.

It's the same with cooking. I baked a pizza for lunch but now the kitchen's kinda warm. Oh well. I am in the mood for some fall baking and I'm going to just keep doing it. I'm making beer bread to go with supper.

I went to the store this morning. Bought the ingredients for several of my favorite soup recipes. I needed potatoes, carrots, celery, fresh parsley, and beans. I bought canned black beans, plus lentils, pintos, pinks, and split peas. Soup's on, or will be, pretty soon!

I sent out my invitations for the holidays before I left on my trip. I wanted to make sure that everyone knew what was happening at my house, and when, so they could plan accordingly. The funny thing is, I never know how many folks will show up.....but the important thing is that they know that they are welcome.

And they'll be here, whenever they can. There will be plenty of food and camaraderie. And the house will be decorated to the rafters. Candles, freshly-baked cookies, football games, laughter, and togetherness will all happen.

I remember fall when my kids were little. After Thanksgiving dinner, we would go outside and rake leaves, then throw a football around. I remember watching my children bury the dog in the pile of leaves. The dog didn't mind, and neither did I, until they were getting ready to jump on the leaves. I had to rescue the dog...

Crackling fires in the fireplace. Cold noses from being outside. Warm apple cider, or hot chocolate. Soups, fresh bread, mittens and scarves. Heavy coats. The stars on a clear, cold winter's night. Being together and warm and cozy. Appreciating family and family life.

That's what life is about, to me: making memories. Memories that sustain me, and warm me, and remind me of the important things in life. And the most important things in life aren't things....

As much as I am looking forward to the holidays, I don't want to lose sight of today. It's a beautiful, sunny, fall day, with a few clouds in the sky. All those I love are safe and well. Times are tough, but we are tougher. And today, life is good.

I don't want to spend all my time looking forward.....or back.....

Right this minute life is wonderful.

The Sounds of Home....

Be it ever so humble......., it sure does feel good to be home.

After planning and saving for almost a year, a near-perfect vacation is on the history books. I could not have asked for better weather: sunny and warm, every day, for sixteen days. And in nearly a dozen different states, from here to Wisconsin and back.

In fact, there was some rain and it book-ended the trip. A predawn rain on the first day out led to a beautiful sunrise. And again yesterday, just before dusk, a little more rain made an incredible sunset on the Mojave desert.

I packed for the weather that was supposed to be, and wore the same clothes over and over again, because it was too warm for most of what I took. But then, vacations are that way: I always pack too much. I always pack jewelry to wear with my outfits, and end up wearing the same pair of earrings for the entire trip.

I guess life is like that: planning for one thing and finding something else. Of course, it leaves me with lots of questions. Like, why does the grass grow so quickly when I'm not home? Or, why do I get so much mail when I'm gone? And the age old question: why does it take me longer to unpack than it did to travel around the country?

Oh well. I had a wonderful time and brought home a lifetime of memories. As I sit here now, I am aware of the sounds around me. The washer and dryer are humming away. A few minutes ago, bacon, eggs and french toast were sizzling away on top of the stove. Now, the football game is droning on in the background as I write this.

Very late last night, when I got home, I was greeted by my girls. Cinnamon sang as she tried to tell me how glad she is that I am home. Her aria was punctuated by Ginger's lilting mezzo soprano comments. They are not particularly harmonious, but they are loud. I brought their doggy bed back into the laundry room, gave them each a cookie and soon, I was listening to their contented snores.

Life is full of sounds that we don't even realize that we hear, until we don't hear them anymore. I am keenly aware of the noises I missed during my vacation. The creaking of the wood floors, the slam of the screen door, the sounds of food cooking, at home, which means I don't have to go out to eat again.

When I woke up this morning, birds were chirping outside. The big black crows were on the aluminum patio roof, trying to crack walnuts again. It could be a disconcerting sound, if you didn't know what it was. I do, and I missed it while I was gone.

And now, as I am almost through listening to the staccato clicks of the keys on my laptop, I will be ready to enjoy more of the special sounds that greeted my homecoming: the sounds of being home.

Tea anyone? The kettle is whistling.....

Blue Corn.....

Twinkling lights strung in trees. Couples walking down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand. Jazz music wafting from the balcony, over a bar. Cheerful voices, the clink of silverware on dishes, people enjoying a meal on another balcony nearby.

Watch where you walk on the sidewalk: there are cracks in the cement, bricks, and cobblestone-like rocks forming patterns in the walk. But then, what do you expect in a town that is celebrating its 400th birthday?

The church, St. Francis of Assisi, dominates the downtown. Well-placed spotlights lend an ethereal look to the statues in the courtyard. The bells chime softly on the hour.

Small shops, tucked in large facades, offer Native American crafts, upscale clothing, art pieces and lots more. Some shops are open still, even though it is later in the evening. Others are closed but promise that they will be open again tomorrow morning at 10.

Driving into the downtown area, I was on the old Route 66. Every chain store known to mankind is represented. Gas stations abound. But what catches my eye are the motels. Adobe-facaded, flat-roofed structures straight out of the thirties and forties.

Courtyard motels, with the office in the front, and single-story, adobe rooms line the parking lot. One of them advertised, on their neon sign: “Televisions”, as if that would be a draw these days. Free WiFi is a draw, free breakfasts is a draw, but televisions? Actually, maybe fifty years ago, that would have been a draw.

Walking along the old sidewalks, there it was: the restaurant, in the shopping complex, just off the courtyard. A memory from nearly twenty years ago, it is still there.... Still decorated the same, still offering the same delicious food. And what a great name: Blue Corn.

After a long afternoon on the road, it was fun to stop and enjoy a lovely evening in a city that has seen 400 years of history....

Santa Fe, New Mexico.

History, Experienced...

Today was a special day for me. After looking forward to this day for such a long time, I am here, in the Land of Lincoln. I spent hours in the Lincoln Museum. More time walking around downtown Springfield, Illinois, and then, a couple of hours at Lincoln's home.

It was almost a spiritual journey for me. I have studied Lincoln, informally, since I was a child. Sure, I know that he was born and raised in a one-room cabin in Kentucky. I know that he studied law and passed the bar. I know he married Mary Todd and had four sons. Of course, I know that he was the Commander In Chief during the Civil War, wrote the Emancipation Proclamation, the Gettysburg Address, and was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth.

Today, I experienced the history for real. I saw those places, I heard those speeches, I felt those bitter moments, and I touched that piece of history. And I wept. It was an overwhelming experience, at times.

The Lincoln Museum is awesome. It was opened in 2005 and, if you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend going. It is quite an experience. There are so many pictures, so much information, so many things to see and so many things to do. There are movies that will stir the emotions of the coldest heart. There are facts that have to be read to be believed.

There is so much history. And such a connection, too.

There is one corridor that particularly got to me. In it, on the walls, are reproductions of political cartoons of the day. There are voices, coming out of the speakers in the ceilings. And, from the next room, there is music. Haunting music.

I was unable to keep from weeping: the political cartoons were vicious. Caricatures of Lincoln. Accusations, ridicule, and public humiliation. The voices overhead were saying awful things: lynch Lincoln! He's a liar, a thief and crazy...

Pictures of Civil War soldiers. Horrible pictures that illustrate the horrors of war. Pictures of Lincoln in 1860, 1861, 1862, 1863, 1864, and 1865. He ages with each new picture. His facial expression is somber, his eyes are full of hurt and concern, and the lines on his face become deeper and deeper.

Touring his home, I saw the little desk where he sat and wrote his inauguration speech, and perhaps, the Emancipation Declaration. I felt the heaviness in the house. The heavy burden that was on his shoulders when he won the Presidential election. He knew that the country was bitterly divided and that his election divided the country even more.

He believed that his election was the reason for the Civil War. He knew that many, many people hated him. Political cartoons made fun of him for “sneaking” into Washington after his election: he feared assassination before he had been able to accomplish anything of value.

Over a million combatants died in the Civil War. And many more civilians. The country nearly lost everything that was gained by our Founding Fathers. On a personal level, Lincoln suffered through his wife's mental illness, the death of two of his young sons, and the sense of responsibility for the Civil War.

And yet, what I got out of this day was hope. Hope that we can do the same today. Hope that we can turn things around in this country and get back on the right track. Hope that the Founding Fathers were right, and that all of us have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

And one more thing: a deeper respect for Mr. Abraham Lincoln....

The Night Sky...

I wrote this blog when I was still at Yellowstone.

I just came in from outside....

It's dark, and quiet, outside Old Faithful Inn. The crowds have settled in for the night. And Old Faithful spewed steam and hot water heavenward just as I walked outside. It's hard to see at night, but the steam is noticeable.

I am sure that, given a chance, Walt Disney, et al, would add a laser light show, Electric Light Parade type music, and glow-in-the-dark necklaces to the show. Mother Nature is confident that we will enjoy Old Faithful just as it is....

I didn't go outside to see Old Faithful. I went in search of my friends. Orion, Ursula Major, Ursula Minor, Andromeda, Sirius, and the Seven Sisters. Oh, and the pure joy of the Milky Way. They were all there, waiting for me.

I knew, before I left Podunk, that I would be looking at the stars each night. In Yellowstone and elsewhere. It is more than eight thousand feet above sea level here, and there's no pollution. And so, the stars are so close I could almost touch them. But I'm not quite that tall...

I have always loved looking at the stars. I have blogged in the past about seeing the constellations and learning about them from my father, when I was a small child. Stars have never lost their fascination to me. I love to gaze at the night sky and find the familiar ones.

Tonight, and last night also, I have seen a shooting star. I remember being told to make a wish when I saw a shooting star. I always have and some wishes have even come true. Was it the stars? Who knows....

There is something so permanent and so reassuring about the stars in the night sky. They take me back to times long ago and make me wonder about the future. All at the same time. They are a connection to my past, especially my father, and a comfort to me in the night sky. Even though so much has changed in our world in my lifetime, my friends, the stars are still there.

And they still delight me.....

The Journey...

I went to a museum today. It traced the history of South Dakota from prehistoric times to the present. There was a display of the varied rock formations that can be seen in the area. Prehistoric fossils, stories of the earliest natives, settlers and their hardships, etc.

It was fascinating. I was most attracted to the displays of the Plains Indians. There were artifacts of all sorts, including some of the most intricate bead work and quill-decorated clothing items. There was a tipi with a hologram of an elderly woman talking about the ways of the natives.

Other displays showed the progress of the white settlers in the area. Clothing, hats, guns, and other things that were important to the settling of America were on display. There was a lot of information about Custer and the Battle of the Little Big Horn. 

Interestingly, there was a story blanket done by Sitting Bull's nephew, depicting the battle from the Native American point of view. Regardless of one's view, it was a tragic incident among many tragic incidents.

And there was a huge painting depicting the doctrine of Manifest Destiny view link . In it, a woman, representing America, holding a school book and floating above the scene, is overseeing the settling of native lands. Homes and railroads and telegraph poles and fences and livestock replacing open spaces, and bison, and tipis, and the old ways.

The museum is called “The Journey” and I felt like I went on one. A journey through the past, as seen and recorded by those historical people who lived it. In one room, there was a statement that stopped me in my tracks.

I had to go over to the children's table and “borrow” a piece of paper and a purple crayon: I wanted to remember what I read. And here it is, for you to read, too:

The Wicoti

We lived a balanced life. For us, it was a time for providing for our families. We hunted the buffalo and other animal relatives who gave themselves to us for food.

We engaged in our sacred ceremonies to renew the cycle of the days, the moons, the seasons, and the energy of the universe.

We made alliances with our surrounding nations, and at times engaged in conflicts with the Kiowa, the Pawnee, the Crow, and others over territory, over horses, or our honor.

Our men were protectors of the people. Our women were the centers of our families and lodges. They reminded us of our values and our honor, beautifying our clothing and our lodges.

Our strengths were our own, and our errors were of our own making. We lived our testimonial:

MITAKUYE OYASIN.....we are all related.