Summertime

Think back, if you can to the days of childhood, when summer was endless. From the time school let out until the time you were fitted for pinching shoes and crinkly crinolines, the golden days were yours to master. Running, jumping, spitting, roller-skating, bike riding or laying in the grass and watching the bulbous clouds form make-believe animals, they were endless. Stretching out into the horizon like riding a wave of ribbon with no end to the spool. From the time you woke up in the morning, energized in a way that was impossible all the rest of the year, to the time you crashed back on the pillow; there were things to see, do, inspect, watch for hours at a time. Time was all we had to worry about. And there is the thing that eludes us as we, the adult have six million things to worry about during the summer and beyond. We don't have those endless days anymore. We have endless worries, problems, situations, concerns. They string along like beads on that endless ribbon we rode so carefree as children.

But we get blips now and then, wrinkles in the ribbon, in between the beads. Those nights of balmy, breezy, soft summer nights. When you laugh with friends, share a good bottle of wine or beer, listen to the katydids and for one chunk of time, just be. Eating ice cream (or frozen yogurt) and remember how it was to just enjoy the summer, on a nice summer night.

Retirement Day

We knew this day was coming. It had been planned for weeks and weeks and weeks. The replacement person is in place, the desk has been emptied of all of his traces. The pinging of the Blackberry will trouble his sleep no more. I tried to observe how he was taking his last day of work, since asking rarely evinces a response. He seemed the same as he always is. He did say it will be a shorter work day. After the exit interview there is no reason to stay. He is a practical man, when all is said and done. I took him to the train station this morning as I have done for the last five years and I will pick him up from there whenever he calls to tell me he's on the way. But it is the last day of this ritual for he and I.The funny thing is, even though it's his last day, the computer at home which notifies him of his emails is pinging away as if the world was on fire and he has the only water source. I'm hoping that the constant sound is actually the ringing of endorsements of what a fine man he is and the quality work he has done and he will be missed. I am sure he willed be missed for his sense of humor, his no-nonsense way of working and getting things done, his calmness in the face of a storm (or a bosses anger). I know all these things are true of my hubby. I'm hoping on the last day of employment at his current job, they will recognize and celebrate this about him as well.

I'm Hiding, I'm Hiding

The above is a first line from a children's poem I memorized a very long time ago. Recently, it was on the periphery of thought that hiding seems like a safe alternative to, we'll, just about everything.  As we were so forcefully reminded a couple of days ago, the world is a dangerous place. If we hide out, then no one can "get" us.

When I think of this "lock-down" mentality, it certainly has an appeal. No one can get in, so no one gets hurt. But see, life doesn't work like that. At least mine doesn't. I need to let people in--family, friends, the hurt and lonely. I see people that just need to know that someone--ANYONE--cares. And how do I just sit back and watch them think that?

I'm going to get up on my soapbox now, so you can change the channel anytime you'd like. I think we need to remind each other of the basic good. We get these big knocks on the head about he "bad" people, where's the dink on the head about the good people? We saw such goodness right after the explosions, as the paramedics rushed in, and the police helped out. But how come this caring, good stuff gets celebrated only in disasters? I think most people are walking around basically good. I think people are helping out all the time. Where's the headline about them?  Is it because its so commonplace we don't think it's extraordinary any more? No, it's because, I guess that this bad stuff is so wrong we can't believe it. Believing people are good is easier or something.

I'm not sure of the point I'm making here. I'm still processing my thoughts. But I don't think "I'm hiding, I'm hiding" is the way to go to deal with this.

You Never Know

You never can know who influences things or how things stick in someone else's brain. I had a delightful experience a while back when someone remembered that I used to host a "mother's group" at church. She said it helped her get out of the house and her own head some days. I didn't think it had much of an impact, but it did to someone.

One of the things I do at my work place is have one of those day by day calendars. Just a stock one. Nothing fancy or animated or even in color. But each day I put a quote on the space underneath the date. People visit my desk throughout the day for various reasons, but almost always someone sees that there is a quote there and they read it. Sometimes they get it, sometimes not. We have interesting conversations about the quotes and some who have visited come back later and tell me they read something else by the author and found them to be a) enlightening, b) not as erudite as the quote or c) somewhere in between. I usually don't pay attention to things like the summer solstice or Flag Day and just randomly put the quotes on the days in the order I either found them or like them. There is no rhyme or reason, just whimsy.

Now tomorrow I will go to a doctor and have a hearing test. It is beyond question, one of the things I most hate to do. Because it will not be a positive test. I'm sure of it. I have nerve deafness. It won't be cured, it won't get better. So each time I have a test it just reminds me that I have something I can't fix in me. Something that is not working that I can't bind up or put antiseptic on or anything else to make it go away. I come home grumpy from these tests ALWAYS. So as I sat at my desk today, readying it for tomorrow morning I looked at my calendar and flipped it over to tomorrow. And there was a quote from someone whom I admire. She is not flamboyant  in her writing or her lifestyle. But she wise and  warm and I found her on-line when my brother suggested I read her blogs. The quote for tomorrow reads:  "Attitude is the only thing you can control. You have a choice every morning when you wake up. That's a gift."

She wrote that after getting shot. Read that again, please. She wrote that after getting shot in Arizona, holding a little girls hand. She is telling me (and by extension everyone who reads her) that I can control my attitude. I may not be able to fix that test result. Or even my ears. But how I react to those things, that's up to me. I can control that. I don't have to whine or cry or beat my chest. I can accept the results whatever they may be with an attitude that suggests this isn't the sum total of who I am. And I can decide that when I wake up tomorrow, it won't matter whether its raining or sunny. Because my attitude will decide the day.

Thanks A/B for the advice, for the wise counsel and for blogging so diligently. I am grateful for your words and your humor and your influence in what otherwise can be a day of regrets.

I Was Done With This...

I had some basal cell cancer removed from my face a few months ago. Lots of people get basal cell, I'm told. Lots of people get it cut out and move on. I've blogged about my experience to some small degree. I had moved on, I thought. It was history. No need to revisit.

Then I went to the dermatologist for a "follow-up". Alright, I was feeling kind of cocky. I thought it  had healed just fine. I thought she would look at me and say, "see you in 6 months." Yeah, well, that was the plan. As it turns out she did not just say, "see you in six months," although she did say that. What she did say was, " I don't like the way that looks," pointing to my scar. She said it should have been flat, but there were little bumps on it instead. They shouldn't have been there. What did I know? I thought it looked fine. So she "numbed" up the area and scraped the bumps off. "We'll send these out for a biopsy." And just like that I'm paranoid all over again. The one word, well, two really--biopsy and cancer--make me weak in the knees. I hear it and think I need to begin planning the funeral service, getting rid of my stuff, contacting the family. I don't like the fact that I feel that way, but there you have it.

The dermatologist called last night to say that the "bumps" were "pre-cancerous." Meaning before cancer. Meaning whatever she cut out of my face before, wasn't the same stuff that's there now. After I talked to her, I really didn't feel anything very much. It's only now the day after that I begin to get the weak in the knees feeling again. The same scurrying in my stomach as I had before wondering what all this will mean. The same "boy-I-don't-want-to-think-about-this" attitude pervading my every thought anyway.

I have friends who have fought a much more scary cancer than this. I have friends who have fought and lost, too. On the scale of 1 to 10 (10 being the scariest), this is probably a 1 compared to major organs. But oh, it still makes me quivery and nervous, even if no one else thinks this is all that bad. And therein lies the rub. I don't want to have anything wrong. Especially not cancer. I really appreciate others saying, well if you're going to get it, this is the kind to get. Making me feel almost like I should be grateful instead of scared. Comforted instead of nervous. I guess that makes me a wimp. I guess that makes me not very brave. Well, it's good to know things about yourself I guess. And I guess knowing that I'm a weakling can help to make me stronger, but I doubt it.

So for now, I have to get some special cream medicine and use it for a few weeks to see what happens next. I really wish nothing happened next. I wish I could erase the phone call from last night, but I can't . Pardon me if I don't look happy for now. But I thought I was done...

Some Snow

Just a little, thank goodness. Not a lot.
Melting already, dripping over eaves
Plonking on sky lights.
Sun shining off the white
Makes sunglasses a necessity.
People sighing relief, no more running
For bread, milk, gas, candles.
We're stocked up for the next one!
Except the supermarkets are bare.
I'm finishing up my writings today
Brushing off the dictionary, the Strunk and Whites
Clacking keys in the warmth of the sun and
Radiators.
Pulling words out of air and fuzzy brains,
Wrapped in the snug sack
Around my feet
Listening to the water drip
Finding ways to write what I see and hear
While the sun shines off the white.

What a Difference a Week Makes

The snowman wrapping paper
Was waving a cheery hello
One week ago

The tape dispensers were full
The ribbon rolls curling up on themselves
The piled up bags
Became piled up boxes
Gaily wrapped in
Bright reds, greens and sparkles.

But the snow man is waving good-bye now
Delegated to the wrapping paper graveyard
Of leftover scraps-too big to throw away
To small for a whole gift.

The boxes are emptied of their treasures
The trash cans full of ribbon
The tape dispenser is empty but for one small
Strip left-not even enough for a gift.

The pings of electronic gadgetry
The dings of new emails
The click of tapping messages on new phones
Are the only reminder that one week ago
 There were promises and secrets to reveal.
The faint tap, tap, tap of the tree's needles
Counting out the time of the season
Done, once again.

Guess what I got for Christmas?

Do you remember saying that to your friends when you were a kid? It was always followed by something of amazing proportions, so amazing that those you were trying to impress were properly, we'll amazed!

Well, I got something to impress this year. An iPad mini. Yes I asked for one, but I didn't really expect to get one. I'm typing on it even as you read this. Even if my friends aren't amazed, I still am. Our son, the resident expert of things Apple, gave me a tutorial the other night. I think that was worth whatever the price of this little thing. Having mother and son sitting side by side trying out apps and finding the nuances--well the commercial says it--priceless.

One of the most amazing things though was the fact that one of the things in iTunes was this nifty thing which allows a person to "take classes" at one of the colleges offered. I can take a class for free!        This is truly amazing, if I can kill the word one more time. I can log into some big name university or even some small place and take a virtual course! I was so excited by this prospect that I just about cried. What a wonderful thing to be able to do! I've signed onto two courses and began listening and learning already.

So I'm sharing with you what I got this year for Christmas. What did you get?

Christmas Eve Day and Night

The day before Christmas is always a busy one at our house. We put up the tree which has been lodged outside the kitchen window since it's purchase either a week or a few days ago. This entails much muttering, moving furniture, locating boxes in the attic with appropriate lighting and hanging ornaments. There is cooking to be done for the next day, there are presents still to be wrapped, there is conversation and laughter and by the time my head hits the pillow around 1:30 or so, I'm exhausted. But it's a busyness I wouldn't trade for the world. When both children are in residence, their bantering, their earnest conversations that can't happen over the phone, just their presence fills my heart as much as they fill our home. They remember stuff we forget and vice versa (although they usually remember much more than we do!).

But when we go to church on Christmas Eve I am invariably filled with so much more than just their presence. I usually attend church by myself, something that I'm used to and comfortable with for the most part. But when the pew is filled with the family, the wonder and mystery of the night is compounded even if we get there a little late and have to sit in the balcony. And just for a brief hour or so, we sing together, listen to the story of Christmas together, share the peace with the family of the church I've become a part of, and there is nothing that needs to be done or finished or anything! It is a holy night in so many ways. The kids laugh because almost every Christmas Eve, during church, I am filled to the brim with so much emotion that invariably I shed a few tears. Sometimes they are tears of tiredness, but many times its just the pure joy of the night and it's meaning and being surrounded by the family of blood and the family of faith all in one place together.

I hope your Christmas is blessed and joyous and filled with busyness, love and laughter. Because that's why we have the season after all, because He wanted to bless us with his presence.

Merry Christmas!

Growing Up, Together

Knowing my siblings who read this post, they will no doubt think I am going to write about them. But alas, not this time sibs.

Our daughter got married a couple of weeks ago. She and her new hubby had a truly beautiful wedding and the wonderful thing of it was all (or most) we held near and dear were with us to celebrate. Our family, our friends, their good friends. All together under one roof for one night. It was intensely wonderful because we could see the connections between us all, the family, the friends, all wanting the best for the newly married couple.

And then the big celebration is over. The ballroom has been cleaned, the magic of the evening swept away with the mundaneness of everyday living.  People go back to work, back to the gym, back to doing the wash, setting the table, running the vacuum. It all goes back to the minutiae of the minute. And I began to think about what I have learned through my marriage of 34 years. And wondered when did I learn it? When did I learn not to push through the wall of his non-communication? And simply wait until he was ready to tell me whatever it was. When did I learn that my way isn't always the right way (tho it still seems sometimes to me that it must be!)? When did I learn to listen for the rhythm of our give and take without just taking all the time? When did I learn patience? Well, this last one is easy, I still haven't learned it. But I am more patient than I used to be I know for a fact.

When you live with a person whom you love, you begin to change subtly. It isn't suddenly or overnight. I think you begin to try to fit together better, making one whole rather than stubbornly staying in pieces. At least, if love is present, it's more like warm wax. Molding and shifting to become one candle instead of two. But I remember at the beginning of our married life, that it was difficult. We were still used to being these two different people. He did things one way, I another. This was the way his mother did things, this was the way my mother did things. Our daughter has lived with her now husband for a few years beforehand and knows some of those quirks already. But I think marriage brings things out in relief that she might not have noticed before. And I wonder if she saw the shifting, re-adjusting, give and take that her parents were doing? Or did she just assume that her life would be the same and didn't realize that changes had to happen? Did I show her by example the right things or the wrong things? And maybe she learned from my stubbornness the right way to do something which would have been the opposite of me?

But as I said, her newly married life is just beginning. So perhaps its too early to say. I'm glad she is surrounded by loving family and friends. For that surely makes a difference.

Lazy or Crazy

There is so much you can say about getting ready to go to a wedding. Especially if it's your daughter. There is so much you would like to express: the sentimentality, the angst, the bafflement of certain attendees' behaviors. I'm not sure this post will do it justice. But at least I can put a dent in the proceedings and what it feels like and leave the rest for later.

If you were to ask me what I did today, which by the way, the hubby asks whenever I pick him up from the train station, my reply wouldn't sound like it took all day. But it did in actuality. The only actual scheduled thing to do was pick up the dresses (daughters and mine) from the seamstress. During the morning I went to the hotel where some of the guests will be staying to verify a couple of things with them. Then I went to the local stationery store to figure out a problem with the gift bags. Luckily, the young man I talked to had a brilliant idea which didn't cost me a penny, so it was a great trip there! I went over to the nearby clothing store that opened not that long ago and realized that I would be needing a new winter jacket as the one I have used for the last-um-10 years or so is falling apart. So I bought one! Just like that. I went to one of those boxy stores that sell electronics stuff to get a new cover for my beloved phone as the old cover cracked (again) and couldn't be fixed this time. I dropped off a HUGE bunch of plastic bags at the local supermarket. They recycle them so I felt very virtuous. Then home to work on the "Welcome" bags for the hotel. By then it was time to pick up the dresses and then I had a manicure/pedicure appointment.

I'm going to stop on this minute by minute minutiae as it probably borders on the mind-numbing and really I just wanted to talk about the experience of the salon. I don't go to get my nails done. I do them myself if I want polish on them. I mostly stay on the nail (learning to color in the lines of a coloring book helped with this I'm sure) and when I make a mistake I can mop it up with a tissue. But when you go to a salon to have it done, it lasts longer and probably looks better too. The pedicure thing, though, I'm not really a fan. First of all, my feet are cold. Almost all the time. So to have to go out when it's 40 degrees without socks is tortuous for me. Add to that most of my dress shoes are closed toes. Nobody sees my feet but me. So what do I care if there's polish on them or not? But for the wedding, I'm wearing pretty sandal heels and I know that my feet will look better with polish on the toes, so I went ahead and made the appointment.

The biggest problem with going to these places is this:  the people who run most of the establishments in this area are Asian and they have to wear masks because, I'm sure of the horrendous fumes that nail polish exudes. I wear hearing aids. If I can't hear you, I read your lips. Unless you're Asian and you're wearing a mask. In which case the communication becomes decidedly more complex, involving hand gestures, eyebrow arching and a lot of repeating. The pedicure comes first because it takes so much longer than the manicure. Not only does the person working on your feet, well, work on your feet, they also massage your legs, scrape away the rough dead skin (you've been accumulating since the last time you did this) and--at this place--the chair they place you in has a built in massager for your back! What a treat! The other interesting thing about this place was the daytime TV. I rarely watch television during the day as I'm working. I knew soap operas were still on, but I had no idea that there were other talk shows besides Ellen DeGeneres. The one the salon patrons were watching solicited audience opinions on everything from whether a family should get another dog (instead of a chinchilla--don't get me started with that!) to whether a man and woman should break up or stay together. The salon was buzzing with the customer's opinions on the matters at hand, with the Masked Asians adding their two cents worth every few minutes. It was pretty lively. When one of the "regulars" came in (she apparently gets new acrylic nails every two weeks or some such thing), she regaled us with her health stories of recent past while the owner of the salon chimed in with his own health issues. Before I knew it, my feet were done and my nails were drying under the little whirring fans. Of course, for me all conversation ceased at that point as I couldn't hear over the little fans and everyone seemed to have calmed down and began watching Ellen. I left enlightened and feeling as though maybe there wasn't such a problem with two hours of downtime from running around. And they decided all around that getting another dog was a good idea, instead of the chinchilla.

More on wedding preparations as the week progresses...stay tuned!

Eleven Days and Counting

I'm an occasional visitor to Facebook. Yes, I have a page, yes, I put stuff on it once in a while. Mostly, though I snoop at other pages--catching up with my children, friends who have left my sphere of the here and now. My children have "friended" me happily, so I can go and browse when I want without feeling like I'm nosing through their bureau drawers (I NEVER did that! Honest!).

Anyway, while looking at our daughters page, it mentions a countdown. We have a wedding coming up. Hers. She is counting down the days till she and her fiance will become husband and wife. It has been an interesting and exciting time for the family--we've never planned a wedding before. There were and are myriads of things that need planning, doing, fixing, arranging, and need I add, to pay for, as well. There seemed to always be something that needed to be done, or thought about, or (in my case) prayed about. And although things could be stressful, by and large my daughter and I get along just fine most of the time, so we weren't fighting about things, or bickering back and forth. She is getting a little short tempered lately, but as far as I can see, she seems fine, as does the fiance.

And then the other day I got to thinking about some things. Even though she has been living out of our house for a while now, her life will be different. She will be a wife. She will change her last name (she decided to do that, I didn't weigh in one way or the other). Her father is hoping she will have a telephone plan with the new hubby. And it seemed to me that she wasn't little any more. Okay, okay, I know she isn't little and hasn't been for a while. But when people get married they become "big people". Or at least that's always the way I looked at it. Married people are grown-ups. I know several people who will point out that just because someone is married does not mean they are mature--but I'm not talking about that anyway. I'm thinking that the way I've looked at my daughter will change subtly. In ways that even she and I haven't come to figure out yet. The responsibilities that she will have now will not rest solely on what her father and I think, but what her husband thinks. They will make plans and arrangements that have nothing to do with my opinion, my beliefs, my point of view. And that's as it should be. But it will be different now. It made me sad a little. Thinking that things will change. It made me a little melancholy doing the PowerPoint presentation looking at the pictures of her growing up and changing before my eyes, knowing that the changes that I witnessed almost every day, will be witnessed by someone else every day.

Will he notice the changes? As they grow together, will she realize that things are different now? I don't think I did until much later in life. And by then I forgot what was different anyway, I was too busy with the new life. Did my mother see things like that? I'll have to ask her.

And so we are at eleven days and counting. And I keep looking back and thinking how fast all those years went and how eleven days doesn't seem like enough time.

The C Word, Part 1

About 6 months ago, I realized I had a lump in my eyebrow. It wasn't big or anything. And it didn't hurt. But I knew it was there. And I would finger it occasionally just to see if it felt any different.  It didn't feel any different, but it wasn't getting any smaller either. Of course, after I really got to thinking about it, it felt like it was getting bigger. I was sort of freaked out about it. So I went to see a dermatologist. After examining it, she indicated that it was just some sort of growth under the skin and nothing to be upset about and did I want it removed? Well, yeah, I thought. Get it out of there! She numbed me up and proceeded to remove this lumpy thing. It was benign and it would heal before the big wedding coming up and no one would ever know it was there...because now it wasn't! They gave me an appointment for a follow up in three months, which ended up being September. So far so good.

I went to the appointment in September without any trepidation at all. After all the lump was gone and there didn't seem to be anything else to think about. As I sat on the upright recliner waiting for the dermatologist, the assistant came in and told me to remove my clothing and put on this paper drape thing with armholes. Why? I thought? They're just gonna look at the ol' eyebrow, tell themselves what a great job they did and that was the end of that, right? I know you looking at me askance right now and saying, "well, obviously she was wrong." The doctor came  in and said she was going to do a "body check". I immediately thought of the wrestling move and then dismissed it from my mind. She was going to look over the body for any abnormalities--luckily she wasn't checking my mind. She ran her fingers through my hair, a sort of weird feeling for me and then looked me full in the face, pointed to my lip and said, "well, that has to go." What? What has to go? The look on my face? What? So I asked, "what has to go?" She placed her finger on my upper lip and said, "this."

I've looked at my face for 58 years and I still wasn't quite sure what she was pointing at. She got a mirror and showed me the bump that's been there for a long time. I was of two minds at this point. Why this bump? How come you didn't see it when I came in for the other bump? And really what's another bump on my face to worry about anyway? She looked at the rest of me and decided that the bump was the only thing wrong. And then she began to tell me how she was going to "numb it up" and take care of it. I just assumed it would be another lump removal like the one on my eyebrow. But you know, I really didn't want a scar on my face for the wedding pictures, so I just sort of casually asked, will this leave a scar? She stopped prepping and asked what I was worried about. I told her the wedding of our only daughter was two months away and I didn't want to look like Scarface in the wedding pictures. It'll just be a little red, she said. You can cover it up with cosmetics. Fair enough, I said and she numbed it up and came at my face with a sort of sharp little wiry thing. She scraped and scraped, but she wasn't digging it out like the other bump. But of course my lip was numb and really you can't have a conversation with someone when your lip is being worked on, so I waited. When she finally stopped scraping, she said, okay, we're gonna biopsy this, but I'm almost positive what we're gonna find. She put the scraped stuff in a jar, gave me a bandage and handed me a piece of blue paper with instructions on how to take care of the "biopsy" site. She did not say it looked benign like the other lump. She did say, "don't call us, we'll call you" regarding what the results of the biopsy would be. Really? Don't call us? For two weeks, just sit around and worry and worry, but really, we'll get back to you. Very unnerving.

So like a good little patient, I went about my business and tried (really I did) not to think about the word biopsy, what it means, why it triggers certain things in my mind and oh, by the way, don't call us we'll call you. By the second week I was antsy, so I called. They said the person who needed to talk to me would call me back. Which she did, while I was at work. She left a number. I called. She was with patients and couldn't talk right then. She'd call me back. Which she did when I was in the bathroom. So I called back. She was back with another patient. By this time, I had no patience, so I said, "I'll wait." They tried to discourage that adamant stand, but to no avail. Nope, she was talking to me this time if I had to stay on the phone and listen to their way-too-chipper ads about getting rid of wrinkles, fat and age spots for the next few days. Eventually the assistant doctor got on the phone, though and said, well, the biopsy says you have basal cell cancer. And there it was. The "C" word.

I've dreaded that word for most of my adult life. My father had bladder cancer which seemed to metastasize everywhere eventually. It is not something I want to remember much. But the "C" word brings out every single memory I've ever had of this disease. And they are not pleasant ones. I think I stopped breathing for a few moments and then the tears began to roll down my cheeks. I'm relatively sure I wasn't making any gasping sounds, but the doctor said, "are you alright?" knowing full well I wasn't. She explained that basal cell skin cancer doesn't metastasize anywhere except to maybe other places near where it is already. It doesn't "infect" other body parts.   It's a relatively easy fix/cure/whatever you want to call it. She didn't seem particularly concerned. My smart ass self thought, "well of course, she's not concerned, she doesn't have it." But that wasn't fair really. She told me I would need a consultation to discuss what we would do next as a course of action. She said we should schedule that consult relatively quickly. But I have to say, I wasn't ready to do anything quickly. I was still processing. I am still processing. The consultation happened the day after my birthday--Happy Birthday to you! As I follow up with this post, I'll keep you informed.

I know it's just a word. A powerful word, but just a word nonetheless. If it had been some other more "evil" kind, I would probably still be sobbing on the phone instead of going about the business of working, getting ready for a wedding and cleaning up after the cat. I am doing those things, but that word is still in the back of my mind, lurking, it's shadowy specter haunting my waking and even sometimes sleeping moments. I wish I could dismiss it as easily as some others. But so far, I haven't been able to. But I'm working on it. Every day.

Time Spent, Spending Time

I'm sitting here waiting for the phone to ring. Hubby and I have a routine. He calls when he's at a certain place geographically on the train, and I go to pick him up. It's almost always about 6:00 or so. It's fruitless to begin dinner if I haven't started it by 5:45 as I'm never quite sure of the timing--when he'll call. If he'll call while the pasta is still cooking. If the potatoes will be done, or I'll have to turn them off and they'll get all mushy while I ride over. The ride itself isn't that long, maybe 5 minutes or so. It's the sitting at the station or getting caught at the light or the unbelievable amount of people pouring out of the train station at any given moment who feel they have the right to walk directly in front of your car, because, of course, they have the right of way (fat lot of good that will do them in an ambulance being rushed to the hospital for their arrogance). So on many days, I just sit and wait for the phone to ring. Truth to tell, I usually write this blog then. I know I can get some idea down before the phone interrupts and who knows? sometimes he's late and I can continue on my writing without interruption. Invariably, the phone will ring sometime before 6 and it will be some unknown number. We have these new phones which announce the number in a droid-like dialect. Usually it will say, "out of area" or "unavailable", putting the accent on the wrong syllable and sounding like a Russian operator trying to sound out a word in English.

When I come home from work, I'm usually inclined to do a bunch of little short-term things...take in the mail, let out the cat, change the clothes. I'm almost never inclined to begin dinner and have it done before six. I realize that I have enough time to do that when I'm done work. But there always seems to be something else I could do with that time. I check my personal email. And of course, I check other blogs to see what people have to say or even comment about. Cooking for me has never been about the enjoyment in the kitchen. It's almost always been about the, "well we have to eat, so what do we on hand?" philosophy. So finding the something to do before the phone rings is almost like a competition. What can I do before the phone rings that won't bother me when the phone rings to go pick hubby? 

And the phone is ringing, so I'm off. Dinner once more not begun, but a blog successfully posted. It's a good day.

Making That Call

This morning I was running around doing errands. I was the proverbial "busy bee", flitting from the vets to the store to the bank to another store and finally home again. On one of my flights out to the car I smelled something rank near the front of our house. At first, I thought, eww, the neighbor's cats had used the area behind the bushes for their litter box. But the smell was different from that. I took another sniff. It was a bad odor for sure. And that's when I thought, "uh-oh, it smells like gas."

 I am not by nature an alarmist. I do not go looking for trouble. But I do look for verification (for almost everything!). So I walked across the front yard to the neighbors house and asked her to come out and sniff the air. She is an obliging sort (and she laughs at my jokes, so she is a good sport) and she came out and began sniffing around. By the then the odor seemed fainter and I thought perhaps I had misinterpreted the smell. She said she smelled something, but nothing alarming. We began to chat and swap stories when just like that, the odor was surrounding us! Ugh, we both looked at each other and thought, "we need to report this." I went in to the house and instead of calling the local gas company I called the police. Now the reason I called the police is that if anyone would get here quickly it would be them and I was afraid the smell would go away again and I'd end of looking stupid. I hate looking stupid, especially in front of the local police. I know a few of them from working where I do and they all enjoy teasing me as I suppose I'm so easy to tease. But I also knew they would investigate if I called.

The dispatch told me they would send out the fire department. I didn't want the fire department, I wanted one of those nice policemen I knew to come around and tell me what that smell was. But alas, soon I hear the fire whistle and I knew I was to blame. I went outside to wait for the sirens and blaring horns. At first, I was pleasantly surprised when two of the policemen I knew showed up and began sniffing the air. One of them reported he smelled something, the other didn't.They kidded around and talked to the neighbor and I, but then alas, I heard the blaring horn of the fire truck. This would be the talk of the neighborhood. for sure.

As the truck rumbled down the street and came to a halt the policeman who hadn't smelled anything, looked at me and smiled. I knew this was going to be one of the jokes they kidded me about for a while to come. The firemen scrambled off the truck, looking like ants searching for a picnic. They had these little devices that they held in front of them, testing the air, I assume. The reason I don't know was I wanted to stay out of the way and pretend it wasn't me who made the call. The neighbors' children down the street were enthralled with the proceedings. Another whiff of the smell came down on the wind and it was soon determined that a neighbor just a few doors down had put some kind of chemical down on his lawn that reacted with some other kind of chemical creating the bad smell. The firemen continued to monitor the area, the street was blocked off by police cars and some people were informed they should go back into their houses and it would be fine shortly. I say some people as neither the officers nor the firemen told me to get inside. They saw me mingling with the other people on the street and figured at least I wasn't causing any other ruckus, so they left me be.

All in all it was an interesting afternoon. I have vowed not to call the police for a while nor even the fire department unless I see flames. And in the future, I might wear a mask before going outside, just so I won't be the one to make the call.

Just Wondering

A friend of mine was feeling blue recently. Her husband (swine that I feel he is) left her for another, younger of course, what a cliche, woman. She was married to this guy for at least 25 years. They had 3 children. She was feeling blue because she finds that she wakes up every day and still thinks of him first thing before she gets up. Old, even bad, habits are hard to break--especially after 25 or so years. I told her that of course. And that he wasn't worth the tears, the anguish, but definitely still worth the anger. I love my friend very much and think she is a great person. What he has done to her--and in some ways continues to do to her--is shameful and hurtful.

So what I was thinking after the righteous indignation of her feeling bad wore off later in the day was this: does he still think of her like that? What does a cuckold think of his previous wife? Oh, I know the excitement and newness of the new relationship is still glowing it's fresh face. I know that he has moved on and is trying to push my friend into doing that as well (sell the house, sell the business, get rid of the past). But does he remember the good days at all? Does he remember how it was when it was just he two of them? Or even how it was when their kids were still small and the house was a hub of activity? Does he feel remorse? At all? And the new wife? Does she get what he has done to the former life? Does she wonder if she will wake up and find him not there in 20 years or so? Is he untrustworthy because he left once and so he might do it again? I have no way of knowing. And it's really just conjecture at this point that they even give a moment's thought to the past. Who am I to judge?

But I'm not judging necessarily. I'm wondering. Pondering, if you will. I see my friend struggle some days and wonder how can someone just walk away from someone else after all those years and not wonder about the other person? How can someone just shut down those feelings? Its a mystery to me. One I hope never to experience. But still I wonder.

the mind on hold

I've been playing a lot of mindless video games lately. Ones that involved catapulting penguins, sling-shooting strange birds at pigs and knocking zombies down to size with sunshine and plants. I can play these things either on my computer or my phone. I'm not sure that is a good thing, but there it is. I start with the idea that I will, you know, just putz around on them for a bit. Pick off a pig here and there. Or destroy one level of zombies before I take out the trash or put a load of clothes in the washer. Just a real quick game. And suddenly it's two hours later and I haven't quite got the angle on the bird crashing or the new zombie level has more determined and huge zombies and the lure of mowin' 'em down is just well addicting. So yes, it's sometimes two hours later! I could have read something for heavens sake! I'm not sure if this new state of affairs is better than mindless channel surfing or not. I used to be so smug when I knew that others were staring with glazed eyes at the TV. But I'm pretty sure my eyes look just as glazed (or is that crazed?) while concentrating on these stupid games. And in the back of my mind I'm contemplating getting the newest edition of whatever these things are. Spending money I don't have for mindless gaming. My smugness fades into the sunset with the pigs and birds. I'm doomed.

Sunshine Moments

I came home yesterday with a headache. I was grumpy, irritable, and in a funk. I had been pushed and pulled at work every which way and I am not very agile, so it was uncomfortable to say the least. There were ten different jobs that needed to be done "right now" and so the ten other jobs that were on the plate, didn't get done because of the hurry-up-and-do-now things. Very unsatisfying. Now in the backyard of our house there is a small patch of what most people would call weeds. I know better. They are milkweed plants and I put them there specifically for Monarch butterflies to find in their journey north. One year and one year only, there were a lot of them. Lots of caterpillars, lots of chrysalis' too. But since then, nothing. I've seen a monarch skip by occasionally, but they obviously didn't think my small patch worthy or big enough or whatever butterflies think and ignored my meager efforts. And so I came home sad, tired, angry at the world and its circumstances and sat in the car for a few minutes staring at nothing wishing that I could have stayed in bed with the covers pulled over my head. And then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I am not a butterfly specialist so I don't know the difference between a Monarch or a Viceroy butterfly--so I really am not sure, even now what I was seeing. They have very similar markings. But there as I finally focused on what was there on the periphery were two butterflies swooping and dancing among the milkweed. They looked like Monarchs. They flitted and flirted with the leaves (the blossoms are gone by now) stopping for a few second here and there. I have no idea if they laid eggs on the leaves (which are their favorite food). But, oh, suddenly the day wasn't such a waste of breath. Suddenly, I knew there was someone who was paying attention to my little patch of hopefulness. I stood outside the car and watched them skip and prance among the greenery and I looked heavenward and said, "Oh, Lord, thank you so much for butterflies." It's too early to tell if there will be caterpillars. But it's never to late to say thank you to the Creator for the blessings of a day which seemed like one long endless no but which ended with a blessed yes.

You did what?

A friend of mine, who is just as sarcastic, just as guilt ridden about things, just as neurotic about self as I went sky diving. WHAT? She went sky diving. She jumped out of a plane, rode the wind and pulled the ripcord to safely land. Safely land, I repeat. She is coming over today to show me pictures of the experience. She said on the phone the adventure was "really cool". OMG. I cannot imagine nor do I want to either. Standing on the top floor of the Chrysler building, I had to step towards the center of the floor. I'm sure the picturesque view of all those ant-like people down below was exquisite. But not for me. It's beyond my comprehension how someone does this--either thing, look down from high heights or sky dive. And I have a pretty vivid imagination! Beyond my comprehension. My anxiety level rises just thinking about it. When we were in sunny CA visiting the son, hubby and I took an excursion to the "Hollywood" sign. It is nestled up in the hills overlooking the valley and the Griffith Observatory. There is a relatively wide path to go up for those who are not adverse to hiking a practically vertical walk. The problem starts when the left hand side of this wide walk-way is observed. You see, it drops off rather sharply to the valley below. And there is no railing to keep you from dropping off. On the right-hand side of the walk is scrubby vegetation and dirt hills. The problem with that is the occasional sign which states you need to watch out for rattlesnakes, scorpions and mountain lions. MOUNTAIN LIONS!!!! So as we walked up the steep slope, I was forced to make sure I was walking in the dead center of the path. Certain falling down death on the left. Certain slow painful death on the right. You choose. When we came down from the walk I collapsed into the car, my knees like Jello. Maybe I could do that walk again, maybe. But maybe not. So I do safe stuff. Read. Write blogs. Walk around the neighborhood and admire the nice flat landscape around me. That's what I do.

Bugs, part 2

I found this on the garage today. It looks like a leaf doesn't it? But it's a moth. He's been sitting there since this morning. Just sitting right there under all those hungry birds' beaks. Which is, I suppose why he's been sitting there as opposed to making a break for it.

There are over 160,000 kinds of moths according to good ol' Wikipedia. Ten times more species than butterflies (my mother's personal favorite). I have heard them described as teddy bears with wings by Robert Fulghum. A bother to those who know that they lay eggs on plants and the larvae chew away until they become moths and the cycle goes around ad nauseum. I remember once as a kid finding this incredibly huge caterpillar, green with little spikes on its body. It broke a couple of sticks before I could actually move it. It evolved into a Cecropia moth-a huge brown thing that was as big as my hand. We caught a Luna moth once also. That delicate mint green moth again nearly as big as my hand. I always feel kind of sorry for the poor suckers though. Destined to fly towards the outside lights and smash themselves repeatedly on the glass. Sometimes getting caught in the spider web surrounding the light (oh, they are so clever and devious, aren't they?). I knew someone who didn't like moths because they "grabbed" you with their spiky little legs. They grabbed you? I've never seen a moth big enough to grab me, and the tiny little things on their legs which enable them to cling to sides of buildings don't hurt. I was baffled by her disgust, but I don't think everyone feels the same about spiders as I do either. To each his own in the bug world I guess. Anyway, take a moment to look up moths sometimes and you'll be amazed at their variations and coloration. They are amazing at camouflage and just as amazing standing out in a crowd. I'm just saying...

Bugs, part I

Bugs and I have an interesting relationship. The crawling kind of beetle, the undulating caterpillar, the moth or butterfly, even the ant I've sat and watched practically my whole life. I've read up on lots of kinds of creepy, crawlies. Some things would probably have been better if I'd never read them. But isn't that true of most things we read? But I can't seem to make my piece with a couple of bugs. One of them I know why and one I don't, not really anyway. The first kind of bug that I just really don't like much are spiders. I know, I know. Poor maligned eight legged creatures. I realize how beneficial they are. I've read plenty of things about them to underscore their importance in the "cycle of life". But really, I just can't like them. I just can't. If they are in my house, they should know better. Because I will not be kind to them there. Squishing is the order of the day. And I don't really care how little they are. Of course, if they have the audacity to be huge, then well, the arsenal comes out and the only survivor (at least so far anyway) is me. They move too fast. Have two extra legs for running and those eyes. Ewww. And on close ups? They're hairy, all of them. Nope, I'm not gonna be their best friend. Sorry. I'm pretty sure the reason I don't like them is because our mother was totally freaked out by them, like screaming in the other room, freaked out. So I figure I come by this prejudice honestly. And really, a lot of other people shudder when the discussion of spiders comes up. So I'm not alone. But the other bug which, er-um, bugs me? That would be bees. Now probably the reason they bother me is because I know they sting. Simply put, if it's going to hurt you, you probably don't really want to be good friends with them either. But I used to be pretty irrational about them as well. I recall one time riding in the back seat of the family sedan on the way to Grandma's house. A bumble bee flew in the back window and went down the front of my blouse. I screamed bloody murder! My mother thought I had lost a limb or something as she careened to the side of the road. Traumatized--truly shaken I was. Another time I was leaving a friends house and walking home when I noticed something on my pant leg. I looked down and a (you guessed it) bumble bee was walking up my leg. I was frozen on the spot. It wasn't until it had walked up to the middle of my t-shirt that I could force myself to flick the shirt, where the bee flung itself off and flew away without a thought in the world about the horrified, catatonic child standing on the side of the road. When I see bees zooming around the ground while at a stop light, I close the windows. I don't care how hot you get, they are not coming in to get me. I can feel the panic rising when I see them harmlessly gathering nectar from the clover in the yard. Bees. Another shudder racks the body. I don't believe my fear was passed down from anyone like the spiders thing. I just know they terrify me and I don't want to be anywhere near them. Even the hives behind glass that you can watch their industriousness. Not me, no sir. Be as busy as you want...just leave me alone! I will be posting in the next few weeks about bugs, but these two just happen to be on my list today. In the meantime, if you are a beekeeper or an arachnid-file, just keep your hobbies to yourself and I'll keep the flyswatter away from you.

"Toothiness"

So I don't really like the dentist. And my dentist is a nice guy too! So is his son who has gone into practice with him. They are both very nice guys. Like to laugh. Always trying to make sure you're comfortable, even if they think you are the biggest baby they have ever met, they do not let you know they think that. But I don't like the dentist anyway. I don't know if its related to some deep dark secret in my past or what, but if I have to go, even to get my teeth cleaned, I'm reluctant, hesitant, and willing to be led astray before embarking. I bring this up because I've been spending a lot of time with the dentist the last few weeks. It kind of began before that about 8 months ago when I completed getting a root canal and cap. I thought I would be through seeing both the endodontist (who is a very nice man as well, soft spoken, plays classical music) and the regular dentist for quite a while. Only the occasional stops to get the teeth scraped, gums gouged, you know that kind of thing. But it didn't work out that way. It began innocently enough with a hike. Hubby and I like to take hikes in the state in which we live (no, not the state of confusion, focus people!). We find these trails that are secluded and beautiful within driving distance and spend our afternoons clomping around in our hiking boots watching the locals dive for cover as we come over a ridge. Sometimes the animals run away, too. But I digress. We had found a nice little trail near the Princeton area, had traveled on it and walked into the beautiful town of Princeton for a bite to eat. Hiking is thirsty work, but you can get hungry, too. We found a great place to eat and settled down to watch people and nosh. They brought this delicious soup to the table, potato, leek and blue cheese soup. I'm telling you it was ambrosia for the tongue. It was also very hot, which was fine because the weather was still early spring-nippy. But as I slurped the soup, the heat caused one of the back teeth to well, cry out, is the best way I can describe it. Now, if you've never had a tooth cry out, you're fortunate. There is nothing like the throbbing insistence of a tooth-ache. Trust me on this. It robs you of all coherent thought, except how much this sucker hurts. I tried to be stoic so Hubby wouldn't realize anything was wrong. But he can read me like a book and besides I was wincing every time I swallowed a mouthful. By the time we got home, my head was pounding, not just the tooth. But I took some pain relievers and they relieved my pain (isn't modern medicine wonderful) and tried not to think of the tooth. The thing is, I could avoid having pain if I a) chewed on the other side of my mouth and b) if everything was the temperature of oatmeal which had been sitting out for about an hour. Not too cold, not too warm, but just right. Nothing is ever that temperature for long, so I was constantly adjusting the temperature of hot tea with ice cubes and yogurt with the microwave. You get the idea. I kept thinking that it was the tooth that had received the root canal. But having a root canal means the nerve is gone which is the thing which cries out. I even looked up if it was possible that a root canal didn't "take", you know, like the color on your roots don't take in your hair when you reach a certain age. Anyway, the endodontist who did the work on me before is a very well respected and careful doctor. So I couldn't just say he did a lousy job. But man, that tooth was annoying. So finally, I couldn't stand it any more and went to the dentist. I told him that the tooth that had the root canal was bothering me. Or at least I thought it was that tooth. He smiled in his soothing way and said, it couldn't be that tooth as there was nothing left inside it to feel pain. And then he told me, "let's just see which tooth it might be." As I said before I don't like going to the dentist. When he suggested that we would find out which tooth it was, I don't know what I thought he would do. What he did do was take some kind of metal implement, spray something on it to give it arctic coldness and proceed to touch my back teeth with this. He lingered on the tooth with the cap, telling me what he was doing so I would know that it couldn't be that tooth. Yeah okay, so you were right, I thought. And then he touched the one next to it. After prying my fingers from his wrist, he smiled a little more defensively and said, "Well it's the one right next to that capped one." I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be glad I had the general area down or just be grateful he wasn't using that instrument of torture anywhere else in my mouth. It is now 3 months later. I had to chew on the left side of my mouth for all that time. He referred me to the nice endodontist who played Mozart and spoke softly (a problem for me as he wore a mask also and I wear hearing aids and couldn't read his lips, but we managed), we did another root canal and I now have a new cap next to the other one. But I swear, as God is my witness, I'm not going through this again for a very long time. If I have a toothache, I'm going to suppress it with drugs and bite leather belts or whatever else I have to do. And if it means adding ice to my tea, well, Goldilocks, look out! It's gonna have to be just right for some time.

Moodish Posting

I'm grumpy today. And grousing about everything. To get the true picture of my grumbling mood, you would only need to see where I'm writing this post. I'm on the porch with the cat. Yes, that cat. She is stretched out on the rug to the right of the couch without a care in the world. She has trailed food all over the floor out here. But it bothers her not one whit. Why, if she bothers me so much am I sitting here then? Well, the side porch which she has been delegated to due to her unpredictable toiletry habits is the only place where I can sit comfortably with an open window and a ceiling fan. I could sit at the kitchen table and have done so on occasion. But I needed to slouch today and this couch is perfect for that. I won't be able to slouch in it much longer though. We have a new sofa on order, something well made and not as, well, slouchy. Which my back and my husband's back will truly appreciate. But in a bad mood, slouching is so much better on this piece of furniture. Should you ask me why I'm so grumpy today, I wouldn't be able to tell you. Nothing cataclysmic happened at work. No screaming parents, scheming students, annoyed administrators. Nope, nothing. But things just feel off today. As if the universe is wobbling slightly off kilter and no one notices but me. Maybe its because our neighbors moved and the new people are puttering around changing things. Maybe because the other neighbors across the street are moving as well and their entrepreneurial offspring will be leaving the street bereft without the permanent lemonade stand erected every other week to supplement their television watching addiction (cable costs quite a lot). Maybe it's because the neighbor on the other side, can't quite bring herself to run the leaf blower until 6:00 every night as we sit down to eat and I'm kind of sick of closing the window to drown out the sound. When I force myself to stop and listen, the birds are singing. The planes are droning overhead. There is a slight breeze shushing through the leaves. The sun has decided to come out after myriads of days hiding behind monstrous gray billows. But the cat is now noticing me and meowing in that quavering voice of hers which drives me to distraction. And I'm left trying to find some contentment and failing miserably. I have nothing to complain about, but I'm doing it anyway. Shame on me. Oh, good, now I can feel guilty as well as grumpy. I'll try working this out, but in the meantime, you should go read someone else's post.

Ma

This one will take me a while to work through. Mother's Day is coming up. Our mom is 80. She looks pretty good I think. She doesn't think so. She told our sister that if she had known she would've looked this way she would have shot herself a long time ago. Pause for that to sink in, please. Her brother is younger than her. He's looking old, but not in a bad way. They are the last of their family. I don't try to figure out their dynamics anymore. I learned that it is not really my place to figure it out and they seem pretty comfortable with things as they are. Why mess? Mom never seems to change. There was a time when she had an edge to things she said, at least I felt that way. She seems mellower now--towards me, towards life, who knows. I know she enjoys when the family gets together immensely. She may not hear everything, but she looks from face to face at people's expressions and reactions and can glean pretty much the gist of the conversation from that, I gather. I often wonder what she is thinking as she watches us talk and laugh and argue. I couldn't ask her as she wouldn't tell me the truth. She'd tell me what I wanted to hear. That's the problem, if there is any, with mom. There are schematics to her inner workings, but she doesn't really let anyone in to read them. Sometimes I'm pretty adept at reading the "signs" as we seem to think along the same lines. But sometimes she seems like an alien being I've known all my life and still can't quite fathom. I guess to a degree we're all like that. No one can know all our thoughts, except the ones we chose to share with others. But there are times when she says things in a certain way, phrases things with a certain pitch, that I would give my last dollar to find out exactly what was behind the words or even the jutted jaw. I know we sound alike, even dress alike sometimes. We, however, are not like the Patty Duke show. I'm younger and think differently about some things. I like the fact that my mother and I are alike. And sometimes, I think it must give my husband pause to think that this is the way I will be several years from now. I like that too! She is so generous. Her cup overflows with tenderness for her family. And her husband's family as well. And her friends. Sometimes, not as much anymore, but still sometimes she wears herself out caring for others. Because of the health issues she has, and really for someone her age there aren't THAT many things wrong, she simply cannot do the same things she did before. I'm pretty sure that bothers her. But again, I can't ask. See the paragraph above. She is quick to defend her grandchildren. She is a fierce protector of her home, her husband, her dog and her children, not necessarily in that order. Her faith is rock solid. She has a devotion time every morning, a discipline I've yet to conquer. When I have a need to discuss spiritual matters, she is who I go to. And she talks as an equal to me. She doesn't pontificate. I wouldn't talk to her if she did. She analyzes, ruminates, questions and laughs at the absurdity of Christianity and her fellow followers. But she never condescends which is why is such a great teacher both of bible studies and conversation. She is a good role model. She is not a saint, she's more like an angel. Angels are messengers from God. Yeah, mom is like that. She is human, not above making mistakes and being cranky. But on the whole, she is the one I'd want to go to and see no matter what or when. I can't imagine what life would have been like without her. Happy Mother's Day Ma!

Life in the Slow Lane

I imagine the song for this being somewhat sluggish as opposed to the driving beat of the "Life in the Fast Lane". The slow lane is for those of us who want to stop the world and get off, and meander through the woods looking at wild flowers. The slow lane is for those of us who wander through Wal-Mart not only looking at the bargains, but the bargain hunters who are almost as entertaining as the bargains! The slow lane if for those who start walking down the street in the direction of the shopping district and end up on some back street marveling at the way the azaleas are blooming already and in such magnificent shades of magenta! In short, the slow lane is for those who have time to appreciate things around them without whizzing through while on the way to soccer practice or piano lessons. Of course, the slow lane can be for those who are taking piano lessons at an advanced age and finding it more fun to figure out how to play Mairse Doats instead of Chopin's something or other. It might sounds as though I'm retired, but I'm not. Though I would like to be. But I'm just observing how sometimes life in the slow lane has it advantages. It's harder to get riled up over something when you take your time to think about it instead of just reacting. It's easier to smile at little kids who are carrying on to beat the band, then grumbling about the noise they're making when you take time to consider that they won't be doing this forever. I'm not at the point yet, where the slow lane has taken over my thinking. But it's creeping up on me and I like that in a way. I find I have time to savor things when I really take the time to do so. When I'm conscious of deciding to slow down, I think I feel better about things. So I'm going to try and do that more. Because life in the slow lane is surely gonna make my day!

Fixing the World

I get emails once in a while from various and sundry resources that claim they have the answer to the world's problems. Whether it's the economy of the United States, the civil unrest in Spain or the global warming melting the polar ice caps, someone has the answer. And yet, and yet...we are still in the mess we're in. The US hasn't solved their "universal health care problem", Iran is still contemplating blowing up the world yet still remaining true to it's Islam tenets (how does that work?), and the mess in Afghanistan isn't getting any less complicated. I sometimes wish the world was like a snow-globe. You could shake it a few times and the stuff inside would resettle into something else. How do we fix all that is wrong? And is the world a worse place than it was a decade ago or does it just seem that way? Was the world even 30 or 50 years ago such a mixed up mess? I don't know. And I don't know how to fix it either. Pundits with plausible ideas spew out nightly their wisdom. But why isn't anyone really doing anything to "right the wrongs" or "bridge the gap" or whatever euphemism you happen to like? And where does it end? Does it end with a new administration? With a new dictator? With a new guru? Even a new religion? Pondering these things maker me feel helpless and a little hopeless too, if you want to know. Who do you listen to? Who is right? I'm not the most well-read person about politics and world situations but do I have to be? Is there someone who is well-read enough to actually DO something? The rhetoric during a political campaign is useless. People spouting they will do this and they will do that...I don't think we can bank on them doing any of those things in reality. So what do we do? What can we do? I don't have the answer (not that I expected to have one), but it's kind of depressing that no one else does either. I'm just saying...

The jellybean lure

Every Easter someone (usually me, but not always!) puts together an Easter basket full of chocolate, marshmallow chicks, malted milk eggs and jelly beans. The fake grass which is put in the basket hides the jelly beans pretty effectively until most of the other stuff is gone. Then the little egg shaped jellies sit and call to you as you walk through the room where they nest. I've always loved the yellow and orange ones, though the green ones will do in a pinch. And I don't particularly like the spiced ones, though I realize there are those who are appalled by this. I looked around on the internet regarding the origins of the candy. Apparently, no one knows the exact origin. Something about Turkish Taffy and Jordan almonds all mixed up somehow or other. There is a mention of them as early as the US Civil War! But it wasn't until the 1970's that the Herman Goelitz Candy Company began to flavor the little beans exotically that these treats became gourmet attention getters. They were the ones who came up with pina colada, toasted coconut and other such flavors. I still prefer the old stand-bys like lemon, orange and cherry. But what do I know? I loved in the Harry Potter books, Bertie Botts had "every flavor beans" like ear wax and vomit! They apparently are so popular at Easter because of the shape of them and the fact that they are brightly colored, rendering them perfect for finding in the fake grass of an unsuspecting basket. The problem is that they are small and so you can eat like a million of them before you realize it and they are probably rotting your teeth even as you munch your 600th. Most of the time candy is big enough so that you've eaten one and you think, "whoa, if I keep this up I'll need two seats in an airplane". But the jelly bean is insidious in it's size. You walk past the basket and grab a couple. You realize, "hey, that was pretty good!" and the next time you walk past, you find yourself looking for all the yellow ones (or orange or green or if you are like my dad the black licorish ones). And the next thing you know you are standing at the table, searching for all the single color ones you have latched onto and you've completed your mission and you now have a sugar buzz and need to go out and run around the block for a while as you work it off. Of course, you don't do that. Instead you walk into the living room and crash out asleep on the couch as your body tries to balance out the sugar content in your system. When you wake up you feel like you have a hangover and you grope your way to the kitchen, only to see the basket out of the corner of your eye and you begin wondering if you got all the yellow ones (or green or red or, well,you get the idea). If you have enough will power you will not go and check, but if not you wander back to the basket and cycle repeats itself. I have considered throwing the basket out, so the temptation won't be so great. But the idea of throwing away food is repellent to me and why waste a perfectly good jelly bean? And so I can hear it in the dining room, on the table, whispering my name in a low monotonous tone. There still might be some yellow ones left. Or maybe orange. Or even green in a pinch.

The Flowers of Spring...NOT

Okay, I like to garden. I have some quirky things in the garden I plant (poinsettia's from last Christmas come to mind), but I like it and it suits me. I don't go at it full tilt all the time. Hence the weeds and funny looking thingees that grow in between the hyacinths and daffodils. But on the whole, I like to be out digging around. In the early months of the summer, I usually spend a bundle at a couple of local garden centers and grab a mish-mosh of plants to put in containers on the deck. It's the only place where the sunlight seems to concentrate, so it's more a garden in pots than in the ground. But last year, ah, last year...I read this article that explained how you could plant a whole batch of tulips in a small area and the colors would be gorgeous and concentrated in this one small spot. I was thrilled! This was it! My place to really go wild! I followed the instructions to the letter, weeding, mulching, fertilizing, chasing away squirrels, tending, talking to them, chasing away more squirrels. And lo and behold, it was so! A lovely batch of spring green beauties sprouted, waving their bulbous heads and bursting into fabulous color! Oh, it was beautiful! The neighbors were impressed with my display and to tell the truth, so was I! It is now Spring again. Tulips bloom again and again, right? So I wasn't quite as diligent as last year. But we had a mild winter. Not too much frost. Hardly any snow. The green shoots pushed their way up into the bright sunlight. I waited for the brilliant display to begin. And waited. And waited. The daffodils are already spent. The forsythia is more green than yellow by now. But not one tulip has graced a stalk. Not a one. No color. Except spring green. Not a single bloom. How can this be? Every time I back out of the driveway, they wave mockingly at me. See? They seem to say, we're still here, but we're all the same color this year! Oh, where did I go wrong? I'll have to research this phenomenon on internet. It's almost Easter and no tulips. Heavy sigh.

The Dance

Do you remember going to dances when you were in middle school? It seems Middle America has been waltzing with this "rite of passage" for a very long time. I was thinking about going to dances in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades the other day as the burb was having a dance at the Middle school. I pondered my own children's experiences but then I thought of my own and I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I remember getting ready the day of, deciding what to wear. In those "olden times" you got dressed up to go to a dance--like in a dress. It was important to look older, I recall. Flat shoes just wouldn't do, and always stockings. Of course this was before pantyhose, so the requisite armored undergarments were necessary. The hair had to be Just Right. Not too long, but definitely not short either. It had to be unfettered also. No ponytails, no upsweeps. Down and as straight as you could get it. But all that was the preliminaries. At the dance the girls stood on one side of the gym and the boys on the opposite. Certain girls were allowed to mingle, but they had certain words attached to them too (fast, easy and trash spring to mind). The boy always asked the girl to dance. This dancing was the old fashioned kind too. Box step, I think it was. One foot forward, one to the side, one back, one to the other side. You didn't travel much and there wasn't much call to talk as you were concentrating on either leading (if you were the boy) or following (if you were the girl). This was right before the Beatles music brought with it the idea that dancing could be done independently, gyrating across the floor without any seeming partners. Your right hand was on the boy's shoulder, your left in his hand. There was usually quite a distance between your bodies as you began your box-stepping. I remember one of the fast girls and her boyfriend went by the guy I was dancing with and they yelled, "Hey, want a ruler to make sure you're far enough apart?" They shuffled off, hanging on each other, snickering. We danced to songs like, "Blue Velvet" or "You Belong to Me" trying not to read too much into your partner's semi-embrace, but hoping it meant that they liked you at least a little. There was a lot of nervous laughter at least on the girls side of the gym. And the guys side seemed to be a lot of pushing, shoving and guffawing. And when the night was over and the moms and dads picked the kids up at the end, you frequently had something to write about in your diary. A long time has passed since I was at a dance. I'm sure the music is different and the gyrations are more pronounced. But I'll bet the butterflies in the stomach are still there. The jostling around on the side of the dance floor. Wondering if you'll get to dance with that cute guy or not. Some things probably never change.

It's just a little pinch...

The above is what almost any doctor will tell you before they plunge a needle into your skin. Whether it's for an antibiotic or Novocain, they preface the pain you'll feel later with the anticipation of the short pain you'll feel when the needle punctures your skin. And, in their defense it usually is just a little pin prick, hardly worth mentioning. I think they say it so you'll be prepared instead of flinching and causing them to tear a hole in your arm, mouth or wherever the "pinch" will be placed. I heard this little phrase this morning as I went to a dermatologist to get a small cyst removed from my face. She gave me three "little pinches" above my left eye in anticipation of the cut and subsequent digging in my face to get this small growth out. And it was small, really. It felt big when I touched it above my eye, but in retrospect it was less than a centimeter around and sort of a brownish-lumpy looking thing. The numbing agent she gave me is beginning to wear off now and the dull ache that I feel in my forehead is probably a foreshadowing of a long night to come. But this piece of me that I didn't want there is gone, anyway. I had two moles removed last summer. They weren't grotesquely evident to anyone, even to me really. But the location of them was troublesome when wearing a necklace and the one on my back sometimes would get irritated by my clothing. The dermatologist assured me that they weren't cancerous or anything, but I got to thinking then as I am thinking again today of why I went to the trouble of being punctured and prodded. Why not leave well enough alone? The moles have been with me since, well, childhood, I guess. Most of the time I didn't think about them. The lump underneath my eyebrow was just sort of there suddenly, but it didn't hurt. So why the removal? I don't know honestly. I don't really think it's vanity, although I've fooled myself about that enough to believe that I'm not (for those who have trouble following that statement it means I don't think I'm vain, but I know I really am!). The lump under the brow was removed because I secretly thought it might have been something bad and if I ignored it, it would become larger and more arrogant. But the moles were, well, I guess I just figured I had good insurance, so why not make sure they weren't anything bad and have them removed. Of course the "bad" is cancer. The specter of cancer lurks in my mind many times. It's a shadow cast behind family and friends. I've lost people I've really loved and admired to that big "C" and I don't want that disease to think it has a chance to become my new best friend because I've overlooked something. So here I sit on the couch, blogging away, as the numbness wears off and the day wears on. Thinking of this and that and waiting for the next dosage of Extra Strength Tylenol. Fending off thoughts of what it could have been and knowing that I'm okay. And hoping you're the same.

Moonrakers

While hubby and I were perusing the local paper the other night we became aware that the house we first lived in together was on the market. Yep, the first house we fixed up, re-wired, painted, papered and had our first child in was for sale. The owners who are selling it obviously have done some work since we lived there. The ad states it has an eat in kitchen. The little galley kitchen we used barely had room to turn around in, so obviously it has been upgraded. I have dreamed of that house repeatedly. In those dreams it is still the cute little place where I learned to be a wife, then a mommy. In the dreams though, I am always leaving it for somewhere. I don't know what that means in "dream speak". I don't think I care really. Our daughter laughingly said we should buy it and thereby come full circle. And so help me, I thought, maybe that was a good idea. But hubby and I, if we ever move, want something on one floor. Something that as the little old people we are becoming can stay in and not worry about climbing onto the roof of the porch to fix it or climbing into the attic to find out what was leaking into the kitchen. So practicality has been our motto; if we ever move. Still it was fun to reminisce about the ol' homestead. And think what life was like then and how it has become now. The sale sign is gone now and I'm sure some young couple has begun their new life there. I wish them luck and happiness. Something the house seemed to bring to us. We've been to Moonrakers and we've moved on.

Greenery

We attended the Flower Show yesterday, hubby and I. The theme this year was Hawaii. There were hundreds and hundreds of orchids everywhere! I love to look at orchids. I've only got one in the house and it seems to be growing well--oh, I shouldn't have said that, now it'll probably die. Anyway, I love admiring the varieties of orchids and well, really, any type of flower. Squinting closely at the way the coloring seems to follow the veins in the petals, admiring the graceful arch of leaves, checking out the way the roots either push up from the dirt to get a better sky view or humbly remain hidden in the dark recesses of the loamy soil, I really do enjoy studying plants. As we wandered the aisles and elbowed our way into the display areas, I was again amazed at the variety of say, tulips or daffodils. The seemingly endless array of orchids. The subtle nuances of the various ferns in the judging areas. Of course, I looked at the blue ribbons and thought to myself, hey my "insert-plant-name-here" is just as good looking as that, I could have won! But the difference between the people who entered their plants and I (besides the fact that they entered and I didn't) is that they care about winning the ribbon. Whereas I just like to have them inhabit my space with me. I love the way the poinsettias are still blooming in March in the front window of the living room. I appreciate the green accents in the sun porch in the corner, even if I can't remember the names of the plants. The african violets on the windowsill are my way of greeting the morning, even when I can make myself wake up enough to say hello to the hubby. Outside, the weather has been relatively warm for a winter in Zone 7, and the daffodils and crocuses are confused and coming up a little early to greet the season. I like their ambition. I like the splash of color before everyone else gets into the act of dressing up in their greenery. I restrained myself at the Flower Show. I bought two small plants to add to my collection. I would have loved to have purchased so many others. But we needed to ride home on the train and lugging a wheel barrow full of posies was not really what I wanted to do. But still, I took a few pictures with my phone and I'll be able to revisit the blooms if I choose. Which isn't as good as having them here with me, but it will have to do until next time.

She Walks in Beauty with the groceries

Beauty is for looking at
No matter what others say.
If the visage is not beautiful
They will not be looking your way.
Trust me on this.

The beauty of today is slim and straight
And hardly any curves
Unless you are selling underwear
With wings attached.
Trust me on this.

Skin is flawless
Lips are full-ish
Lashes are grotesquely long-ish
And hair is flowing, flowing
Past the shoulders in lustrous waves
Of rippling brown (no longer blonde-mostly)
Trust me on this.

And those of us who are
Or never have been willowy
Our hair is short, our stature shorter
Our underwear white and serviceable
Without wings or even possibly lace
Watch in haunted shadows
The passing of those long, cool drinks of water
Sometimes with a lump of envy
Sometimes with a note of irony
And mostly with a wonder, what if
Trust me on this.

We populate the daytime
With mini-vans
Small economy cars full of groceries
And love and angst
And fierce pride in our broods
We do not pout, nor whine, or expect roses
Or even dinner out (except maybe once a year).
We are real, those without the visual beauty
And we are beautiful to one another
We recognize each other
Even if not in some man’s fantasy.
Trust me on this.

It's Stupid to Get Mad, But...

I consider myself okay with computers. I know how to do certain things and in turn certain things get done for me. It's a basic premise, one that I'm comfortable with from day to day. Ah, but there are those days. I decided to be lazy and instead of sitting at my desktop, I decided to use my laptop which I hadn't powered up for a little while. I briefly recall that hubby had it upstairs tinkering about a week ago, but I didn't think anything of it. Until I tried to get on it. It is not connected to the wireless in the house...hunh? How could it not be connected to the wireless? It doesn't have to be plugged in, right? It just has to have the proper little code to work...right? And then I remembered. He moved the wireless router. We live in a brick house. The poor little laptop is lost within the walls of the dead space between brick and mortar. I have to change my location. It took me 40 minutes, I'm sorry to admit, to remember he told me this. I sent him a text message before I remembered with a snarky, sarcastic tone. Forty minutes of swearing, mumbling, yelling at the screen and then finally powering off to remember this little tidbit of info.

I'm on the desktop now. Breathing deeply and trying to remain calm. But it was just one of those days.

Good Ol' Music

I know I've written about this before, but it bears a repeating, sort of. I love music that my father loved. My hubby found on Pandora, a succession of songs which I have to admit made me dance about the kitchen with a goofy smile on my face. I knew most of the lyrics, could guess most of the singers, and even knew their phrasing! It was great! Because it's just he and I, during dinner we are usually serenaded with classical. It's soothing, sometimes I recognize the music, sometimes I don't. But after our respective busy days, it's nice to listen to soothing melodies.

But since the radio station went off the air that I used to listen to with this kind of music, I don't get the variety anymore. My own personal playlists are heavy on the Sinatra, Bennett and not too much else. It was wonderful to hear Ella, Jimmy Durante, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr. and even Bobby Darin. I asked him to leave it on just a little longer as I cleaned up the kitchen. They even played, "In the Mood" by Glen Miller! Oh, it was marvelous. I finished cleaning up, and just sat in the chair in the kitchen with that small smile remembering all the times I must have heard The Lady is a Tramp, As Time Goes By, and oh, I don't know, hundreds of others all those years in the car singing along.

It was superb! I'm sure my husband, who by the way retreated to his lair upstairs, could do without my out of tune warbling. But it restored me for the evening. And reminded me that my memory is just fine for these songs. I swear I have so many memorized, it's a wonder I can remember everything else. Which I would like to believe is the reason I can't remember everything else.

Anyway, I'm singing along now and hope to continue for a little while yet. I'll catch up with you all later...after hours...maybe at a quarter to three. If you don't get that reference well then, nevermind.

The Passage of Time

I visited my nephew's grave today. His birthday was February 3 and I just thought to go over and see where it was, the new headstone, well, whatever. It was cold and blustery there. The cars were whizzing by on the highway and the side streets, people hurriedly going about their business on a Saturday. I looked down and thought of him.

I remembered my sister, upon hearing of his death, say, "Oh, that's just so unfair." And she was right. It was. And still is. I am not unknowing about the world, I am aware that life can be unfair. I know that people die all the time in accidents and even because bad people make choices that affect innocent people. I read the paper. I watch the news, only not so much anymore. I don't like the news. All that death on purpose makes me uneasy. And sad.

He should have been around to witness all the wonderful things going on with his family this year, the weddings, the new baby, even the usual birthdays. I do not want to hear someone say, "he is with you in spirit," right now. Maybe he is, but he isn't here in person is he? And that's what I miss, what I'm thinking of, not the ethereal "other"; the here and now. He is not in the here and now with us.

Life changes so quickly. And goes on. I said to my husband, "life still goes on," knowing that it wasn't a breaking news bulletin. Just a realization. Life progresses without us when we cease to be. In the play Our Town, the character Emily has died and is counseled by the people on the hill who have gone on before her. But the stage manager tries to answer the question she asks about realizing how life is going on all around us, "every, every minute." Do they realize, she asks? And he says honestly, no. Maybe some, poets he mentions, but most of us see the time we are living in at this moment as just the second leading up the next second to the next minute, hour, day, week, month, and year. The slip stream of time blurs by our eyes so fast, that we weren't even sure we saw it. And then when someone slips out of the stream, we notice the vacancy, but the current takes us past and the vacuum is gone, until the next time we take a minute to see it. And so I stood in the blustery gloom and stared at the stone with his name on it, trying to fill the void for just a few minutes.

Happy Birthday John, wherever you are.

Christmas Time is Here

The above is the first line from the skating scene song in "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It's sort of obvious, but with the shushing of the drum beat in the background, it's sort of like underneath stuff too. On the surface there is that hubbub and rushing and baking and cleaning and laughing at stupid old songs. But I've noticed that many columnists point to the season as being-well-less than stellar for them. They aren't hearing the undertones. They lament that it's too full of things, too full of getting, not enough of giving, yada, yada, yada (as the Seinfeld gang would say).

And I for one would like to post that I give all those uber-cool guys the raspberries. Excuse me if your Christmas is commercial, gimme, over the top greedy. I'm sorry for you, really. I probably don't give as much to charity as I could. I probably don't remember the poor and homeless as much as I should either--although I'd like to think I got a few brownie points for some of the stuff I DID remember. But almost to a one, every person I know thinks Christmas is pretty wonderful and happy and full of good things. We adore giving just the "right thing" to people in our family (and sometimes they aren't even related!). We laugh at antics of Christmas past. We relish the time given to us because it is given to everyone and you can either be glad about it or complain. I read far too many columns from some high-brow snooty people about how Christmas is just for the people with money. But I still believe Christmas is in the heart, not the pocketbook. I see lots more smiley faces, lots more letting into traffic, lots more "no you go ahead" in the checkout lines at the grocery store. I'm sorry they don't see this Christmas that I see. I wish they could. I wish everyone could see the light which shines over all darkness and illuminates the spirit. Oh, how I wish Scrooge wasn't such a hero before he gets changed.

So I'm not cool again this year. I am hopelessly in love with the season, my family and friends and how they celebrate it and I hope the same for those curmudgeons grousing about their houses in their bathrooms today.

Merry Christmas, God Bless us EVERYONE!

People and Their Dogs

Okay, I don't own a dog. I used to share ownership of lots of dogs at various and sundry stages of my life, but I no longer own one and probably have forgotten many of the things associated with owning or even taking care of one. But one of the things I know that is supposed to happen with a dog is a walk. It's universal like a remote control (unless you live in my house in which there are several remote controls for the same thing, but I digress). So you walk the dog, probably poopy scoop after them and both of you get your exercise and everybody's happy--mostly.

I have seen the scenario I'm about to describe to you for at least 3 nights now, when I go to pick up hubby at the train station and I don't understand it. I imagine what it means, I try to logically figure it out, but alas, I'm at a loss. Dispassionately, the scene looks like this: a women is holding, no make that restraining her snarling, barking German Shepherd who is carrying on in the direction of a man who is either standing on a porch or the front yard of what I assume to be his own house. He isn't moving, isn't taunting the dog. He is either standing with his hands on his hips staring at this excited beast or looking relatively unconcerned with his hands hanging down at his side. He isn't approaching the woman and her dog. He isn't even conversing as far as I can tell with either of them. He's just standing there. And she isn't reprimanding the dog for these shenanigans either, she is simply holding him and letting him "express himself" at this man's expense. It's such a bizarre tableau. What is going on? Does he know them both and teases the dog regularly and this is their "playing"? Does she dislike the man and this is the only way she can be sure he knows it? I have no clue. So what do you think?

Company again

We are hosting company this weekend. Yes, the family just got done being together, but this group is made up of our daughters friends. They are coming together to look at dresses for the upcoming wedding. Deciding on what to wear, the color, the style, the logistics. They like each other (a blessing, I'll admit) and they are a fun bunch to talk with. They are staying for a couple of days. We are spending an inordinate amount of time around the kitchen table laughing and eating. The ebb and flow of conversation is different that when the family was here, but the current is fine to jump into once in a while and observe the rest of the time.

I'm cleaning up again and dusting and straightening. The house hasn't been this organized in I don't know how long. It's amazing really. I'll need to take some time off before the next round at Christmas.

But I like it! and I like having them around. See you when I get done doing another round of dishes!

Ah, yes, the family

We are getting together this weekend. A whole lot of family. All sides. They are coming from all over, too! And this time it's a happy occasion, a celebration of a milestone birthday. There are plans already made, plans in the making and contingency plans for the plans that don't work out. It will be raucous, noisy fun when we all assemble and I'm really quite excited about the whole thing. I love it when all the siblings get together with their spouses. I love it when those who aren't actually related by blood or marriage cram themselves and those who are blood relatives into a space and laugh and talk and laugh some more. Sometimes, as I told my sister recently, I wish I could hear better. But really, it's so great to go from group to group, catching pieces of conversation here and there, sliding into a joke with this crowd and delving into the philosophical question with that assembly. Re-telling the same family stories, even though everyone has heard them twenty-five times is still a tradition. And amidst all that, we really like each other. Oh, sometimes we lose patience with one or another. Sometimes we get angry over something someone says or does, but mostly I would say we really enjoy our company.

I like it when everyone has left, too and you can re-think things over. Replay the laughter and conversations in your mind and file it away for some long afternoon when maybe it seems colder and darker outside than normal.

I know this post sounds really "Pollyanna-ish", but I make no apologies. We're getting together this weekend and its a happy occasion.

An American Tune

I really love music. Not all kinds I know. But I love it when a tune I know sneaks up behind me and taps me on the head and I whirl around and recognize it suddenly. I was in church this morning--where I am most Sunday mornings and as we ambled our way along the liturgy and readings a song arose in mid-service. Mostly when I don't recognize a song as one from the random memory, I listen to a verse or two before joining in, trying to categorize it, see if indeed I'd heard it before somewhere else. This has happened a few times with hymns in the past and I'm always pleasantly surprised when I do know the song.

Anyway, while listening to the melody during the second verse of this second hymn, it seemed to me that I knew this song but not from church. I looked down at the teeny-weeny notes which shows the person who wrote the lyrics and the music. The music was done by Bach. Well, that didn't help me much. I mean I like Bach, I guess when I recognize it, but I usually hum Beethoven in a pinch. But I just knew this music. I could feel the synapses pushing stuff aside, shuffling, shuffling and suddenly I had it! I had Paul Simon's American Tune! Okay, it didn't match exactly, but it was there, right there! And I was amazed!

An American Tune is one of those songs that gets stuck in my head for long periods at a time and here there it was! A mosh up of Bach! I went to our wise and wonderful music director after church and explained my excitement at recognizing a tune in an unfamiliar place. He was trying to figure the melody out from American Tune, but he couldn't quite remember how it went so he asked me to e-mail him the song so he could hear it.

Okay, so this is where some people will turn off the post...because the version I remembered most was not the Paul Simon version, but the Starland Vocal Band version. It was sung acappella with beautiful harmonies and it was just my favorite song for a very long time. So I found this version and after playing it about 100 times just to hear it again, I sent it off to the music director. I'm not sure if he's appalled that I sent this instead of the other. I haven't heard back from him yet.

But I love this...the fact that I was actually listening to something written a long time ago and never even knew it!

The Meaning of the Date

For most Americans, this Sunday is an anniversary of a horrific event 10 years ago. Even though life has gone on and people live their lives in pretty much the same way, it's still something in the collective American memories of 9/11 which rush back, asking, "What were you doing when?"

But the significance of this date has taken on a new meaning for our family. A tragedy last year swamped our emotions, flooded our consciousness and pushed the national mourning to the recesses of our minds. We are remembering a different scenario than most this Sunday. We are asking ourselves, "where were you when you got the call?" We, too have moved on with our lives, pretty much the same way. But the hollowness in the corner of our heart is still there and is still somewhat fresh. It still hurts. It catches us unaware when we are going about our lives. It robs us of breath sometimes with its jagged edge of memory. It stings with the thoughts of what those loved ones won't be sharing with us: the new baby, the new engagements, the laughter of coming together. And it's more personal than watching the images of those buildings crumbling to the ground. We thought we were lucky then because we didn't lose anyone in that calamity. But we lost them years later on essentially the same day.

So we are mourning again, in a way taking comfort that the nation is mourning along side of us for a different reason. There is a comfort in a way of all those people feeling sad, even thought they aren't aware of our own personal sadness. But we are sorrowful in a way that the nation isn't. Eventually we'll heal and it won't be as sore as it is now, just like the nation. But we aren't there yet. It takes time.