Summer to Autumn

There is a quality of the light as the summer winds down. When you either go to school or work on the school's schedule you begin to notice the sun's comings and goings. This morning was an autumn morning. It was already 80 degrees outside with the humidity sticking to the air in great globules. But in the air conditioned sanctuary of home, the light coming over the trees told me autumn is on the way. Summer seems to gush out between peeking fingers of houses, trees, clouds. But autumn sort of slides across the horizon and slowly comes up out of the ground, like waking up. Summer is boisterous, noisy, clambering and exuberant. Autumn is contemplative and almost shy. With the job change this year I will go back into the rhythm of an elementary school. The cadence of the days, the children growing before your very eyes like pumpkin vines. They will probably make me yearn for the days when my own children were in school, with the drama and excitement and the new experiences along the way. But Autumn is a time of yearning as well. A time to stop and watch the roses grown brown on the vine instead of smelling them. A time of watching and waiting for winter. I have written about Autumn before, its coming and going. But this year when the light is slower and different, I wonder, what will things be like? What will the year bring? I never really appreciate or even like summer much, it's too, well, too much. But autumn and I get along just fine. Perhaps it's because my birthday is in autumn? I think though that the rhythm of the season is what appeals to me. We slow down and look at things differently in autumn. We understand each other.

The Job

This post is gonna be a pisser to write. The reason is two fold. One, hubby and I didn't sleep well last night and lest you think you're gonna read something juicy and lurid, forget it. We didn't sleep as we kept waking each other up. Because each of us was thinking about my job which is the same "pain in the ass" thing I've had for the last 7 years, 7 months. The boss called me in yesterday to explain that I would now be doing a different job. The new job is similar to the job I left before I had this PIA job. I liked it a lot, but the pay was low and the hours were short. And no benefits. Ya gotta have benefits if your husband doesn't have any. So I left it for a longer hour, better paying, benefit producing job. And my boss is telling me that I will be working essentially at the old job, but at two different locations.

I wish I could say I was thrilled. I'm older now. Nine years older. I don't know/think I'm going to be as good at this as I was before. I'm slower off the starting gate and my stride is more sedate (okay it's an analogy, but it works...ugh, sorry). And I wasn't warned that my current job was in any jeopardy of changing. It was a complete surprise to be told, oh by the way in two weeks you'll be doing a new job which is essentially your old job, at two places.

I don't know why I'm not ecstatic. But I'm not. I'm still feeling kind of put out. I told hubby that if people see me back at my former location, they'll think I did something wrong and got demoted. He says what do you care what people think. Yeah, I think, what do other people have to do with this? Except I will care that they think I screwed up. I will be concerned that the new bosses will be watching me to see what I could possibly have done wrong to get moved to this new set of circumstances. I feel like I'll be under scrutiny for something I didn't do.

I have to clean up my desk, my act and my attitude in two weeks. I'm working on it!

Betwict and Amongst

One of the things I most often DON'T post about is my faith. I guess because I'm ambivalent about how people will perceive what I believe and of course, I don't want to offend. But I made an observation today and I feel the need to write about it.

One of the biggest tenets of Christian faith is that being in "community" is what makes being a follower, truly a follower. You can have faith as small as a mustard seed, but the community of faith is the watering and nurturing needed to get that plant going. Many people may not understand that basic premise. Christianity seems to be for the singular, believing, Bible thumping sinner who will work out his or her salvation through the individual and God. And no one else need apply. But truly Christianity is for the group. This was brought home to me in several ways.

I attend church by myself most Sundays. This is not a "pity me" statement. It is a fact brought about by the moving on of children and the steadfast husband of the "see ya when ya get home" religion. The people at the congregation I attend have developed their own theories of me, I'm sure. It doesn't matter. I am an accepted member of the congregation, having attended there for almost 30 years. They are my brothers and sisters as surely as the siblings I lived with in that small town next to the Delaware. They have watched my skits, my announcements and even a sermon and heard my questions, fears and beliefs sounded loud and clear through all these things.

But they are not in my presence the rest of the week. I do not have them with me when my waspish tongue lashes out at the laziness of a co-worker. When my temper is frayed by the uncaring community of people at my place of business when they trample on someone else's right to do things because it doesn't fit in with their ideas. And they are definitely not with me when I use my sarcasm as a cutting tool for the perceived fools of the public who don't see things my way. I think if my brothers and sisters in Christ saw me during the week they a)would claim they didn't know me and b)disown me from the family of Christ. And therein lies the problem.

Because they aren't with me everyday, I see things differently. I feel cut off and separate from Christ. I allow the world's treasures to obliterate the treasures of heaven. My eye on the prize is one of acceptance of the world and it's jewels. My husband doesn't seem to care how sarcastic I can be (unless it's unleashed on him). My children think my anecdotes about my co-workers are funny especially when I can show them in a darker light than my own.

I come to church the following Sunday filled with self-loathing and with disgust at another week gone by where the teachings of the "Ultimate Teacher" have gone unheeded by me. I grovel at his feet, promise to try and do better and find that by Monday afternoon, I'm going to hell in a hand basket once again.

And yet, I know that the lens of Christ is with me still. I know that if I were to ask for help in all this there are those who would walk beside me. They cannot be with me at home and in the workplace, but they are with me in e-mail. And only a phone call away from being by my side. Yea, though I walk through the valley of self-importance at the cost of all others, they are with me. They are like a rod and a staff, to poke, prod and sometimes drag me off the path I seem determined to follow. My siblings in the Lord are still with me, even though they are not.

This past Sunday I was wallowing in self-pity. I don't like sitting by myself in the pew. I don't like being the only believer in my home. I don't like not being able to discuss things of religious importance with anyone unless I have to go out to find them. After taking communion I was sitting in the pew, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a woman who is suffering mightily with cancer. She is courageous in her battle and even at her age, she is determined to keep going. She smiled at me and grasped my hand as she unsteadily made her way up the pew to take the bread and wine. She smiled at me. Her hands were cool and not terribly strong, but she took my hands in hers and was glad to see me. She was glad to see me. I still get choked up by this. I don't know why she would be glad to see me. I certainly wasn't glad to BE me. But she shared a piece of herself with me on her way to taste and see the Lord our God. We are one in the body, we are one in the blood. That's from a hymn or song I know. If it weren't for the people of the congregation I am part of, I'm not sure I'd be part of anything. There is certainly something more worthwhile in this fellowship than any other committee I might have been on for the PTA!

I don't deserve her smile. I don't deserve the Lord's gift of grace either, but thank the good Lord above it is given to me and all I have to do is reach out and be received amongst. Amen

The frustrations of not being independently wealthy

The above title leapt fully formed into mind today because I was at work today. It wasn't a strenuous day, not particularly busy, nor too many cantankerous callers either. But I was at work. I wasn't writing, or painting or sewing or gardening or even sitting around picking my scabs. I was in a place of employment for 7.5 hours. I begrudge every minute of it. The slow slog to the desk. The mind numbing waiting for the computer to boot up. The tediousness of getting up and copying something or faxing something or taking something upstairs to make sure it's supposed to go upstairs. When God told Adam it would be mandatory for the rest of his life (and subsequently all our lives) that we would live by the sweat of our brow, did it include typing, faxing, stapling, filing? Thanks a lot, Adam! Geez! You couldn't stay away from one f*cking fruit tree???

Our lives pass us by as the sun moves across the window shades during the day. We witness the green leaves rustling, turning to brown leaves shuddering, then the bare branches scraping the window panes, then the green shoots forming and the leaves again. One season following another, per Tevye. But I'm not singing and I'm not feeling charitable either.

Visiting old friends

I went to bed last night, but wasn't tired. I was reaching around this kind of headboard/tower/sock holder thingee next to the bed, looking for something to read in my lazy way, reaching without really looking at what I was doing, when my hand grasped a paperback. It was sort of like Russian Roulette without the blood. I pulled the book out and figured whatever it was I would begin to read it, even if I didn't like it that much. I have to admit, I have a few books that I really don't like all that much, but I don't get rid of them. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I think if I get rid of it, I'll be intrigued by the title (which is why I bought it in the first place), I'll buy it again. Of course, this happens already, since I can't remember what I bought and have no list...do people make lists of the books they own? Anyway, I digress...

I pulled out the book and lo and behold it was one of the books by Robert Fulghum. The "Kindergarten" one. The one that started his whole prowess of publishing. And I remembered. I loved reading these. I mean really loved them. He made me feel like he knew me and could tell me anything. He made me feel like I could write just like him and maybe even get published like him. He made me dream and wish and laugh out loud and feel melancholy and all those things. He is not Tolstoy or D.H. Lawrence or William Faulkner. He is honest and upbeat (most of the time) and I could read all his books at once and never get tired of his musings. They're just like my musings, only he's a man, older, and he's done more stuff than me. Okay, maybe my thoughts aren't just like his, but geez he puts thoughts together in such a lovely melodic way that I get hooked every time.

I stopped reading him after he published a collection of things that other people had said and I thought, "I don't want to read this compiliation, I was to read his thoughts." It was the same disgruntlement I felt when I read Stephen King's Misery and thought he was poking his fans in a not very nice way.

But it was lovely to visit again. I read a few pages and was chuckling then chortling when my husband rolled over and said, "are you going to bed tonight?"

I turned out the light, still thinking of his observations on leftover meatloaf and how an ancient tribe yells at trees to make them fall down (and they do!). It was like coming home from a friends and thinking about the shared memories you have. It was lovely. I think I'll visit again tonight, only maybe a little earlier, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep.

Summer vacation

For some time now, we have not taken a vacation at home. Everytime we had vacation time to use, we went somewhere. Down the shore for a week, to California to visit the youngest. But we never stayed at home. This year we stayed home. This year we decided that since the youngest was coming home for the Dad's birthday, then staying home was a good idea. It has been eye opening in a way. The husband has gotten all sorts of miscellaneous chores and projects done, that I frankly didn't know needed to be done. He bustled from sun-up to sun-down. I on the other hand, took a vacation.

Before the younger got home, I had scrubbed and polished and straightened with a verve bordering on, well, the husband's. But I have not done much of anything since the beginning of the vacation. I have re-read parts of books that are my favorite (The Once and Future King, Winter's Tale, some romances which just grab you around the heart and pull). I sat for 2 1/2 hours with the son watching West Side Story, a musical he has never seen. I'm considering painting my toenails. I've stared for long periods of time at the clouds and the small patch of milkweed I grow in the off chance some poor misguided monarch butterfly will find it (one did! and I scared it away in my exuberance). I have even sat and petted the cat for a while-- an unheard of occurance. It has been blissfully quiet and peaceful. And I find that I catch up on my dreams when this happens. I dream of learning to play the piano again, of learning to speak in sign language (perhaps for future use), of learning to shoot a gun just for the experience of doing it. I find myself wanted to sew again, hand sew or do cross stitch--I even went so far as to buy something to make for my mother. Vacations remind me that life is full of other things than the computer, the phone, filing, writing notes, answering questions about things that don't relate directly to real life, just life in the employment world. I like me better during vacation. I like what I do better. I like the way I am with the world and my God better. Is everyone like that on vacation, I wonder? The stay at home vacations where you aren't rushing to Mt. Rushmore or scrambling to get in line for the 30 second roller coaster, those things are not really a vacation. They are filling in the full life you had in another location. It feels like a vacation because you are looking at something else with the same pointed intensity as what you look at when at work. But it feels different.

This vacation feels very different. It is easier. Nicer to be home. I think I'm going to stop writing now and do my nails...maybe even my toenails and watch the clouds for a while longer. See you soon.

Writing and time

I write when I get home from work. That is the best time, when I know I won't be disturbed or the phone will ring. But lately, there is so much to do at this time. Running to the store, running to the cleaners. running to get money from the ATM so I can run and do something else. I hardly have time to sit and read let alone write.

My inner editor is telling me that if it was all that important I'd just let the other go and come home and write. But if I die a flabby old lady, it's becuase I didn't go to the gym to try and not become the couch potato I'm so prone to be. And if I get cardiac arrest from eating all the shit left over in the freezer from when the kids were home, because I didn't go to the store and buy more healthful stuff, then I can't write then either.

Prioritize! Yes, that's the word. But the problem is this, writing is not the priority it could be. Oh, I love to sit and tap away. I love to read what others write on their blogs. But have to? Well, not really. I fantasize about what I will write on my short stories, but when I get home I find the trash men have once again sabotaged the trash can and the wheels are broken off again. I find that the plants outside which should be soaked to the skin by now are believe it or not at your own peril--bone dry and wilting. And since the sun made an appearance for the first time in two whole weeks, I sat outside and got some much needed Vitamin D. And read some more of Harry Potter to refresh my memory for the movie coming out.

Was this busy work? Was I ignoring the writing time. Yep. But I've stopped feeling so bad about it. I feel bad about enough things (thank you mother--I learned from the best). I don't need to feel bad about not feeding this particular child. However, I do need to be mindful. Of this particular child. When I let it go too long, I feel bad and moody and unfulfilled. So balance is the key.

Acquaintances and pals

I got an e-mail from church today telling me that Fred had died. I knew Fred for a long time. He was one of the first people I met at the church I attend. He wasn't the loudest, the showiest, the most flamboyant or even stand-out-ish person you ever met. He would say things softly, almost under his breath. They were usually quite witty things and I enjoyed it when I could hear them (which later on wasn't very often). He was devoted to his church and his wife. I admired his devotion to those things. And I genuinely liked him.

When I got the e-mail, I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. He had been sick, really sick for a while. And I knew I would hear about it soon. But it hit me hard. Because I was going to send him a card. Just a note, really. Letting him know I was thinking of him, praying for him, wishing him well. But I never got around to it. I would come home from church after hearing his condition and think, "I'm gonna sit right down and send him a card." But I would forget, get busy, get distracted. And now I can't do it. I can't tell him I thought of him at different times of the day and night. Of how I hoped he was at least comfortable. Of how I missed our sly comments about the service and what went on with people behind the scenes. I missed my chance.

Of course, then I go on to berating myself that this isn't about me! His death will hardly impact me at all in the everyday sense. It isn't like he was my best friend or something and doesn't his family deserve to be considered instead of this pious, why-didn't-I-do-this-thing tirade. But grief is all about personal stuff, so maybe i'm not beyond redemption in this. Grief is all about your own personal reaction to the fact that a person who was living and breathing and walking around and somehow or other was part of your sphere, either in the peripheries or in the center is not going to be there any more. And you can wish that you let them know you cared, but really, if you didn't let them know before this, what's the point now? And sorrow only let's you borrow from it's well for a little while, before, it slaps you on the hand and says, that's enough now, move along (in it's best Obi Wan Kenobe voice).

So I wrote this down for Fred. Because I will miss him during the odd hours of the day and night. I will miss his presence in the back pew on the left.

Friends and Lovers, Barb S

I have this quirky friend. Well, truth be told, I have a bunch of quirky friends being somewhat of that ilk myself. However, this friend is the one I'm focusing on at the moment. She writes her "holiday" letter of family news in June, sometimes July, sometimes May. Whenever I get this letter, I rip it open right away. It is ALWAYS entertaining and informative. Full of introspection and gleeful observations. Full of quotes from some famous (and not so famous) authors. Full of her. During the Christmas holidays when everyone else is penning these litanies of how wonderful their children are and what they have accomplished (going to Harvard on a full scholarship while finding a cure for cancer!), I find myself frequently less than enthused reading about them. It's not that I don't wish them well, or even that I don't appreciate the wonderfulness of their life, those letters always seem more to me like boasting. Or being a show-off. Or mushing your face in their accomplishments. I know in my heart they aren't doing that, it just feels like it.

But this friend, well her letters are full of her joy and her news. and I cherish them. I don't see her very much anymore. She doesn't live that far away. In fact, she works right across the school lot from my office. But our lives don't intersect like they once did. At least twice a week.

She is the director of a Nursery School. Not the more prestigious (snooty) one, the fun, full, wonderfully joyous one my kids attended. I loved her conversations caught in the hallways. I loved spending time with her in the classroom while she talked to the kids. I loved her presentations to the parents. And I adore her ability to listen to anything you might blurt out. She listens to kids like that too. She is funny. And so empathic she takes it to a new level. And wise.

When my children were preschool aged, we would sit and talk while they were attending school. I knew she had work to do, but she never rushed me, never made me feel like what I had to say was trivial. She'd look you right in the eye, too. None of that looking at your feet stuff or checking out the wall hangings. Uh-uh. She is intent in hearing you and listens for the nuances you didn't even know you were making. Some of the parents didn't like her presentations...thought they were too rambling or full of idealized scenarios--but they were magic to me and my soul. They made me feel like parenting wasn't as scary as it sometimes felt. She made me a better mom. She wasn't trying to, she was a signpost, a marker. She had problems with her own kids, but she never made you think you're neurosis was trivial compared to hers. It's weird when I see her now, in passing. We never seem to have time to share. But when my husband was out of work for a while, I found my way to her office at the pre-school and she listened once again as if we hadn't parted company so many years ago.

One of the ways I keep in touch with people is with e-mail. It's easy and I'm usually at the computer, so it's convenient too. I had her e-mail address, but I lost it. I saw her about a year ago and she gave it to me again, but again, I can't find it. Maybe my communication with her can't be quick or uncomplicated. Maybe we were meant to share letters like those long ago pen-pal days of my youth.

Whatever. I will always love her dearly and cherish her "Holiday" Greetings received in June, July or whenever the spirit hits her. And I hope she keeps sending them.

Nature's sense of humor

The place I live is surrounded with large, old trees. But it's not just the fact that the trees are large and old, they are sycamores. If you know anything of this deciduous tree's habits, you will know that these trees are well, full of debris. Constantly. They have bark which flakes off in huge sheets, usually when the weather is particularly hot (not encouraging you to go and pick up after them in this kind of weather). They have little brittle branches throughout the systems which constantly litter the lawn, like little bones. They have seed balls which are about 2 inches in diameter that when the seeds are finally done flying around, the little core ball is hard as a rock and is excellent for throwing by mean little boys. But the more difficult thing to gauge about these trees are the huge limbs which have no rhyme or reason for suddenly breaking off. I understand the dead branches. I'm not surprised by them. But the seemingly healthy ones that crack loud as a gunshot and are full of beautiful green leaves. (The better to catch the breeze my dear) They suddenly just, well fall off. Almost always landing in the middle of the street, close to some poor little kid who just rounded second base and was sprinting to third when it seems that half a tree leaps out to grab him lest he head for home in the impromptu game of kickball. I keep trying to figure out of the "founding fathers" of our hometown had a sense of humor, knowing the nature of these trees or they had no idea and it was just a surprise to be savored by the poor schmucks living 200 years later.

When one of these is outside your house and you witness the limb being held by the wires which lead to your house, you can't help but be a little concerned. Will the electricity go out? Will the phones be dead? Will it satrt a fire? Whose idea were these damn trees anyway? And the list goes on.

We pay pretty hefty taxes in this little hub or a hometown, so I called the Public Works department. The lady who answered, didn't seem concerned. "What was your address again?" she asked, twice between the smack of chewing gum. I can see her now, after hanging up the phone and writing the numbers backwards. But that's probably okay. There's probably a dead limb outside of that house too!

June 4, 1988

Of course I would write about today. It has been a very long time and yet I remember snatches of the day very clearly. Was the really the first time we were all together without our spouses in one place as adults? It seems to me it was. I remember the false alarm...do you remember that? When he began the morphine and was hallucinating and waving his arms, mom was really freaked out and called Pastor Immendorf. Dad woke up with Pastor standing over him and asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"

The actual day was sunny and warm. I remember Stevie was sitting on top of the picnic table when Mike came around the corner of the house. I knew it wasn't good, but OH, I was so glad it was Mike that came. I think he came because I was out at the store and he probably called and he didn't want to leave a message, so he just came and got me. I remember arguing around the dinner table about whether to have a viewing or not as Dad didn't like them. But he was first, last and always a Mason, and they did a service at the funeral home, so that answered that question pretty quick. I didn't watch Steve Lankanau take Dad away,did any of us? But the night of the viewing there were so many people! Even Cotter the old "hell raiser". I remember reading at the funeral service. And the reception afterwards in the parish hall of the church where we sat and talked and laughed with the Pennells! Talk about bizarre!

And a week after he died, I came in the backdoor of my house and his smell was there....the smell of him after coming home from work. I was bewildered and sort of creeped out for a minute. But then, I thought he had stopped by to see the kids one last time and how could that bother me?

John's right. I don't think of him every day. Many days go by with nary a thought of him. But just now at the end of May, beginning of June which has always heralded much fun and laughter for our family (due to birthdays by the hundreds and anniversaries and even Memorial Day)it's like we all turn and look towards our old homestead and think and remember. We stop for just a few minutes maybe more often than before and our hearts thud a little harder in our chests and our throats get a little tight and we even sometimes still weep on June 4. But it's okay, because we are doing this together even though we aren't standing right next to each other. And I know in one way or another I will hear from all of you and that will make it all right.

the phone

For reasons too numerous and somewhat bizarre to mention the phones in our house are a unique group. They are all interconnected somehow or other with each other, except for the lone ranger on the porch. This phone is a throw back. Back to the time when you could pick up any extension in the house and listen in to a conversation, or could pick up the phone from upstairs and the person downstairs could hang up and you could still talk to the person who called. But in another way entirely, it's this really up to date phone too. Okay up to date by my standards anyway. Because you can see who is calling or even who called that day. And if you answered the other elitist phones, the lone ranger doesn't know that and records their number as well. It's nifty. I may not remember so and so's phone number, they didn't leave a message but they told me they called. I just go to the porch and scan through all the recent numbers and viola or however that French phrase is spelled--there it is! I can also find out those pesky charities that aren't really charities phone numbers. I've been tempted to call the number back, but then I don't like confrontation really, so never mind.

The other thing about the phone on the porch is that the poor thing has no place to hang its--well--self. The cord doesn't quite stretch to the little tables near the couch. So it sits, slumps actually, on the radiator next to the window. It can look out, a perk none of the other phones can do. And on a nice day, when the window is open a breeze ruffles through and caresses it's handset. But some days I think it looks somehow forlorn, sitting all askew on the radiator.

And another thing about this phone is the ability to hear on it better than any of the other pieces of plastic in the house. HA! You thought I was going to curse, didn't you? Well, I almost did. But this rebel without a seat is handy for listening to my son far away, my sister not as far away and alas, those pesky not quite for real charities I mentioned before. I like this phone's rugged individuality. I wish the rest of the phones in the house would take it's example. But they are hopelessly enslaved by the master of the house, who has tinkered with their wires.

Most days I sit on the porch at the end of the day either reading, writing or watching TV waiting for my husband to call and let me know he would like a ride home from the train station. I try to answer on this phone as much as possible. Who wouldn't like to hear better? And knowing the physical impossibility of that idea, who wouldn't want to be on the one piece of equipment that makes you feel like it really is a possibility?

So I write about the phone on the radiator today as I wait for the master of the phones to call. Ring on oh faithful servant, ring on!

the world around us

This morning as I sit and write there are something like a gazillion things going on in my head at the same time. It is sort of warm and muggy outside and I don't want to be outside, but hubby has turned on the air conditioner to see if it works (oh, it works all right!) and it's actually kind of cold in here. Muggy out, winter in. A series of events have happened to me recently...well, see that's the problem. They haven't happened TO me, they have happened around me, pushing on me, without piercing the skin so to speak.

A friend's husband died. I almost, almost wrote passed away. As far as euphemisms go, I know everyone uses it. But he didn't pass away, he died. He isn't coming back. Unless he was the Messiah and I'm pretty sure, nice guy though he was, he isn't. My friend, his wife is beautiful, younger than me and has two gorgeous girls who are either graduated or going to be from college. Life will progress for them, because you can't stop it no matter how much you might want to. But he won't be there for the milestones with them. It is indeed a fact about life.

Another friend of mine went in for surgery on his heart. He has a big heart...in the again euphemistic sense. His physical heart I'm sure is normal sized. While on the table as they were "mucking about" they found not one blocked artery, but three, so they repaired them. One week after that surgery...one week...he was in church this morning. And although he didn't bear hug me as is the usual greeting, his hand was still warm and firm as we clasped each other. I looked into his eyes and his awareness of his mortality reached out and grabbed me as no prayer chain had been able. He was there sitting in the pew with his wife and mother-in-law and I was so grateful for his presence that I almost, almost cried. This surgery which made sure he will be there for a while, is definitely a fact of life as well.

There is a gentleman from my church who has been there for as long as I can remember. I related to hubby that his house was one of the first places I visited when I was a newly minted member and committee meetings were frequently held at people's houses instead of at church. His home was warm and friendly and the meetings although not accomplishing much, were always fun and entertaining. He and I say hello always with that gleam of humor in our eyes of those days. It was announced in church today that he is in the hospital again with Leukemia. He has had to have a tracheal tube placed in his throat so he can breathe. He isn't expected to be with us much longer. His wife of how-ever-many-years passed away last month. He stated quite clearly that she was his best friend and he didn't know what he would do without her. He probably won't be without her too much longer. This is definitely another fact of life.

I'm writing all these thoughts down, depressing though they are because they are under my skin. They are hammering away at my faith. They are annoying the hell out of me. My faith is based on the "Good News", but all I've gotten in the past week is bad. Well, not all bad. My big-hearted friend is doing okay. But I was really worried about him and his wife for a while there, so I'm counting that as bad for now. And what I'm finding is this: I wasn't promised anything when I said I was a Christian. I was not promised that I would not feel bad, or lost or lonely or sad. I was never promised that I would never feel those things. I was promised that God would be there in the midst of those things, if I would lift up my eyes and see or reach out my hand and grope for his. But these are physical sensations of a physical world and God as I know him is not physical right now. Yes, he is present in my family and friends hugs and encouragement. Yes, he was present in the words of the sermon this morning and God was speaking to me, I'm sure in those words. But I want the experience of touching Jesus' robe and feeling the power. I want the Road to Emmaus to happen to me, where Jesus walks physically with me and explains all, so I no longer have to be confused, or mad or sad. And this is arrogance. Bad, my fellow believers would say--very bad--I can almost see them slapping the backs of my hands in admonishment. But my vessel is almost empty and I feel the need for nourishment from the well. But I don't know where the well is and I don't know how to get to it and when I get there, there will be only me and the well and a tin cup to lower and get a drink, God will not be physically there with me, will he? and if ever there was a time when I needed the body of Christ to be present, it isn't in the wafer I got this morning...it needs to be the body of Christ incarnate. But it just ain't gonna happen that way unless I guess if the world is ending today...

planting and pruning and digging and thinking

The thing of it is, I like to garden. I'm not consistent at it necessarily. But once I pick a day/time/whatever, I'm devoted. I like clearing away the clutter and making a space for flowers, or small trees or even rocks or statuary if inclined. But I'm not consistent. I'm not going to win any prizes in the Gardening club (not that they are even aware of my existence--an exclusive bunch--the Garden Club of the Bubble). Anyway, the way I garden reminds me of the way I write. It sort of also reminds me of the way my older brother and I think.

For example, I went out to the front yard this afternoon. My husband recently hacked down a bush he felt was not serving it's purpose. I have yet to determine what purpose he thought it should have...but whatever. Anyway, There was sort of a bare spot that will eventually be replaced with another shrub (or shrubbery as the Pythonians would say). But for now, it's bare. Oh, good. A blank slate. I went out with my gardening gloves, my small spade for overturning the dirt, my block of sturdy foam to kneel on and a plant that was begun inside but really needed to be outside as it's actually a tree and I planted the seed pod in the house, just to see if I could do it. So, I take my garden shovel and push it down into the dirt. It sinks easily as it's been raining like the 10th day of Noah's prediction and everything is pretty soggy. It's then I begin to notice several things at once. For example, there are hundreds of saplings for some kind of tree in this flowerbed. So I should yank them out. which I begin doing in earnest only to find that they aren't aware that the rest of the weeds gave up after the 2nd day of rain and were just waiting to be plucked. Oh, no! These saplings have settled in for the long haul and some poor excuse for a gardener isn't going to get them out! We struggle for a bit and I go and get the shovel. Take that you rooted tyrants I whisper under my breath. And they release their hold. Now I have to put them somewhere until I can add them to the compost heap in the back yard. My husband bought a couple of these nifty basket like thingees that collapse down into a circle but when you release the buttons on the side, they spring up fully formed into trash holding baskets. So I went to the garage and hunted one of them up. Checking to make sure a nearby tarantula hadn't taken up residence, I unleashed the baskets and began to fill it with the conquered saplings. There is a sense of victory about this unlike anything else. So I begin again to dig a hole for the little tree begun in the house. Remember the little tree I talked about three paragraphs ago? And I notice something else, There are these little pill bugs scampering all over the ground. Sowbugs they're called. They look like tiny armadillos without the snout. And they are running here and there from the hole I've just dug. I watch them for a while, wondering where they will end up and hoping it won't be in our basement, but really if they do, what does it matter? It's isn't as if they smell or anything...or do they? Well, I realize that if I don't plant the tree soon that I brought outside, it will begin to rain on me and I have no desire to get caught in the rain. I dig a little more, move some dirt around, then place the tree in the hole, and cover the roots which are starting to look cramped in their beautiful pottery pot, but really they needed to get out of there. I pat the dirt around gently and notice that the birds in the front yard in back of me are making an awful racket. I turn to watch them as they confront each other squawking and wings beating each other. I can't decided if they are being territorial or this is their version of "Dancing With The Stars." By now, an hour has passed and my sneakers, which have hundreds of tiny little ridges in the bottom of them for decoration, no doubt, are filled to the brim with freshly turn dirt, thereby ruining whatever traction I might hope to have and also ensuring that I will not be wearing them into the house for the next 8 hours until the dirt dries and I can bang them against each other to clear them out. I trudge back to the compost heap with the saplings shushing against each other hoping I won't notice they in the basket and set them free in the midst of orange rinds and other fecund matter. Good luck I think, you're gonna need it in there!

See gardening is looking at a clean slate and realizing the hundreds of ways to go from just this one point. I came in the house to write this post and was met with the sight of a single rose blooming from a miniature rose bush my son gave me for Mother's Day a few years ago. I like the way I garden. And I like the way I think. They are related as my brother and I are. And I think this is a good thing. Just like that pop-up trash bin thingee.

Mother's Day

Two days ago was Mother's Day. That juggernaut of holidays which brings guilt to the all time Olympics. I have tried for many years to not guilt my children into this trap. Their father has usually reminded them subtly as he is apt to be. And they have favored me with lovely gifts and cards which I remember for years--I really mean that! I remember them for years.

There are two points to make about Mother's Day this time and I mean to make them here. First of all, I spoke with an old friend today. Neither of her sons acknowledged the day in any way shape or form. I wanted to knock their heads together and slap them silly. She is a lovely woman and responsible for much of their good lives as their jerk of a father was not around but chasing tail much of the time. I am appalled at their oversight and callousness. And if I could find a way to shame them publicly, don't you believe for a minute I wouldn't take the chance. She was deeply hurt and tried to make light of it, but I saw her eyes and into them was the pain of their neglect. I really want to do something to make up for that...but it is not my fight, damn it all.

The second thing I want to say about Mother's Day comes as a result of a comment posted by my older brother while discussing something entirely different. He asked if I ever watched my son play Ocarina of Time, one of the Zelda games. I still smile when I think of those games and the intricate and amazing stories they told as they strove to get "Link" to rescue Princess Zelda. I sat on the couch for many days during long hot summertime when my son played these games. I actually didn't watch every move. I would glance up occasionally from my reading of whatever book I was engrossed in at the time to see what the protagonist was up to, what gems he had acquired, what special weapons, clothing, receptacles, pieces of puzzles he had laid claim to (or had missed). I don't know if you know this or not, but those games have a soundtrack behind them. Different lands, places and actions have specific songs that play in the background of all the action. And so we come to one of the most beautiful gifts my son ever gave me: He found symphonic versions of those songs and burned me a CD. That's right I have a Cd of the songs of Zelda. It was such a wonderful unexpected gift that I was speechless for a few seconds when he gave it to me, complete with his nickname for me on the label. I still play it from time to time.

Now my daughter has made me many mix CDs that are fun and I love them as well. But this CD from my son was a symbol of the fact that the time on the couch meant something to him as well as me. That is precious. That is what a Mother's Day gift should be.

My daughter used to make jewelry when she was in middle school...quite a lot of it, I might add. It was strung together with that stretchy stuff and it always glittered and sparkled...she loved those beads. She and I would sit and talk while she created her masterpieces. Sometimes I got them, but most times, because she is a wonderfully warm and giving young lady, these presents would be for friends or her grandmother. This year, I received two bracelets and one necklace. I thought she had purchased them from a friend of mine who makes exquisite jewelry. But no, she had made them herself. It has been a long time between our talks on the couch, her jewelry making sessions, her adolescence when she still liked me enough to talk to me when so many of her friends no longer talked to their mothers. It was a gift so true that I was again not able to say a single thing for a few seconds. That is what Mother's Day is and should be.

My children have provided me with many afternoons of laughter, tears and hard work, but they have repaid me thousands of times over with their generosity of spirit and their ability to see life and the people who are around them in a positive way. I am amazed at their love of life and their love for each other.

So Happy Mother's Day from my two wonderful children. I miss them sometimes so much it hurts, but I'm so proud of them as adults I could just cry...and usually do.

I'm never happy

It stopped raining today. Just a little while ago. I was so happy to see that strange yellow light in the sky and then I came outside and it's sticky. Too hot combined with all that rain. I feel like I must be living in the tropics or some rain forest. Ewww. I wanted a spring breath, and instead I got the inside of the whale. This must be the way Jonah felt. It's too steamy to take a deep breath, so I breathe shallowly, thereby producing either little colored dots dancing before my eyes, or people step away before they catch whatever it is I've got, which is nothing, but it looks like something so they step away.

I know it's kind of mean, but the cat wanted to go out so I let her. She'll sit and pant on the back deck steps staring accusingly at the back door, waiting to be let in. BUT SHE WANTED TO GO OUT! It makes no difference. I'm always at fault in her eyes. Of course, she's always at fault in mine so I guess we're even.

I've sequestered myself in the living room. There are no direct rays which can penetrate here. It's sort of like a cave. Except with windows. But the storm windows are still in, so there's no movable air. But the house is brick so it's cool air, until tomorrow when the house realizes that it's hot out, so it will drop it's overcoat over the outside and the heat will be trapped within, thereby eliminating any place to hide. I'll open the windows, and the steam will permeate the inside of the house and I'll be no better in than out. Such is the cycle of the seasons.

I'm not happy.

to write or not to write was never the question

One of the things I'm learning to like about a blog is that I can comment on other blogs. I mean I have my own opinion of things, but I can voice those opinions on other blogs as well. It' like we're all interconnected! And if I'm feeling feisty and combative, I can be clever on someone else's site as well as my own. It's empowering.

For example, I just defended my son's post about Kindle as I knew the vein he was trying to puncture as he drove in the knife. But some cretin was obviously put out and out of touch, so he reacted by threatening my son! So I used my trusty words and lanced him through the heart. Of course, I'll probably find out it was one of my sons' friends and now they won't be talking. Or they'll be laughing their asses off at that goofy "Gom". But it felt good to defend him. and it felt good to do it anonymously. I meant he knows who I am, but the others don't. Well Henning might. But he doesn't count (usually).

Anyway, I just wanted to post this to posting. And congrats John. A whole year!! Wow!

Go out and play

"I cannot go outside today,"
said little Peggy Ann McKay.
I have the measles and the mumps
A gash, a rash and purple bumps."

This is from a poem by Shel Silverstein. He was one of my favorites. I loved to read them to the kids. They would laugh out loud at some of his better lines. I was thinking of this poem today, though because it is Spring outside and I'm inside. I'm not sick or anything. But I just got home from work and the gym and I'm tired. But it's so beautiful out there! The trees are flowering, the forsythia are blooming, the hyacinths are stinking up the place and my new little tree I planted last fall is showing signs of making it through the winter (YIPEE). It is a joyous time, Spring. I don't know how my older brother can stand not experiencing the seasons. I mean, aren't flowers always blooming in Florida?? I know, I know, people's hay fever or whatever they're allergic to is starting to "spring up" as well. But the sky is Pacific Blue, the blue of Dorothy's gingham dress from the Wizard of Oz, the blue of my children's eyes (and okay, my husbands' as well). There is a slight breeze that whispers of fresh air and more sunshine to come. I wait for this time of year. It doesn't make me sad like Fall. Or cranky like Summer and well, Winter, too come to that. Although Winter makes up for everything with Christmas. Everything is straining to grow upward, and show itself off during this season. I know I'm being fanciful, but I can't help it. So I'm going to turn off the computer now and go outside and just sit on the step, like I used to do when the kids were napping in the afternoon. And just breathe.

writing time

I've been writing again. Fiction. I get these ideas for stories, then I don't know what to do with them, so I write them down in spits and spurts. They don't make sense. They don't even seem related. But at least I'm not using the pad of paper to leave notes all over the house anymore. This is much neater. I've been re-reading a lot of books lately as well. Ones that I haven't read for a while and can't quite remember how they come out at the end. I think I'm doing this to figure out the loose ends of my stories. I figure if I read enough of these again, I'll come up with a complete story line and ending just by borrowing from 500 other stories I've read. Not really. But to re-read and try and see the bones of the stories is a better idea, then just the reading to find out how it ends. I never read the ending ahead of time. I can't understand people who do that. Actually that isn't true. I did read the ending of a story one time. My sister in law had told me about a Dean Koontz book that was intense (the title was Intensity). I started to read it and got all creeped out. So I read the end to make sure that everything came out all right. I think it did, but I don't want to go back and check that one. (Shuddering just thinking about it).

I bought a graphic novel the other day. Maybe I should try my hand at that? Like comic books only darker, sicker and more depressing. I promised my son I would read it. My nephew too, he said he thought I would like it. So I guess that's what I'll do. Maybe I'll get inspired to write a graphic novel...comic book...whatever. Or maybe not.

I think maybe I'll just go to bed and read for a while until the feeling passes...like gas.

It's the phone

Okay, because this is my blog, I'm thinking today of something that I can never quite figure out. Why do people answer their cell phones if they are in the middle of doing something. I mean I could understand if their relative was on death's door and they were waiting to hear news (either good, they've inherited or bad, they didn't). But if this isn't imminent, why bother? I mean, it's not like whoever it is won't try again in a few minutes anyway. We KNOW it will happen. Usually within a very few minutes that annoying jangle, jingle or whatever you have programmed to ring will ring once more if you didn't answer the first time. I have called people who have given me their cell phone numbers as "the" place to get a hold of them, and when I've called, they are at the dentist. Or the eye doctor. Or their in the bathroom (WHY would you answer the phone in there???). Or they are in the middle of doing brain surgery. Why do they stop and answer? I don't know, I swear I don't.

I shouldn't act as though I haven't done the same thing. I remember quite clearly being at a viewing for an acquaintance. I had neglected to turn off my phone and it rang while waiting in line to view the deceased and the family. I was mortified, but still quite a long way from the actual family, so I hastened to answer the phone and whisper into the receiver. It turned out to be my daughter who needed a ride. Oh, did I mention that her father was home, raking leaves at the time and perfectly capable of going to pick her up? NO? How about this, then. After I whispered hastily that I was in church and to call her father, she called back five minutes later! To tell me that he didn't answer the phone and she still needed a ride. Now, first of all, I had to take the call outside, thereby losing my place in the long line of mourners paying homage. Secondly, several of the bereaved were quite dismayed that my phone rang not once, but twice. I was ostracized before even getting a chance to be respectful! But in truth, I only answered to shut the damn thing up! I didn't really figure it was an emergency, I just didn't want anyone else to hear it.

And so the other thing I notice is this: the people who are talking on the phone while driving? Well, I sincerely doubt that they are taking emergency calls while doing this. First of all, most of them--and I do hate to point this out--are women. And they don't look frantic, they look engaged--in the conversation, not the driving. I have been cut off from more people on phones than any little old lady who can't see over the steering wheel. Most of the women I see are driving huge SUVs, and they are tooling through the middle of town without either a care to the speed limit or the surroundings. It's like seeing a tank coming at you except you can see who is driving and it doesn't appear that they see you!

I personally can't walk and chew gum at the same time, so I can't imagine how they do it. When my phone rings while I'm driving, I either pull over to answer or ignore it. Believe me, it will ring again. People who have to answer while they are doing something else are out to prove something, I just wish I knew what it was. And I hope I'm not in their path when they do it.