Bring Change 2 Mind

For too long, mental illness has been the illness of shame and secrecy. Those who suffer often suffer alone. Just six months ago, we began the long and painful journey through the diagnosis and treatment of mental illness with my older daughter. Part situational, and part biological, her disorders paralyzed her and nearly brought us all to our knees.

Ashley is one of the lucky ones. She has a wonderful team of doctors and counselors who treat the emotional, mental, and physical aspects of her disease. She is determined to reach the most optimum level of health possible. She knows this will be with her for the rest of her life. I am so very proud of Ashley for having the courage to openly discuss her illness. Her desire to share her pain in order for others to get the treatment needed to end their suffering is incredible.


Last week, Ashley and I watched together as Glen Close and her sister premiered the ad for "Bring Change 2 Mind" in the hopes of destroying the stigmas attached with mental illness. Glen's sister has suffered for years with bipolar disorder. The ad is simple and powerful and beautiful. Please share this with your friends. Let us join together to be more compassionate towards those with mental illness, and more passionate in our endeavors to treat these crippling diseases.



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I Want Candy!!

So Saturday night is Halloween. I know it is advertised to be a night of witches and goblins and pumpkins, but who are we kidding? It is candy night. Period. Okay, so we make the kids dress in disguise and go door to door begging, but this is simply the means to an end. And about that begging at the door thing - why is it we tolerate hundreds of strangers dressed in drag asking for a handout? Hmmm.

So about the candy. For months, in fact since the last marshmallow Peep met its demise, retailers have stocked their shelves in great anticipation of Candy Day...um, I mean, Halloween. Walk into any grocery store or pharmacy or discount retailer and you are faced with so many choices, the only choice is to buy one of each. I have personally eaten enough candy bars to fulfill my annual allotment of Weight Watchers points.

The candy manufacturers are smart, too. They will proclaim how a bar of candy is fat free or has no trans fats, yet completely avoiding the fact that there is enough sugar in one bar to cause a rather significant case of hyperglycemic shock. I love how there are two extremes with sizes. Either the candy company is bragging about super size or king sized or they produce these itty bitty bits of chocolate in miniature form. Just enough to piss me off. For double the money. sigh.

I am a purist. I don't want nougat filled, cremecentered, coconut sprinkled, caramel covered, peanut clustered, sour gummy insects. I want chocolate. Good chocolate. I prefer dark chocolate, but will accept milk chocolate in a pinch. And, unlike some candy hander-outers I have come in contact with, I only give out the good stuff. Okay, so it puts a serious dent in the food budget, but I have my standards. I cannot stand it when folks give out chocolate with so little cocoa they require therapy to treat their identity crises.

I am thankful most folks avoid handing out homemade goodies. I mean, the thought is sweet, and in the movies the treats are always yummy. In practice, not so much. I have had one too many hockey pucks posing as a homemade cookie. Besides, I don't know a mom on the planet that would allow anything less than a hermetically sealed manufacturer packaged treat.

All of this talk of chocolate has made me hungry. Lucky for me I have bags and bags of scrumptious treats to choose from. Hey,I have a large neighborhood! Just saying..

Party Time...Excellent!

I thought this year would be different. I thought FINALLY my years of shame and feeling inadequate were over. I was wrong. Halloween has reared its ugly head yet again. And, although my "children" are now 22 and 14, they still seem to have this need to play freaking dress up! sigh.

I have never been a seamstress. Heck, I have never successfully threaded a needle. I tend to go with the idea that duct tape can fix anything. Occasionally I will resort to staples, but they can cause problems if they dislodge from the fabric and lodge in my skin. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I cannot sew. Period. Turns out, in order to make those cutesy little perfect costumes like you see on Martha Stewart, you really need to have this skill. I know. I have tried to avoid that particular step.

I tried for years to convince my children to go as a ghost. I mean, even I could make that classic costume without fear of screwing up. Except the year I couldn't find scissors, and resorted to tearing the eye holes out with my teeth. Okay, so the ghost looked a little loopy. And one eye hole was significantly larger than the other. It's the thought that counts....right?

I like the costumes of my youth. They were easy, made out of things found at home, and the fact that they were absolutely politically incorrect didn't seem to matter. Gypsies tramps and thieves were great make-at-home costumes. And an awesome Cher tune, but again, I digress.

I could buy the costumes, but I don't want to take out a second mortgage for three strips of completely disposable fabric that will barely cover the important parts of my girls. And besides, doesn't that immediately throw me into the loser Mom category? That would be a rhetorical question folks. I know I am loser Mom. My kids know I am loser Mom. I try to make up for it with my premium candy selection.

Luckily, Lauren is at the age of wanting to dress up for the occasion, yet still wanting to remain on the cusp of invisible. For those of you without teenagers, I will attempt to explain. This means noticeable only to the important one who shall remain nameless, and yet invisible enough to slink into the woodwork at a moment's, ahem, notice...once he who shall remain nameless actually does indeed, um notice. I know, it is complicated. All this to say, her costume should be relatively easy.

Lauren has decided to go as Garth from Wayne's World. This is what my Dad would call a win-win situation. I don't have to attempt construction on a "real" costume, and she gets to wear pseudo normal clothing. She is wearing her jeans, my flannel shirt (not the same one from my Hobo costume days) , black glasses, a rock tee shirt, and a $25 mullet wig. Which she will probably remove immediately and leave it to be discovered by the poor bleary-eyed mother of the party giver. Excellent!

I do hope at some point I will be relieved from my costuming duties. I have many other ways in which to screw up motherhood and ensure my kid's participation in years of therapy without this particular trauma. To all of you fellow loser Moms duct taping and stapling and gnawing out eye holes for yet another Halloween costume, I raise my glass to you. Party time!

Bucket List

I guess all of us have a sort of bucket list: a "to do" list of accomplishments, dreams, desires and fantasies to fulfill before we die. Apparently my much, much older and, one would think, much wiser sister checked one item off of her list recently by riding a motorcycle. Not exactly my idea of fun, but it wasn't my list. Anyhoo, I have had reason to reflect on the whole bucket list idea of late.

Yesterday, John and I drove my parents to New York City for them to embark on their latest adventure. They are going on their second cruise on the Queen Mary, junior. Dad is to start chemotherapy again in the next few weeks, and was advised to travel now before the treatment debilitates him such that travel becomes impossible. Mom and Dad have been put in the position of having to face Daddy's bucket list. Daddy loves to travel and meet new people and swap stories. He likes elegant settings and exquisite meals prepared from the freshest ingredients. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, a cruise on Mary, junior seemed to fit the bill.

Our drive to New York was stunning. Autumn has arrived in all of its rich glory. From our home, we travel through six different states on the way to Manhattan. We are fortunate that our route meandered through the best of each of those states. Mom and Dad told stories and reminisced about their early years of marriage. We found a vintage 1950's diner in Amish country that delivered on its promise of good, hearty fare and great service. The traffic gods were with us, and we didn't hit a single snag on our way.

We arrived in Manhattan late yesterday afternoon, and blessedly before rush hour. The drive was taxing for Dad, but I think the anticipation of his adventure kept him going. Mom's cheeks were flushed and her eyes twinkled with excitement. We had mere moments to unload the car of their luggage, give them quick hugs, and wish them bon voyage before we needed to head back home. The porter loaded the last bag on the luggage trolley and we returned to the car. I looked back at them just before we pulled away from the curb, and saw the most beautiful sight: my Mom and Dad, holding hands and beaming from ear to ear.

It dawned on me in that moment, that a bucket list is really about making memories. Mom and Dad's bucket list probably has the requisite adventures to an exotic locale, or taking a risk for the thrill of an adrenalin rush, or the trip of a lifetime. Yet, I saw in their faces - in their eyes bright with joy -that those fantasies and dreams don't really matter in the end. What matters is sharing time and love and for as long as possible. And when that time is done, to look back without regret, and with absolute unadulterated joy.

My bucket list has many dreams and hopes and fantasies. I want to see the opera in Vienna, and pick sunflowers in Tuscany. I want to swim with dolphins and walk amongst the lions. I want to watch my children marry, and hold their children in my arms. I want to dance until dawn, and sleep under the stars. And I want to know the kind of love I saw yesterday in my parent's eyes. Just saying.

Fall Leaves and Harris Tweed

John and I had a rather non-traditional honeymoon. I, being an admitted serial marrier, had experienced my share of honeymoons over the years. John was living in Scotland when we married. My parents had always wanted to visit Scotland, so they accompanied us over the big pond to help pack John's belongings and move him to the States.

We visited many lovely places in and around Scotland, as well as the Lake District of England and Wales. We saw long-haired Highland Cows, and miles of gorse covered landscape. We had cups and cups of perfectly brewed tea served in delicate china with buttery shortbread. We visited castles and abbeys and pubs. We visited lots of pubs. We had a wonderful time.

My Dad is not one to buy souvenirs. He doesn't collect spoons or coffee mugs, and I can count on one hand the times I have seen him wear a tee-shirt. He doesn't need bumper stickers or wall calendars. He didn't seem to appreciate the necessity of a tartan umbrella. The one thing he wanted to bring home was a Harris Tweed sport coat. And he did. He picked out a beautiful coat that made his hazel eyes twinkle. He looked very dapper.

Since that particular trip, Dad has endured the life changing effects and ravages of cancer. He is still dapper and elegant, although his walking stick has been replaced with a cane. He has an ostomy that protrudes from his abdomen, as well as an implanted pain pump. Because of these life-sustaining necessities adding bulk to his belly, he can no longer button his Harris Tweed coat. It is a small thing compared to all he has lost through this illness, but no less important to him. It is the little things one misses when life deals a cruel blow. It is through these seemingly insignificant things one feels most the pain of loss.

Mom and Dad are leaving today for the Queen Mary. They will cruise up the Northeast coast from New York to Maritime Canada and back to enjoy the vivid colors of Autumn. Yesterday, Mom and I were shopping for a few last minute items for the trip. We wandered into a mens store to purchase tuxedo studs, as Dad had left his behind in South Carolina. In the middle of the store was a large sign proudly announcing the arrival of some genuine Harris Tweed coats. Mom and I decided a gentleman such as my father could not possibly board the Queen Mary to view the Autumn leaves without the requisite Harris Tweed coat. And so my Dad, will now wear his new coat on his cruise.

We brought the coat back to him. He giggled like a young boy, and proudly tried it on. It fits perfectly. This coat does not have the memories attached to it like the first coat. He did not get to pick it out in Scotland. But this coat, in its own way, made Dad's world a little more like it was before this hideous disease altered its course. This coat will warm Daddy body and soul through the next chapter of his life.

I Need A Break!!!

I am pooped. After hosting the Dane in my basement for a solid month, I need a rest. My brain is frankly incapable of thoughtful, well...thought. Ahem. Anyhoo, I am taking a break from the blogosphere in order to (hopefully) pen a few entries worth perusing. In the meantime, take a minute and check out my favorite blogs, and give them a read.

Thank you all for your devotion and wonderful comments. I don't always respond, but I do read and appreciate each and every one. For those of you who find themselves at this site after a Google search for something totally unrelated, read back through my archives. You might just want to become a regular too! If not, my blog been known to act as quite an effective and yet non-pharmaceutical cure for insomnia.

I will return in about a week, so bookmark my URL and come on back Monday October 26!!!

Ms. Van Winkle

I took a nap today. I realize this in and of itself is not newsworthy. It is what happened while I was sleeping that was intriguing. Okay, intriguing doesn't exactly describe fully what I am trying to say. Something freaking weird happened.

While I was napping, October apparently disappeared and December decided to make an early appearance. I think all of those retailers who insist on having Christmas decorations and Santa Claus and those repulsive cinnamon brooms out in July are to blame. And about those dang brooms - who in the world thought a broom coated in the most pungent, migraine-inducing aroma of cinnamon was a great idea? You can't sweep with them. You just smell them. But I digress. Anyhoo, Poor October. I guess it thought it was no longer an important month. I happen to enjoy All Hallows Eve. Or I did. I think this year The Great Pumpkin may just skip my neighborhood.

Anyhoo, I reclined in my favorite, well...recliner and snuggled in for a good snooze. I thought I was only out for a few minutes, but I must have slept for about two months. Why, you ask? Why thank you for your interest. I know we skipped October and went straight to the holly jolly season, 'cause when I awoke, it was sleeting. Sleeting! I kid you not.

I am cool with snow and even a bit of sleet on occasion, but in October? I barely got to enjoy my favorite time of the year! There is nothing better than Fall with its wonderful rich colors of ochre and amber and gold and ruby. I love a good cup of mulled cider and cannot wait to don my latest in flannel attire. I feel jipped! Now it is straight to mittens and parkas and those really cool snow melting crystals. No leaves to pile up and jump in. No trick or treat and a ready excuse to "dispose" of all that leftover chocolate. sigh.

I will adjust. I think I would like to start a petition to all the retailers, though. Maybe if they could wait until say DECEMBER to celebrate Christmas, October would have a fighting chance. And I would like to add a special "no cinnamon broom" clause too. Just saying...

Food Flunkie

I love watching shows on Food Network. I enjoy reading cookbooks and perusing the latest Food and Wine or Gourmet magazines. One would think, given my penchant for all things food related, I would love cooking every single day. One would be wrong. While I enjoy cooking for special occasions, I absolutely, despise, loathe and abhor planning and creating meals for every day consumption.

The problem is that I have a family that likes to eat. And they like to eat every day. I have seriously contemplated such dinnertime delicacies as Cereal and Milk. Cereal has all of the daily required vitamins and minerals. And, although I don't tend to serve Fruity Pebbles or Citrus Stones or whatever, I have often wondered if they could potentially count as a serving of fruit as well. Add in the protein from the milk and voila! A complete meal! Although I am gonna go out on a limb and guess those who rave about breakfast as a break from the tedium of usual dinner fare didn't mean cereal and milk. Hmmmm.

My sister apparently suffers from the same dilemma. She hasn't yet resorted to convincing her children cereal is a perfectly acceptable dinner option. She turns to pizza as her escape from the ordinary. In fact, my sister orders pizza on such a frequent basis, the local pizzeria gave her a Christmas poinsettia last year. They didn't just bring a perfunctory plant while already at her home delivering a pizza. And it turns out not every pizza customer gets a poinsettia. No, they were so grateful for her consistent business, they made a separate trip to her home in order to thank her personally for single-handedly keeping their restaurant afloat. I kid you not.

Part of the problem is our Mom. Mom is the true domestic goddess. Not only can she get any stain out of any fabric, repair any tear or rip, and clean so thoroughly one could perform cardiac surgery on her kitchen island, she can cook. And cook well. Every single night of my childhood, Mom prepared balanced, tasty meals from scratch. Except for the acorn squash dish with the sausage patty in it. Oh, and the tuna souffle. Those particular dishes scarred me for life, but two out of ten thousand ain't bad. Hard shoes to fill. sigh.

I blame my dilemma in part on the very Food Network shows I cannot seem to tear myself away from. These shows take five obscure ingredients or less and manage to create delicious, nutritious, and interesting meals in a matter of nanoseconds. These shows have made casseroles obsolete;piggies-in-the-blanket uninspiring; meatloaf mundane.


I will continue to plod through the daily drudgery of dinner impossible. After all, I should be grateful for job security in these uncertain economic times. In the meantime, I might just have to convince my family their Krispies count as a rice dish. Just saying...

My Application Letter

I cannot believe it, but I have two nephews graduating from high school this year. Already, they are taking those completely useless standardized tests and furiously filling out applications. Along with applications, a student must complete an essay. The dreaded college application essay - insert spaghetti western music here.

Have you ever wanted to write a completely inappropriate letter? You, perhaps, are infinitely more mature than I. I, on the other hand, have way too much time on my hands and possess a tad streak of mischievousness. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, I found the need to pen my idea of a great application letter. Just for fun. 'Cause I can. Here goes.

Dear sir or madam or some tragic combination of both,

I realize this is probably the zillionth letter you have had to read today. No doubt, the powers that be at your esteemed university require you to provide your own anti-emetic, so I am going to deduce you are somewhat queasy at the mere thought. Why don't you grab yourself a cup of coffee, prop your legs up on that banker-wanna-be "executive" desk of yours, and relax.

I am not going to bore you with details of my plethora of extra-curricular and charitable activities. I have none. I decided the only way to stand out amidst the throngs of hopeful students jockeying for a place on the soup kitchen line or a position in student government was to avoid participation in anything. I think you should look upon this favorably as it will drastically reduce the time you will have to spend reading my actual application.

I guess I should tell you why I am applying at your university. My parents threatened me with perpetual restriction if I told you it was because of the awesome parties and the really cute guys, so I am officially applying because of the location. You are far enough away from home to keep my parents from popping in unannounced, but close enough if I need to dash home to wash some clothes. Perfect, right?

I actually have no real desire to go anywhere for college. I am frankly burned out from twelve years of dioramas, summer reading assignments and endless drafts for yet another year long research project. Turns out, though, my parents don't share my vision of a year off at the beach to ponder my possibilities. I did see where I can get college credit for taking a class at the beach or overseas or even Paris!

I hope you will consider me as a prospective student. If I don't get in, I will have to get a job, and you have to be there at like eight o'clock in the morning. In college, I heard you can sleep late and even go to school in your pajamas.

My family isn't rich, and they won't have a dime to spare for your endowment fund, but they will buy every single tee-shirt and chatchke at the bookstore. We would advertise your school for you at no cost, unless you would like to compensate us by reducing my tuition.

I think I have to cut this thing short, because my English teacher told me it couldn't be more than one full page. Maybe she knows how boring it must be to read all of these letters. I hope you enjoy that coffee, and I sure would like to get one of those fat envelopes back from you.

Sincerely,

Suzy Student

What a Holiday, eh?

Today is a big day!! Some folks, and my local bank, have decided to celebrate Columbus. I, not being a huge fan of this particular city in Ohio, have decided to instead celebrate Thanksgiving. Yes, today, Canadians far and wide are eating turkey and dressing and canned cranberry sauce. The kind with the ridges. At least I guess that is how they celebrate the day. What else does one do to give thanks? Hmmm... I guess they could watch football. Wait! There aren't any college games on! Wow, they really messed up this celebration.

Today is also International Moment of Frustration Scream Day. I suppose at a designated time, participants from around the world will simultaneously let out a huge "AAARRRGGGHHHHH" . I haven't received my instructions yet, but I do plan to join in the celebration. I have wondered if I am required to be frustrated about a particular event or occurrence, or if I am to just let out pent-up frustrations from the previous year. And what if I have more than a single moment of frustration? And what if I get frustrated immediately following the synchronized release?Will I have to wait until next year to purge? This is so frustrating.

I guess I could direct my frustrations on some annoying person's posterior region. It is, after all, National Kick Butt day. I do feel a bit odd targeting a stranger's butt to kick. Do I wait until the end of the day and return to the most annoying person I came in contact with and kick their butt? Or do I kick butt on the spot - at the very moment of annoyance? I wonder if I should carry some form of waiver to avoid any misunderstanding... I am not sure the average American is aware of this particular holiday. And, although I personally think millions of folks should read eagerly every thought-provoking syllable I pen, I fear my audience can be easily counted on two hands most days. sigh.

I could bag the whole kicking and screaming idea and simply ponder. Today just happens to be Free Thought Day. I am glad. With the recession and all, charging folks to think is crass. But I digress. Anyhoo, I could think of just about anything! The sky is the limit! The possibilities endless! I could deliberate about the Thanksgiving traditions of Canadians. I could wonder how to time my scream of frustration for maximum impact. I could contemplate the optimal butt kicking technique. And all for free!

I have nothing personal against Columbus. I am sure it is a great city with lovely people. And if the banks and post offices want to close for a day to honor this municipality, so be it. I think it is a diversion, though. They really don't want to have to deal with frustrated, screaming, butt-kicking , thankful Canadians. Just saying...

Apologies to Mr. Moon

We have lost our collective minds. Have we become so jaded, or busy, or distracted that news of the imminent bombing of the moon has somehow eluded our mental radar? Friday morning, at precisely 7:31:30, NASA will bomb the moon. Tap....tap...tap....is this thing on?? I said, we are going to BOMB the freaking moon!

I realize what with all the real news stories occupying our collective consciousness, it is difficult to concentrate on such a benign, trivial matter. David Letterman caught with his pants at his ankles is infinitely more intriguing than bombing the moon. Really? And in the midst of talk of unemployment rates skyrocketing, one would perhaps miss a 75 million dollar actual, well...er.....rocket.

I love how NASA explains that this is not an act of war. Um, okay. I personally have never met the little green cheese men on the moon, but the fact that NASA feels the need to point out we are not waging war on them makes me a bit suspect. And what did Mr. Man in the Moon do to deserve such treatment? Day after day, millennium after millennium, he smiles down on Mother earth - except for Australia where he actually moons them, but I digress. Anyhoo, Mother Earth doesn't seem so maternal when she aims a missile causing Mr. Moon to have a permanent pock mark.

I understand science. I understand needing to learn more - to go where no man has gone before and all that crap. What I cannot wrap my head around is why? Why must we bomb the moon to find out the information we are so desperate for? Have we completely run out of other options? I know, I can hear the chorus now. Other means of determining whether or not there is water on the moon are expensive. Um, did I mention this BOMB was seventy-five million dollars? Next chorus - we need to find whether or not there is life sustaining water on the moon to protect our future generations. Why? So we can pollute it like we have our oceans and lakes and rivers? Couldn't we just spend that seventy-five million on cleaning up our act on terra firma?

Who decides who "gets" to bomb the moon? Is there an International Bomb-The-Moon committee? Are they elected? Do we get to fire them for thinking this up? Are they gonna nuke Neptune next? And we are worried about a nuclear plant in Iran. At least they haven't started blowing up the universe.

I do hope there is no intelligent life on other planets. Can you imagine their reaction to our "scientific study"? Sounds a lot like third grade boys - "hey, let's blow something up!" "Cool!" Only now, these little boys are grown men with lots of money to make big bombs. Real bombs. And an arsenal of esteemed scientists ready with detailed explanations as to the benefits of such an experiment. Puleez!

I like the moon. I remember vividly when I saw the first man walk on the moon. Our universe became a little more intimate that night. And, I, along with millions of others, dreamed of the future possibilities for this previously unexplored landscape. I could have never dreamed we would decide to bomb the moon.

I will watch with a bit of trepidation and a lot of sadness Friday morning at 7:31:30. I imagine at 7:32:00 we will have indeed discovered water on that cratered surface. A gigantic tear will be seen rolling down the face of Mr. Man in the Moon. Just saying...

The Real Iron Chef

I cannot be the next Iron Chef. I simply cannot and will not attempt to create culinary masterpieces out of guts and entrails. Apparently, in order to truly showcase one's talent in the kitchen, one must be able to take any ingredient, no matter how vile, and make it edible. This is a ridiculous concept. This "talent" simply means the contestants are quite well suited for a magic show.

I had a difficult time choosing the most disgusting ingredient used on tonight's premiere of The Next Iron Chef. Just as soon as I KNEW I had been repulsed to the point of nausea, yet another slimy, smelly ingredient was revealed. I mean, c'mon folks! When you present unlaid eggs still attached to the Fallopian tubes as an ingredient to prepare a meal with - a meal that folks will actually ingest deliberately - a line has been crossed. I had a difficult time keeping my tacos down. Unlaid egg boy made a Carbonara with the Fallopian tubes the "pasta". Really?

The poor sucker who was eliminated had to cook with grasshoppers. Sadly, it was the preparation of his pork cutlet that sent him home. The grasshoppers were deemed delicious. Gross! Another contestant was admonished for taking the stink out of Stinky Tofu. As if. I could totally see punishing the contestant for his attempts at making something aromatically challenged palatable. Right.

These highly trained and skilled chefs were forced to prepare chicken feet, eel, sea cucumber, jellyfish, and duck tongue. There was a vomitus inducing odiferous tropical fruit and cockscombs as well. And I watched every second. I could not believe my eyes. I was absolutely entranced at the sheer ridiculousness of such a competition. The judges had to have freaking steel stomachs. And a handful of Tums.

A real Iron Chef should have to create inspiring and delicious meals from the same crap I have to cook with. Take my pitiful food budget every month, and make some magic out of hamburger or meat-on-sale du jour. That is impressive to me. How about taking the lowly peanut butter sandwich and make something gourmet out of that? Now that would be worth watching.

My Mom could put all of the Iron Chef contestants to shame. When my Dad was in graduate school, and they had three children to feed on very little money, my Mom would take the most basic ingredients and create masterpieces. Mom and Dad had a friend who worked at the local grocery store. He would bring them canned goods that had lost their labels. No label, no sale. Mom and Dad got them for free. Mom would open a can, and whatever was in the mystery can, she would use to cook supper. She made some amazing dishes. That is a real Iron Chef.

I will continue to watch each week. I feel a little like those morbid types who slow down to look at a wreck. The prospect of seeing something gory or gross is half the fun. I do wish, though, they could have fewer guts and a little more glory. Just saying.

Shame On Us!!!!

I am a proud American. I love my country deeply. I do, however, understand that we are not the only country on this great, glorious planet. We do not have exclusive rights to patriotism. Yesterday, I watched with pride as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil won the bid for the 2016 Olympic summer games. My pride quickly faded, as I saw and heard what bad sports their North American neighbors had become. Shame on us!

Chicago, Madrid, Tokyo, and Rio were all well represented by their country's heads of state, celebrities, and other dignitaries. Four cities made it to the final vote of the International Olympic Committee meeting in Copenhagen. Four. Chicago was eliminated in the first vote. Somehow, this has become a negative political statement about Obama. You have got to be kidding me!!! When did fourth place become failure? When did our sense and sensibilities become so clouded and ugly, we as a nation have decided to pin this supposed failure on Obama? Shame on us!

As of 2005, South America ranked fourth in total area and fifth in total population in the world. Brazil itself is the fourth most populated democracy and the sixth most populous country in the world. Brazil has a larger land mass than the 48 contiguous United States of America. Yet, South America, and specifically Brazil, has never hosted an Olympic event. I am proud of what Brazil has accomplished. I am proud they are no longer excluded from the world's most inclusive games. I am disheartened by the blatant negativity and lack of enthusiasm shown by the other Americans....namely those from United States of America. Shame on us!

Chicago, Illinois, and the entire United States of America should be proud of the presentation by the Chicago 2016 Olympic Bid Committee. No doubt it was polished, passionate, and exciting. Chicago is a wonderful city in a great country. Chicago just happened to be one of four great cities in four great countries. The International Olympic Committee could not make a bad choice. And it didn't. The committee made the right choice. And we need to be the good sports we pledge to be during the actual Olympic games. We have not shown our best selves since the announcement. Shame on us!

Folks, we are in a recession. Yes, it would have been great to host these games, but the Olympics cost money. Lots of money. Our schools are being closed; teachers furloughed. Our factories are being closed; workers laid off. Any job growth created by a venture such as the Olympics would be temporary, and offset by huge debt. Debt Chicago and its citizens can ill afford. Oh, and I know had the bid been won by Chicago, the same ugliness would emerge cloaked in a different disguise. Then the complaints would be about the debt, or the focus on one city in a time when our nation is in turmoil. Or any number of "issues" those whose hatred for our President has colored. Shame on us!

We, as a country, with few public exceptions, have gotten entirely too big for our britches. We have frankly become elitist snobs incapable of accepting another's entry into a world were we have decided upon all of the rules. This attitude of entitlement is not particularly attractive to the rest of the world. It is a wonderful thing to be proud and patriotic. It is an ugly sight to behold when that same patriotism is used to belittle other countries or bemoan their successes. Haven't we all been disgusted with the use of national pride as a means to incite vitriol in Iran and Iraq? Shame on us!

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and the whole of South America have cause for celebration. And we need to celebrate with them, and for them. We are a nation of under-dogs. We are a nation built on the hopes and dreams and ideals of those who came from distant lands; those whose hopes and dreams and ideals were not allowed or accepted by the countries they left, or where hunger or hardship made it impossible to remain. We are a nation of diversity. We are not a country of a single ethnic, religious, or cultural group. Have we become blind to the hopes and dreams and ideals of other countries? Have we become so self-absorbed and self-important we cannot bring ourselves to celebrate other's successes? Have we really become the ugly Americans? Shame on U.S.!

More Than A Ribbon

October. The air is crisp,and the leaves have begun their chameleon change into the colors of fire and precious metals. October is also Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pink ribbons adorn merchandise whose profits will go to Breast Cancer research. And behind each of those ribbons is a person. A human being who is suffering.

Today was grocery shopping day for Ashley and me. Our local supermarket was filled with tee-shirts, and re-usable grocery bags, and water bottles all in breast cancer pink. We had seen many friends afflicted with this terrible disease, and were both reeling from the news that my former sister-in-law learned she was facing a double mastectomy. The chemotherapy she has endured for months has not worked effectively. It seemed a small thing to grab a pink bag or two, but we felt strongly if everyone did the same small thing, maybe we could make a difference. So we purchased two re-usable grocery bags.

We finished our shopping and proceeded to check out. The bag boy sighed heavily when he saw our bags, and said, "Oh boy, here we go." I told him if he would prefer, he could just leave us to attend to our own groceries. He then stated with yet another heavy sigh, "I guess it is my job. I'll deal with it." I was furious. His absolute contempt for my purchase was palpable. He was obviously disgusted with having to load my groceries into my pink ribbon bag. And he wasn't shy about sharing his feelings.

Once the items had all been bagged, he then took both hands and with a grunt, struggled to hoist one of the bags into my buggy. It was so heavy he had a difficult time lifting it. With both hands. I told him if it were too heavy for him, surely I would not be able to handle it. He shrugged. He SHRUGGED! By now, my face must have been the color of ripe tomatoes. I could feel my blood pressure rise as my anger increased. I dismissed him from his duties and re-bagged my own groceries.

I called for a manager and expressed my concerns. If a store is to stock their shelves with pink ribboned items, and purport to be an active supporter of breast cancer research, then those who work in said store should understand that to some, it is much more than merely a ribbon. That seventy-nine cent bag represented to me a real person. A Mom. A wife. A friend. A woman. A human being.

So often, we forget the faces of this terrible disease. It does not discriminate. Rich or poor, elite or humble, educated or simple - cancer touches all. In this month especially, while proudly wearing pink, let us never have far from our thoughts those very human faces.

For Daddy

My Dad celebrated 72 years on this Earth yesterday. Daddy was born old. He has one of those faces etched with the lines of wisdom. Thank goodness he has grown into his face, 'cause that lined face of wisdom looked kinda funny on a toddler...but I digress. Daddy has earned all of his marks of wisdom. And, like Mark Twain, who he eerily favors, he tends to share his wisdom in the form of witticisms and pith. So, in honor of my Dad, here is a bit of what I have learned, interspersed with the words of Mark Twain.

"It is a wise child that knows its own father, and an unusual one that unreservedly approves of him."


1. Nothing good ever happened after midnight. In other words, get your butt home before the coach turns into a pumpkin. In the old days, Dad armed us with a quarter to use in a pay phone in case we were running late for curfew. The only accepted excuse for being late was arterial bleeding or death, so how in the name of all that is holy he expected us to actually find the phone, dial the phone, and talk into said phone, is still somewhat of a mystery. Hmmmm......

"You can't depend on your judgement when your imagination is out of focus."

2. Pay yourself first. This is an oldie and a goodie. His Dad said the same. He didn't mean for us to spend to the exclusion of other responsibilities, just to set aside some amount of money each pay period and stow it away in savings in the event the dryer dies, or the plumbing fails or any number of things that will happen (see number 7) especially while company is over. I wish I had listened sooner.

"Buy land. They aren't making it anymore."

3. Rap is crap. More of an edict than advice, although I took it as gospel. And I concur.

"We often feel sad in the presence of music without words, and often more than that in the presence of music without music."

4. A gentleman should never wear a hat indoors. And a baseball cap is a hat, folks. I, not being a gentleman, never worried about this one. Until I started dating/marrying. I don't dig the whole cap wearing trend. Especially the ones that are worn with the bib to the starboard side. I can honestly say, I have never, ever seen my Dad with a ball cap. Hats? Yes. Dad has some beautiful, elegant hats. He has a bottle green velvet hat that he wears during the holidays. He has an authentic Australian bush hat. And he has more than a few straw hats. But not a single ball cap. And never, ever worn indoors. Just the way it should be.

"...never run after your own hat - others will be delighted to do it. Why spoil their fun?"

5. Children do not come with an instruction manual. He is correct. This statement has saved me from many hours of therapy. When I have done all I thought I could, and my girls are still angry at the world, disappointed with their lot in life, and unmoved by every effort I make, this reminds me that I am human. And so are my kids. This statement relieves me from the inherent guilt and self-questioning that comes with the most difficult job in the world. Oh, and about that instruction manual? Parents don't come with one either, K?

"Familiarity breeds contempt...and children."


"The most interesting information comes from our children, for they tell all they know and then stop."

6. The Bible says "it came to pass, not it came to stay". Thank goodness! Dad usually said this just before he would nestle our head into his chest at the shoulder, and say "there, there". There are no more powerful words. Seriously.



"Only he who has seen better days and lives to see better days again knows their full value."



"...it has never been my way to bother much about things which you can't cure."

7. The Lord takes care of the fools and the Hodges'. I seriously thought we were cursed somehow. That we were the real folks behind Murphy's Law. But, in spite of all of the crap and angst and drama my family has endured, somehow we are still here and happy. We are either eternally optimistic or sadly ignorant....sigh.

"Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the rest of us could not succeed."


8.There is one about a cow and a farmer and getting milk for free, but I can never get it entirely straight. What I think Dad was trying to teach us was to keep our britches zipped. It worked. Dad told me I not to have sex until I was married. And I took his advice. Over, and over, and over.......


"Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example."


9. There is nothing but crap on TV. Go read a book. I happen to like some of the drivel on the airways, but thanks to Dad (and Mom) I do read. A lot. And I love to read. Dad now has a Kindle(tm) which looks suspiciously like a flat screen TV. But I'm not telling him. And, turns out Dad does like some of the crap on TV. He is a House devotee, and does love Little Ricky (aka Rick Steves) and the British comedies. Maybe he just didn't learn to appreciate television until late in life given it was not invented when he was born....

"The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read."


10. Always tell the truth. There is no more honest man than my Dad. He has no tolerance for anything less than the absolute, unadulterated truth. There was no "crime" worse than, or more punishable than lying when we were kids. I think Dad gave us the ultimate gift. To know- without hesitation; no matter what - he would always tell the truth.

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything."

11. Be a lady. Now this one was hard for me. 'Cause it turns out that being a female does not automatically make you a lady. You can't belch, scratch, curse, snort, or yell YEEE HAAWWW when you are a lady. At least not in church. You have to wear a slip, and sit with your ankles crossed...although how that in and of itself keeps one from showing things that should not be shown is beyond me. I mean, if your thighs are anything like mine (think tree trunk) you can cross your ankles all day long and still provide quite a view, if you know what I mean. But I digress. Anyhoo, Dad (and again, Mom) tried very hard to teach us to be ladies. Sometimes I think it worked the most on my brother. sigh.


"It is a mistake that there is no bath that will cure people's manners. But drowning would help."

12.You cannot put a price on the value of education. Dad was the first person in his family to go to college. He liked it so much, we went on to get his PhD. But it wasn't just formal education he was referring to. Dad still questions, and reads, and researches. His mom was one of the smartest people I have ever known. And she was lethal in Trivial Pursuit. She never went to college. But she read and read and questioned and listened. Her mind was a sharp the day she left this earth as it had ever been. I think that is what Daddy meant. And he believes that one should never stop learning. I think he is right. But don't tell him I said so, K?

"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."

13. Ice cream can make just about anything better.Dad LOVES ice cream. He likes coffee, peach and lemon custard ice cream the best. Although I am pretty sure I have never seen him turn down any flavor of ice cream offered to him. We used to have a dog, Rascal. Rascal was as enamored with ice cream as Daddy. Rascal could be upstairs, at the far end of the house, under the bed, and sound asleep, and appear as if by magic when the freezer opened downstairs. Daddy and Rascal shared a lot of ice cream. And so did we. When life seemed to be harder than we could bear, a scoop of ice cream made everything a little better.


"Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

14. It doesn't cost a thing to be kind.Dad has no tolerance for being mean. He extends the same kindness to strangers he gives to those he loves.He has never engaged in gossip, and always reminds us to be the better person. He is kind to all he comes into contact with. Even in anger, he remains respectful. Once, someone who had been less than kind to my family, insisted on addressing my Dad with the more familiar "Mike" rather than Dr. Hodges. "Mike" was spoken with a great deal of venom and sarcasm. Dad simply stated to the offender, "My friends call me Mike. And you are no friend of mine." I think this pretty much sums it up.

"Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest."

"Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see."

15. Remember your raising. My Dad was raised with strong values. His family was not wealthy in the monetary sense, but they shared books and music and travel. He had a large family that showered him with love. We were raised the in the same way. We didn't have all the trappings of wealth some of our friends enjoyed, but we had two parents that loved and supported us. They instilled in us a strong work ethic. They taught us that being the best we could be was infinitely better than thinking we were somehow better than others. And, if somehow we got too big for our britches, they had a way of reminding us where Earth was, and brought us back down.

"One gets large impressions in boyhood, sometimes, which he has to fight against all his life."

There are many more bits of wisdom and isms and borrowed nuggets I could share. But these are the basics. I think my Dad has taught me a lot. I hope I can honor him by teaching my kids how to be the best they can be. And, as my much, much older sister said, we sure are lucky he is here today for us to poke at, and pick on, and thank, and hug. Happy Birthday Daddy!

"Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."
"When your friends begin to flatter you on how young you look, it is a sure sign you are getting old."


"I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened."


All quotes in italics are the words of Mark Twain

The Elusive Purple Martin

I have seen it happen. I have seen seemingly intelligent, sane human beings spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in their attempts to lure Purple Martins to their homes and gardens. My father-in-law is one of "those" people. On any other planet, or in any other country, Paul would be forced into treatment for his obsession with the elusive Purple Martin.

Purple Martins like gourds. One would think one could erect a few gourds and VOILA! Purple Martins would flock to them. Turns out, the Martins are a bit pickier. At least that is what folks like Paul have been led to believe. Paul thought gourds a bit down market and not at all sumptuous enough for these apparently high society type ornithological jet-setters. He erected Donald Trump style high rise condominiums on towering poles overlooking his spectacular rose garden. Individual rooms and penthouse suites would surely attract the pinnacle of bird society.

My Dad often joked that Paul should lower his standards and string a few gourds on a clothes line. That would at least attract the lower to middle class Martins. Of course Dad would also suggest that fancy stone borders could easily be replaced by discarded car tires. Painted white, of course, for aesthetic reasons. We all laughed, but maybe Dad was on to something. Maybe Paul had ignored the masses and pandered to the elite. And maybe now they feel unwelcome. Hmmm.

Paul continued his futile efforts to bring the Martins to his garden. He even piped in the songs of the Martin over a loudspeaker system set up outside. He timed it to begin at 4am each morning. We borrowed that system during our wedding reception. We traded the mating call of the Purple Martin for bagpipe music, as we had a Celtic theme wedding. But, I digress. Anyhoo, we forgot to replace the Royal Scotsmen with said Martin music (purple, not Ricky) at the close of the reception. The following morning, at precisely 4am, the entire neighborhood was treated to the unique and stirring sounds of the Flower Of Scotland on bagpipe. We were popular.

All of Paul's efforts have failed. Not one single Purple Martin has decided to visit his lovely garden. And now I know why!! Turns out, the entire North American Purple Martin population is in Linden, Virginia! I kid you not. And, they are in my yard! It seems the Martins have decreed the stinkbug a culinary delicacy. I have quazillions of stinkbugs. The Martins are eating to their heart's content, and I am celebrating the sure demise of these most repulsive flying armored insects. It is what my Dad calls a "win-win" situation.

Poor Paul. I have not strung up a single gourd. Not one clothes line has been commandeered. Not a single tire painted. And I am surrounded by these most lovely bug eaters. I don't know if they will stay. I have no idea whether or not they will tell their friends and families about our Stinkbug Horn of Plenty. I do know I have hundreds of new feathered friends. And I am in Heaven. Just saying!

Universal Man Flu

Those of you who read my blog with some regularity know there is a Dane in my basement. For those of you who do not read my blog regularly, there is a Dane in my basement. He was invited and is about to start week number three with us. He has been charming and funny and delightful to be around. Until yesterday.

Verner, said Dane in said basement, has the dreaded Man Flu. He is coughing and wheezing and snorting and looks to be just this side of absolutely miserable. I know inquiring minds will want to know if we are dealing with the Swine Flu. Inquiring minds will be relieved to find that he has already suffered through the piggy flu whilst still in Denmark. With his wife. A much stronger and patient woman than I. He has what appears to be a bad cold. The kind of cold that most women will take a powder for, and keep on plugging. Did I mention he was male?

Men in this country - and I have only been able to speak for American men to date - are not good patients. With a single cough or hack or sore throat, they morph into a more dependent, needy version of your average eighteen month old child. All of a sudden, strenuous exercise, such as using the remote to change the TV station, is unbearable. They can barely crawl to the bathroom, and once there have no energy left to aim with any precision. They bundle up in the most pitiful assortment of cardigan sweaters, plaid flannel jammie pants, and Arctic worthy wool socks - think British pensioner meets Sesame Street - and huddle shivering in the tattered remains of their childhood blankies. Attractive. Really.

I guess I thought a Scandinavian or European male might face an illness with a little more panache or dignity or SOMETHING! I was completely incorrect in my thinking. Verner emerged from his cave (i.e. basement) wearing a cast-off sweatshirt from John over a tired sweater the color of baby poo, my grey rag wool socks, and hair not unlike Albert Einstein. With a three day stubble, and a barking cough that surely would attract a seal had we been closer to the ocean. He looked completely helpless and hopeless. With an accent. Which, I noticed, became more pronounced with illness.

I have forced fluids, and enforced rest and hand washing. I have introduced him to the trusty apple cider vinegar and water gargle. And I managed not to giggle at his attempt to get the crap down. I made him home-made chicken noodle soup, and have washed and re-washed his pillow cases. All the while watching his behaviour for my own study of the Man Flu and its inherent idiosyncrasies.

I really do feel a bit sorry for Verner. He is thousands of miles from home, and now adding to the stress of lecturing in another language, he is facing having to do so in a raspy deep voice. The kinda of voice that would be sexy except for the dripping nose, sneezing, and coughing up of lungs accompanying said voice. But I digress. Anyhoo, I know how miserable it is to be sick away from home. I enjoyed my encounter with the piggy flu whilst in sunny Australia. Fun times.

My point to all of this, is well.....okay, I probably did have a point, but it got lost somewhere. The fact is I have a Dane in my basement and he is sick. And he is no different than John is when he is sick. When I want to send him back to his mother. 'Cause there is little less attractive than a grown man whimpering and whining 'cause his sniffer is stopped up, or 'cause his wittle head is hurting, or 'cause his wittle throat is sore. Just saying!

Mr. Clean.....Right!

What is it with the makers of cleaning products? I think they must live in an alternate reality. Do they honestly believe a man would willingly and with purpose clean a potty or mop a floor? I have yet to see proof of this, and I, being an admitted serial marrier, have had ample opportunity.


I love the idea of a big, strong man taking over the household chores. And if he wants to wear a gold hoop earring or two, I would learn to accept it. But I ask, how many times have you spotted an enormous, muscled MAN cleaning your bathroom? Heck, I would be thrilled with that ninety-eight pound weakling from my comic book days. Yet, some executive - obviously male - decided to stretch the bounds of imagination and name a cleaning product Mr. Clean. They then turned the idea over to another male - duh - in advertising and developed an antiseptic version of Mel (from the TV show Alice -ask your Mom if you are younger than thirty) to sell this cleaner. To women!


Mr. Clean was not the first to dare suggest that men actually clean. In fact, Ajax used the White Knight in a series of ads in the sixties. Even in my most deluded state of hypnotic daydreaming, I would not for one nanosecond think a knight would rescue me from cruddy toilets and nasty floors. Give me a break. The campaign ended with a group of women protesting and calling for a boycott of the ad campaign. I don't personally think the ad was sexist in the traditional sense of the word, I just think it is ludicrous to suggest any man would go to that much trouble to clean a bathroom.


I hate to bash on my favorite icon, the Brawny guy, but I am just as skeptical of his ability in the cleaning department. He is rugged, cute, and sports some pretty fab flannel, but I just cannot picture him on his knees with his sleeves rolled up scrubbing a tub. He seems more likely to tear a moldy shower down and start over. Hmmmm.......he may be on to something. But I digress. Anyhoo, again a strapping macho male is the symbol for a cleaning product. What gives?


My favorite is the Ty-D-Bol Man. Remember him? And, although he was male, he more accurately portrayed a real man in a cleaning situation. He was fully dressed in a turtleneck, blazer and nautical hat. He scooted around in a boat. He never actually touched the toilet or toilet water. He supervised. He advised. He proclaimed. Just like a man. I'll bet he didn't close the lid either.....


My point in all of this is that while I appreciate and love the men in my life for their abundant gifts and talents, none of those gifts and/or talents include cleaning. Anything. I realize someone like me with my gray hair in desperate need of a trim, sporting an old collegiate sweatshirt four sizes too big over bleach stained flannel jammie pants and fuzzy purple socks would not be the first pick as an advertising spokesperson. I would, however, at least be believable. Just saying.

The Yard Wife

I am a housewife. I didn't think much about this particular label until I heard someone else apologizing for the same. I got to wondering.....what exactly is a housewife? Are there other kinds of wives out there I never knew about? I guess I should be grateful I am not a yard wife.... I at least get a roof over my head. But I digress. I am struggling a bit with the whole concept of being a housewife.

I did not start out to be a housewife. I was a registered nurse for many years. Prior to that, I worked in every industry imaginable and did just about any job that would pay a decent salary. And, no, I never worked in "the" profession for a variety of reasons. One being I cannot stand the sight of me sans clothing, so I could hardly ask someone to pay for that particular...ahem...privilege. Anyhoo, I have worked outside of the home since I was about sixteen. When I became a housewife, I honestly thought I had won the freaking lottery. After all, I no longer worked twelve hour nights or weekends or carried around a beeper. I was in heaven! The euphoria lasted maybe twenty minutes.

I finally realized I had a rather daunting task ahead of me... sure I cleaned and cooked and shopped and dropped while working full time, but working brought a ready excuse. Somehow it was more acceptable to have a little dust around and a less than sterile kitchen when I worked outside of the home. Now it seems I must strive for a hermetically sealed vacuum. I have a difficult time achieving this. Maybe the yard wife thing would be easier.

I don't mind cleaning. Cleaning can be cathartic. Cleaning gives me a certain satisfaction. I have learned some pretty innovative cleaning techniques as well. Instead of obsessing over a little dust here and there, I simply name my dust bunnies. And dust bears. And dust giraffes. Who am I kidding? I have a freaking dust zoo in my house! sigh.

I have tried hard to become the perfect housewife. I tried to grow an herb garden and a few flowers to cheer the place up. Only one problem with this - I hardly have a green thumb. In fact the only things I can successfully grow are mold and mildew.

A good housewife plans delicious, nutritious meals for her family. I try new recipes and make every attempt to excel in presentation as well as taste. I have no idea why I bother. Me: "those flowers decorating the plate are edible as well as beautiful." Child number one: "Why would we want to eat FLOWERS?" Me: "You don't have to eat them, I am just stating that they are edible. They are there to make the plate look more appetizing." Child number two: "Why not just put some flowers in a vase?" Child number one: "Yeah, I mean it is kinda gross to have little flowers pretending to be food on my plate." Child number two: "It is pretty, I guess, but I don't see the point." Husband: silently chewing, not noticing anything different whatsoever.

I think in my next life I would like to be a kept woman, please. I would like staff. I would like to be inundated with quazillions of glossy brochures for boarding schools (she giggles with just a hint of maniacal hysteria). I would like to have a personal chef. And a personal trainer. And personally, I would do without the pool boy if I could have a potty boy. I want someone else to scrub the potties.

In this time of financial uncertainty, I should be grateful I have a job. I do believe mine is secure. And in spite of my whining and moaning, I really wouldn't trade my dust zoo for anything. 'Cept maybe that potty boy. Just saying..

National Elephant Appreciation Day

I hate the drudgery of creating meals for every day. I despise having to conjure up culinary masterpieces every single solitary day of the year. I am frankly bored with the entire process. I have even contemplated serving a bowl of cereal to my children and calling it supper. After all, most cereals brag about having 100% of the daily requirements of vitamins and minerals. But, I digress. Anyhoo, if I have to come up with yet another wonderful way to win over my family with poultry, or suffer through another casserole with cream-of soup, cheddar cheese and mystery meat, I may just hurl.

I do enjoy cooking for occasions, however. I am, I guess, what you would call an occasional cook! (I crack myself up!). Maybe then, my problem is a matter of perception. If, for example, I knew that Thursday was a holiday, I could then tap into my inner Julia Child and VIOLA! A feast is born. I think I just may be on to something.

Tonight I planned to serve an uninspired, done-it-a-thousand-times, plop on the plate Tuesday meal. A Tuesday night meal doesn't have the panache of a Sunday dinner, or the spontaneity of a Friday cook-out, or the hope of a hump day supper. It is just a Tuesday. I am bored just thinking about it (she yawns for effect). But wait! A little googling on my trusty 'puter, and tonight's meal is suddenly a celebration! An event! Turns out today is National Elephant Appreciation Day!! Who knew?

This is exciting. This meal now has promise. Let's see. Wonder what one cooks for something this huge? I could prepare peanut crusted chicken strips or a Satay in honor of our pachyderms penchant for peanuts. Except that elephants don't actually eat peanuts. Hmmm. I could prepare a massive roast or whole turkey to celebrate the elephants unapologetic girth. For dessert I could fry up some batter and coat with powdered sugar to create my own version of a state fair staple; elephant ears. The possibilities are endless. Though, I am not sure I am quite ready to embark on such a culinary conundrum.

This is harder than I thought. I haven't had time to prepare. Maybe if I had known before today, I could have made a list. I will need to research this further, and make another trip to the dreaded grocery store. I mean, I can hardly serve some mundane hot dish or meat loaf for such a notable commemoration. Wait! I know - maybe we should just eat out! After all, it is a special occasion! Just saying....

Do You See Me?

After a particularly hellish day at the local supermarket, I found myself struggling to express the myriad of emotions I felt. I realized I had come as close as possible to explain how I feel in this blog originally posted many months ago. I still hold out hope we will become a kinder, patient, more empathetic people.


Do you see me? Do you see me leaning on my husband's arm, as I try to navigate a seemingly endless parking lot or gargantuan store? Do you sigh or raise your fist at me because I am too slow? Do you see that my legs simply cannot move any faster? Do you see that I am embarrassed beyond belief because I cannot do this alone? Do you see me?

Do you see me? Do you see me straining to see the tiny print on cans or bottles or jars? Do you understand that I don't mean to hold up traffic in the aisle? Do you know I don't mean to back into you, I just don't realize how far away or close things are to me? Do you have any idea what it took for me to get out in the cold and rain, and to do this simple task? Do you see me?

Do you see me? Do you see how frightened I am because I lost sight of my husband for a moment? Do you have any idea what it is like to feel completely lost, and alone? Do you know how hard it is to figure out where the bathroom is? Have you ever thought what it must take to go into a bathroom alone, and not be able to maneuver buttons and clasps and zippers without assistance? Or the doors, or faucets or dryers? Do you see me?

Do you see me? Do you see me as I try to avoid running into you, or your children as they dart in front of me? I don't mean to bump into your buggy as you whiz out of nowhere. I hear your comments. I hear you call me clumsy or inconsiderate or drunk. I hear your children laugh at me; I hear you allow them to call me names. Do you see me?

Do you see me? I am a human being. I care about others. I care about you. I would do anything possible to change my circumstances. They are what they are. I cannot see you as you huff past me, knocking into me on your way. I can hear you. I hear the muttered "stupid" or "why can't you come on another day". I hear the heavy sighs and the cleared throats as you insist on shoving past me, at times causing me to lose my balance. I hear the comments when I use my cane.....yes, I do need it....and no, I am not looking for sympathy or a hand-out. I hear you complain because it takes me too long and I am blocking the aisle. I hear you. Do you see me?

Do you see me? Not just me, but any child of God that is struggling to navigate this world. A world for those who see clearly; who walk without a stumble; who are completely independent; and who are too rushed and busy and important to see.......me.

Bread Of Life

Yesterday was a dreary, rainy, gloomy day. It was, as Ashley's dad dubbed it once, a grismal day. The clouds hung with a heavy sadness over my mountain cloaking it in a sodden shroud. It was one of those days when you wished you could just pull the covers up and stay in bed. Yesterday's weather was the perfect day for a thick, rich bowl of soup. And so I made soup.

I love soup and bread. Note the bread part. The problem with wanting bread with my soup, was that ordinarily one would not attempt such a culinary feat in 100% humidity. The damp can wreak havoc - the dough never really gets that perfect satiny texture. The tendency is to want to continue adding flour to the sticky mess, but that would mean a loaf of bread not unlike a dense clay brick.Great for a doorstop - not so great to eat. Ugh.

I decided to tempt the fates, and make bread in spite of the weather. I only know one recipe for bread. I am sure there are other recipes, but I grew up with only one. My Dad started making his Herb Butter Bread when he was juggling fatherhood and graduate school. Then he used the butcher-block top of our dishwasher to knead out all of his frustrations. We liked that he was frustrated. We got to eat the most delicious bread as a result! When Daddy finished his PhD, Mom presented him with an electric stand mixer heavy enough to handle this two loaf recipe.

Apparently Dad learned to deal with the stressors of life better, or he got lazy, or maybe just craved a big honking piece of whole wheat bread. 'Cause after graduate school we only got to eat Dad's bread at Christmas. Dad started the tradition of making loaves for his friends and family as Christmas presents. He would take two full days and bake as many as 35 loaves. I loved the aroma of fresh bread permeating the air. To me Christmas is less the smell of fresh pine or cedar boughs, and more browned butter and the herbaceous yeastiness of daddy's bread.

In recent years, Dad's health has made it all but impossible to spend days standing in the kitchen baking his bread. My siblings and I have taken over much of the process, although we still have him ready as a consulting baker. To us, the fragility of Daddy's health is most apparent during bread baking time. I guess we have a hard time thinking of Christmas without the image of Daddy with his chef's hat and his apron leaving a Pigpen style cloud of flour in his wake. Dad at his best was a symbol of strength as he hand kneaded that wieldy dough.

A couple of years ago, Daddy traded up for a newer mixer with tons of features. Heck, it will make sausage, pasta, and probably paint the house if needed. I inherited his first industrial strength, kid-proof, defense department issued, steel-belted stand mixer. The newer models are nice. They even come in colors to match the decor of your kitchen. Mine is standard white. It has no bells and whistles. It is perfect.

Yesterday, in the somberness of that gloamy day, I found my thoughts wandering down the inevitable avenue of reminiscence. As it sometimes will happen, my mood became quite melancholy. I longed to return of the innocence of childhood,where cancer hadn't etched its indelible mark of pain. I longed for a time when all of life's unfairness and angst and frustration were cured with a "there there", or a lollipop from the drive-up teller, or the seemingly magical appearance of that wonderful bread.

Daddy's bread. I drug out that clunky,counter straining, heavy mixer and began to assemble the ingredients; yeast, thyme, caraway seed, and basil. I carefully browned the butter until it was nutty and rich. I scalded the milk just as Dad taught me. I slowly added the flour and watched as the dough hook worked its magic. Soon, I had loaves of bread filling the house with the wonderful aroma of my childhood.

As I stood ready to succumb to the blackness of pity and despair, I had an epiphany. Life is not always fair. There will be pain and loss and heartache. But, somehow, through the act of baking my Daddy's bread my senses transported me to a time and place filled with joy and love. I experienced the inevitable circle of life as it rounded its way towards me. I did have to consult with the master baker himself, and he called to make sure my bread was a success. It was. And it represented all that is right and good in my little corner of the world. Just saying.

You Can Hear The Whistle Blow A Hundred Miles....

My Dad returned to school to obtain his PhD in the late 60's. Being that I was not yet old enough to fend for myself or drive, I, along with Mom and my siblings, went along. The late sixties were tumultuous at best. I saw first hand the grief when Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were both assassinated. The Vietnam war was in full swing and with it protests and peace marches. I watched the nightly news with its daily reports of death and destruction. The end of the decade was marked by the Kent State Massacre, causing nervousness and curfews at my Dad's campus and others.

The unrest of the sixties had a distinct soundtrack. Peter, Paul, and Mary defined the era with their lyrical calls for peace and the end of turmoil. Their music proved to be timeless, and their pleas for a time where all the world would join together for the better good never ceasing. I remember hearing Peter, Paul and Mary sing Puff the Magic Dragon, and Blowin' In The Wind. I remember the haunting lyrics of 500 Miles. I loved the passion of If I Had A Hammer - Mary could sing it like no other. Peter, Paul and Mary made music that wasn't simply the soundtrack of a generation, it was the soundtrack of my childhood.

Last night, Mary Travers died after suffering from leukemia for the last four years. She was 72. And, through her music, immortal. Mary and her singing comrades didn't just sing meaningless words. They believed in what they taught through song. They believed together we could make a difference.

I had the absolute joy and pleasure of attending a concert of Peter, Paul and Mary in Brevard, North Carolina with my in-laws. I sang along enthusiastically with every single verse and chorus. The trio was amazing. Their harmony was exquisite and the love of their music evident. Then, Mary stood out front a bit from the others and began her iconic If I had a Hammer. She sang from her soul. Her voice was as strong and sincere as it had been forty years prior. She sang with a passion unmatched by any other artist I have ever heard. Her voice was powerful reaching into the depths of the life-worn and dulled passions of the audience. An audience that was once as eager and sure of what was right as she. Her words just as appropriate for this generation.

I have loved Peter, Paul and Mary since I was a child. Their music has proved to be timeless and their message beyond the boundaries of any one generation. Mary's authenticity, her passion, and her boundless energy in the pursuit of a better world community will be sorely missed.
And my soundtrack will never be quite the same.

Mary Travers

November 9, 1936 -September 16, 2009

Living a Hitchcock Movie

It has happened. I am living a vintage nineteen fifties horror movie. Except that with new technology and all, mine is in living color. ARRGGHH. Instead of being swarmed and attacked by birds, we have been invaded by stink bugs. And, why do they call them stink bugs you ask? Why because the odor emanated by these crusty arthropods, well......STINKS!! The smell is something akin to a cross between a full litter box and a high school senior's gym shoes. Attractive, really.

I have done everything I can think of to combat these nasty flying entomological annoyances. I have sealed every crack possible in my house. I have sprayed. I have been careful to dispose of these little gifts from HELL away from the house so as not to attract others to their STINK. Which turns out to be the equivalent of Chanel Number 5 to fellow stink bugs ( she shudders visibly). I have vacuumed and swept and flicked and flushed these little darlings. I am gonna need extensive therapy before this is all over. sigh.

I have searched and searched for a remedy to our insect dilemma. The Internet has been oh, so helpful. There I learned that there is no real effective way to rid one's home of these creepy crawlers. Time and again, I have read how the hard shelled body is relatively impervious to sprays. I learned that foggers are useless, and powders completely ineffective. I am left with one option. I will have to tear my house down and start over. I simply cannot take this anymore.

I can handle bugs and insects and slimy things living outside. I do not try to invade their turf. I sleep inside. I wish these armor coated odiferous invaders would extend to me the same courtesy. While they are disgusting to watch as they flit around the exterior of my home, I am warming to the idea of sharing that space with them. When, however, they decide to engage in bombing raids on my guacamole, I draw the line.

I am normally an extremely tolerant person. I love all of God's creatures. In fact, I think this may be part of the issue. No way in all that is holy would God decide to create such a nasty, vile creature, would she? I cannot fathom having to continue this existence. I am, as we say in the South, nutting up over this insect invasion. I am at a loss. This is really bugging me. Just saying...

It's The Jerry Springer Show!!

My mother taught me manners. Not only did she teach me how to behave, she instructed me as to the seriousness of a breach of decorum. My mother is the epitome of a lady. I think she needs to hold a boot camp for those in the public eye who seem to have forgotten their raising.

Representative Joe Wilson needs a spanking. And then he needs his mouth washed out with soap. That is what would have happened to me if I had DARED to utter ANYTHING out loud in an address by our President. I could have said "why I think your tie is divine" and I still would have been punished for rudely interrupting someone while speaking. Add to the equation the fact that this was the President, and I would be looking at some serious grounding. But Joe Wilson didn't merely shout out his approval of the President's accessory choices. No, he decided to forgo all sense of reason and decorum and call the President a liar. WOW! I'll bet his Mom is really proud.

I am astonished at the scores of folks who are proud of what Joe Wilson did. They are extolling his "courage". Puleez! He would have shown courage had he stated his disapproval in an open forum. He would have my respect had he voiced his outrage with thoughtful discourse in the presence of the President. To shout out from his seat was not courageous. It was an act of cowardice wrapped in up in made-for-prime-time bravado. The Sergeant-At-Arms should have put him in time-out.

Serena Williams was not to be outdone as she was anything but serene at the US Open Tennis Tournament. Serena made a boo-boo. It happens. 'Cause as much as she, like other high-profile sports stars, think somehow the rules don't apply to them, they are fallible. Instead of accepting her very humanness, she decided to call into question the parentage of the line judge. She then offered to share her tennis ball as a meal option. Apparently she decided the line judge was suffering from hunger induced temporary blindness. Serena's show was less than ladylike. It was not indicative of good sportsmanship. It is a good thing my Mom wasn't there. She would have jerked her up by the ear and marched her to the girl's bathroom to have a "little understanding". Serena would have returned teary-eyed and humbly apologized for her lack of ladylike behavior as I am sure Mom explained it would have behooved her to do. Serena should have her allowance pulled. At the very least.

One ladylike act stood apart from the appalling behavior shown in recent days. When Kanye West stormed the stage during the VMA Awards and yanked the microphone from seventeen year old Taylor Swift in a pathetic attempt to extol the relative virtues of Beyonce's contribution to the rock/pop video world, Beyonce showed a great deal of class. Later in the evening when her video won the award for its category, she gave up her moment in order for Taylor Swift to finally have hers. Beyonce's Mom must have been bursting with pride. Beyonce made a terrible,awkward situation a teachable moment about grace. Kanye needs a switching. My Mom would have pinched a plug out of his thigh and made him wish he had kept his mouth shut. Then she would have made him get on his knees (so she could look him in the eye) and she would have explained life. Kanye would have gladly crawled back on that stage to apologize for taking up vital oxygen for his useless rant. And then Mom would have taken his car keys.

What has happened that it is suddenly trendy to be offensive, confrontational, and downright, well....my Mom calls it common? Have we lost our collective minds? These town hall meetings on health care turned into excuses for vitriol and ranting and show boating and behavior one expects at a roller derby - not a meeting. Can we not have disagreement without shouting and in-your-face spiteful one-liners? Can those we hold in high esteem not contain themselves? I know it is hard to sit through that terribly long joint session of Congress. Those meanie-heads made them miss "So You Think You Can Dance". I would have been ticked too. And that meanie-head line judge probably didn't like Serena Williams. Yeah, that's it. She would risk her professional reputation to make a bogus call during the US Open. All who believe that get a free booklet on "How to Behave Graciously in Public" from Kanye West. Jeez.

My Mom taught me better. I would wager that most Moms have done the same. We know better. We were exposed to right and wrong. We learned how to behave. We have become caricatures of ourselves. And our Moms must be sorely disappointed. Just saying.

Almost Heaven

After a tumultuous week, we received good news (all things considered) about Dad. This bit of respite from worry and grief enabled us to enjoy a wonderful weekend in Morgantown, West Virginia. Or, as our friend Tom calls it , West-By-God-Virgina. The weather was on the cool side as we enjoyed upper 50's to low 60's temps for the East Carolina vs West Virginia University football game. We were determined to show our Danish exchange students a typical American football Saturday. And our WVU friends did not disappoint.

I think it interesting to take something as familiar as a collegiate football game and see it through the eyes of a foreign visitor. One of the most difficult explanations was the idea that West Virgina is a separate state and not simply the western region of Virginia. We had finally cleared that issue up, only to have to explain that West Virginia University's opponent for the day was East Carolina University. From the state of North Carolina. sigh.

Our hosts grilled hot dogs and bratwurst for us at our tailgating party. Hot dogs are enjoyed in Denmark as well as the US as my more devoted readers will know. I, in fact, LOVE the Danish version of our American classic. The Danes were equally enthused about our version - grilled to a crispy brown and served on soft buns with mustard and onions. What could be better? Mmmmmm. Heaven on a bun.

The concept of spending an entire day at a football game was completely puzzling to our friends. Although they enjoyed the tailgating, pregame show and post game festivities, they could not believe Americans will willingly give up twelve to fourteen hours for a single sporting event. After leaving our home at 7:00 am and falling into bed a full fifteen hours later, I started to question our traditions as well. I was so exhausted - how exhausted was I, you ask? - I was unable to stay awake for the only game that REALLY mattered Saturday. That would be the Carolina/Georgia game for those of you who are not true sports fans. I understand the game was exciting. I was too tired to frankly care....I know!!

Our Danish students were overwhelmed with the, well.......ahem..... shall we say...ENTHUSIASM the fans showed for their team. And while some of the antics and slogans and finger gestures and intellectual discussions with the referees were at times entertaining, not one time did a brawl erupt. No riot police stood at the ready. In fact, the most exciting altercation was between an entire section of fans tossing a beach ball in the air and the most humourless state patrolman on the planet. I think we taught this group of European football fans that one can indeed enjoy a healthy rivalry without bloodshed or arrests.

The students were wonderful. They took hundreds of pictures, charmed our hosts, and showed more enthusiasm than the most die-hard Mountaineer fan. They stood at attention with us as we sang our National Anthem, and joined in eagerly with the traditional Country Roads sung at the end of the game. I was proud to show them a bit of our sporting tradition, and prouder still to see them embrace the whole experience with such joy.

A Simple Plea

I have written and re-written this post. I have experienced a myriad of emotions so diverse as to be the inspiration for a House episode. My attempts at finding the words to express these emotions have failed. My Dad's cancer has decided the brief reprieve of stable disease is over. His cancer has begun to grow again. Later today, we discover whether or not it has spread further. And there simply are no words adequate.

After many starts and stops, rants and tears, I finally had an epiphany. For as long as I can remember, when life was producing lemons faster than I could squeeze them into the proverbial lemonade, my Dad would simply say "there, there". Two little words. Two little words that spoke volumes. Two little words filled with love and compassion. Sometimes we don't need a dissertation, or sonnet, or bit of free verse to express what is in our heart. We worry so much about the right words, when sometimes the thought behind the words is what is important.

Today I need to hear "there, there". The problem with this is that Daddy needs to hear it too. And Mom. And my siblings.

So, today, I ask that you take just a moment of your time, and send a mental "there, there" to all of us - especially my Dad. 'Cause I know from experience just how powerful those two little words can be. Just saying.....

And So It Begins...

It is official. I am old. My younger daughter starts high school today. I realize most of you have already shed your tears over your own children, but our school calendar begins two days after Labor day. The way God intended. But, I digress. I would like to know how it is that just yesterday my little cherubic faced child was exclaiming over her ability to color in the lines and recognize the primary colors. Did I experience some sort of Rip van Winkle sleep state? sigh.

As sad as I am to realize my little girl is growing faster than my feeble brain can process, I am excited about school starting. That seemingly endless, yawning span of time bathed in interminable heat and cloaked in boredom is over. We have a routine. We have a schedule. We have order. We have homework.

I love homework. I am sure my darling girls do not share my perverse pleasure at the sheer volume of work to be completed at home. Parents should embrace homework. Sure, there is the odd paper needing parental assistance to print, or a ridiculous diorama requiring a Lowe's project card to complete, but mostly homework brings with it a daily mantra of peace. Need some quiet time to read the paper? Send the kid to their room to do homework. Want to watch Tom DeLay attempt the Paso Doble? Homework!

I realize I sound, well.....cold. I love my girls. Both of them. I celebrate their successes and comfort them through their failures. I suffer through bleacher butt syndrome caused by endless hours cheering for the home team. I dig through the mismatched sock basket to find the "good" socks. I search diligently for the best lunch items. I also enjoy the eight or so hours I can finally steal for me...minus the hours spent washing clothes, planning and preparing meals, sweeping, mopping, wiping.....like I said, I enjoy the thirty minutes I can finally steal for me.

So, today, I celebrate the passage of time and the promise of a bright future as Lauren enters the ninth grade. I am so very proud of her and of her accomplishments. And in those few minutes I can finally steal, no doubt my thoughts will moprh into a mental slide show of her young life, resting for a moment on the image of that little bitty girl carefully coloring within the lines. Just saying.

Keep Your Crap, Take the Cash

And so it begins. Thousands and thousands of eager young faces beam up expectantly at parents and coaches and strangers as they offer tubs of cookie dough, glossy wrapping paper, thick candy bars, and endless magazine subscriptions. While I understand the need for cash, I wish I could give dough without having to actually purchase, well....dough. sigh.

I have no problem with helping the track team or Troupe 98 or the academic team. I am not opposed to Mr. Smith's third grade class going to Washington. Band needs new uniforms? Count me in. I will help buy textbooks, computers and copy paper.

What I despise about the call for cash, is that in order to help, I have to purchase a roll of wrapping paper not quite large enough to cover a ring box. Or, I can pick from a catalog of "gourmet" chocolates and popcorn. For my twenty bucks, there might be enough for a single serving. If you are a toddler. Don't even get me started on the scented candles, pocket calculators, and all-in-one tools.

I think I have the solution to the whole fundraising issue. I think there should be a Keep Your Crap, Take the Cash fundraiser. Just as the symphony or ballet has friends of or benefactors, so should schools and scouts and little league team. You could give any amount you see fit, and said organization would get 100% of the donation. To me this makes much more sense than earning fifty cents for every two hundred dollar box of navel oranges. The same ones that cost me four dollars at Kroger.

In all fairness, I am a fan of a couple of the more traditional fundraising ideas. I will buy Krispy Kreme doughnuts for any reason one can come up with. I admit I don't even care about the group I am supporting. Somehow the lure of those tasty treats of lard and sugar erase all sense of reason. I will gladly fork out more than a mortgage payment for a box of them. The other fundraiser I think worthy of my hard earned cash is Girl Scout cookies. I am an ardent supporter of the Girl Scouts. I particularly like to support them through my annual purchase of Thin Mints. Although, if the United Steelworkers decided to sell Thin Mints, I would support them just as much.

The problem is that there are so many groups who need money, and so few clever ways to get the needed cash. Somewhere along the way, we lost faith in the idea of asking for what we need without worrying about what is given in return. I really do not need the tchatchkes and the trinkets and the dust catchers these kids are forced to peddle. I think my Keep Your Crap, Take the Cash Idea is a win-win; the organization gets the financial boost it needs and I don't have to feign interest in yet another desk set, calendar or cookbook. Just saying...

The Perfect Gift

I have thought a lot about gift giving of late. I found myself having to defend what I wanted to receive as a birthday gift. It seems we often decide what other folks would or should want to receive as a gift. We label a gift as appropriate or not based on our own expectations. I have actually had arguments over whether or not I truly wanted the gift I requested. Frustrating as the process may be, I completely understand why this occurs.

We are inundated with billboards and television advertisements and glossy magazine pages portraying the spectacle of giving and receiving the perfect gift. The tiny velvet box holding one's future presented in a platinum and diamond setting; the promise of life long success with the sleek sports sedan under an enormous red bow; forgiveness or sympathy delivered in a glorious floral arrangement. We are conditioned to believe that in order to publicly proclaim our love and devotion, we must have THE bracelet or pendant or earrings from a national jewelry chain. And without such a trinket, we have failed.

This saddens me. I have received many wonderful gifts over the years. Of my favorite presents, only one is a piece of jewelry. The gifts most dear to my heart include the second-hand version of a coat I coveted when Dad was in graduate school, the quilt covered in photographs of Ashley and me, and a sunflower print John purchased for our first Christmas together. These gifts were tangible evidence that the giver knew me, and therefore knew what would give me pleasure.

Some of the gifts I have received were not intended as a present for a particular occasion. They include a post card my Dad wrote me when I left home for college, a letter penned by my grandmother to offer encouragement when I most needed it, and several photos of my girls taken by a dear friend. These gifts become extensions of the heart to be forever treasured.

As much as I love gifts from the heart, I appreciate practical gifts as well. I might wish to purchase a trendy new outfit, or try the latest cosmetics, or add another trinket to my shelves, but am unwilling to sacrifice funds I deem best spent elsewhere. A gift card from one that understands this concept is a great way to allow me to enjoy such things without guilt. I have enjoyed receiving what are considered by many to be rather mundane utilitarian gifts such as new cookware or solar lights for the walkway.

My point is that in order to give the perfect give,one has to truly know and understand the recipient. When this happens, any gift given becomes the perfect gift. Just saying...

By the by, my gift was a weed eater!

The Greatest Gift of All

Next week is my birthday. WOOT! I am not thrilled about inching ever closer to the big 5-0, but I do enjoy the perks a birthday affords - namely the presents. This year, I put my foot down and requested a specific present, not leaving my husband and children to decide what THEY think I want. Although they were not nearly as excited by my choice as I, they decided to indulge me. I am so excited!

Oh, you probably want to know what in the heck it is. And you are probably wondering why I haven't told. I thought it would be fun to give a series of hints, and see what folks guess. Doesn't that sound like fun? Okay, it more likely sounds like I have no life and am easily entertained. Anyhoo, here is my cryptic description of this year's birthday present. Enjoy!

1. It fits in the palm of your hand
2. It is easily adaptable
3. It is vegan
4. You can drop it a line
5. It is cutting edge
6. It is a tree hugger
7. It is boisterous
8. It is house broken
9. It loves the outdoors
10. It will string you along

Do Not Go Gently Into That Dark Night

The funeral and subsequent burial of Senator Ted Kennedy struck a chord with me. I was taken with the exquisite clarity of the Ave Maria; the striking pageantry of the mass; the aching strains of Yo Yo Ma's cello. I saw what has become a larger than life fairy tale family grieving as the rest of us do when one of our own leaves this earth. Their very real and exposed wounds were left gaping and raw for all to see. In spite of the pomp and circumstance, this was the funeral of a man. A man with children and a wife; grandchildren and a sister; countless nieces and nephews.

I realized while watching the series of events these last days, how much funerals are not for those who have departed as much as they are for those who are left behind. I wonder if folks took the time to share the accolades with Kennedy prior to his death. I wonder if he was able to share the stories and the laughter with his legion of friends in the days leading up to the end. I wonder if he knew how loved and admired he was.
I think we all struggle with our legacy - how each of us will be remembered. Will we leave an indelible mark? Will our children and grandchildren know of our great deeds? Will our friends consider it an honor to eulogize us? Will we make a difference? And, will that difference matter? Will we go gently into that dark night, or we will go kicking and fighting all the way?

I have heard thousands of times one must live their life as if each day were their last. I understand where this concept comes from. The idea that if we treat each day as if we know there will be no tomorrow, we would somehow fill the day with more meaning. Nice idea, but wouldn't it be better if we treat each day as if it were our first. Each morning we wake up with a new sense of purpose. Each day we turn the page on the mistakes and foibles of our yesterday and begin anew. Each day is filled with hope and promise and a chance to be better than we were before.

To me it would be too daunting to live each day as if it were my last. The pressure of making each day fulfill some great lasting legacy too much to bear. The need to make every moment count to some higher standard impossible. The likelihood of failure too real.

As I am writing this, I realize it sounds much more pessimistic than I intended. I do not mean to dismiss the sincere efforts of those who believe each day should be treated as an opportunity for greatness. I understand the need to feel as though every thought, word and deed somehow matter in the larger picture. It is just that I believe sometimes we too quickly sum up our lives, and the lives of others, in shallow little isms and miss out on the breadth of what makes each one of us special to those who truly matter.

Maybe life isn't really about what we achieve, or who we know, or how successful/powerful/noble/brave we are. Maybe it isn't about making a huge difference in society as a whole, or contributing to the greater good. Maybe our contributions will not be front-page worthy. Maybe the differences we have made will not be readily noticed. Maybe, if we live our lives to the very best of our abilities, given our very human spirits, it will be enough.

Paper Anniversary

Today is the first anniversary of this little 'ole blog. I looked it up, and appropriately, the first anniversary is the paper anniversary. Except that I don't actually write my blog on paper, but you get the drift. Anyhoo, I have surprised myself with the number of entries I actually managed to come up with. It takes a certain discipline to create an entry on a regular basis. Or a very real need for public scrutiny. Or I am seriously disturbed. Hmmm...

Just in time for my big celebration, I was notified that my blog has been nominated for The Divine Caroline Love! This Site Award. You can see the pretty badge on the left of my blog. In lieu of expensive gifts, or small ones crafted from paper, I am asking each of the tens of you loyal readers to please click on the pretty badge (again located on the left of my blogspot) and please vote for me!! In return, I will refrain from making derogatory comments about you in public. Or not....

As an extra treat, well, maybe treat is a little strong.....okay, okay, I'm busted. Not a treat so much as it is Friday evening and I am pooped, therefore and ergo and so it would seem, I am cheating and reprinting that very first blog! And the crowd goes wild!!! Enjoy, and I thank you for your support.

Renewable Resources
I have heard a lot in the past few days about finding new renewable resources for the energy crisis. Once again, if they had just consulted a woman.....jeez! This one is easy!! Dust bunnies!! I have tried swiffering, sweeping, traditional dust cloths, my shirt tail, socks, the cat - NOTHING gets the dust away. I can dust one room, go to another, and as soon as I return there is a layer of dust so thick I can write graffiti in it. Let me tell you, it is not pretty to have "for a good time call...." on my buffet. With my mother-in-law visiting. Don't even get me started on the creatures that lurk under my bed. I swear I have mistaken them for long lost stuffed animals......sigh. Its not that I don't clean. I do clean. And sweep. And dust. I just think I have an unnaturally large repository of dust in my home. Kinda like the natural gas reserves that other states brag about.So, I'm just saying.....maybe there is a way to gather this stuff (or fluff) and find a way to once and for all end our energy crisis.

Lament of the Challenged Fashionista

I am style challenged. I get it. And I accept it. And whatever lingering issues I had with my complete and total lack of fashion imagination disappeared with one single episode of Project Runway. Seriously.

Is there a rule that in order to be considered high fashion, the clothes must be completely unwearable? High being the operative word, cause in order to create such, well...creations, one would need to escape to another plane of reality with the aid of chemical enhancement. But, I digress. I am perplexed. I am stunned. I am certainly not ever going to be considered fashionable in this lifetime. Unless the Brawny guy becomes the symbol of iconic American fashion.

I have long struggled with finding my own personal style. This is made more difficult when one is the second of two girls. My personal style growing up was in fact my sister's personal style with the added bonus of being a full season or two behind. Of course, I did not notice I was totally out of sync with fashion. If Kimmie wore it, it was divine as far as I was concerned. Somehow I hoped that merely donning her garments would transform me into a much younger version of her. She had olive skin , long thick mahogany hair, and was small boned. I yearned to be her. I would have gladly traded my defensive lineman broad-shouldered build with her. I, in the era of Joan Collins and Dynasty, never needed shoulder pads. Ever.

My girls have their own style. I personally have a hard time with some of the fashion options available to them. I cringe at the thought of paying more for jeans with rips and tears and holes than one would pay for an intact pair. They call them distressed jeans. That is because it causes parents great distress to pay nearly a hundred bucks for something our own mothers would sew patches on. After decreeing they would only be worn for yard work. I remember having to wear Sears Toughskins as a young kid 'cause you couldn't rip a hole in them if you tried. I know. I tried.

Now that I have matured - that is code for almost as old as my much older sister - I have found a sort of personal style. Okay, style may be pushing it. Anyhoo, I lean more towards a comfortable tailored look. Kind of a preppy meets logger. I still am the poster child for What Not to Wear while in the confines of my own confines, but I have learned to be more presentable when out in public. Which means I am totally bereft of any fashion sense. 'Cause in order to be fashionable, I would have to wear something unwearable....Just saying.

Lions, Tigers and Bears, OH MY!!!

This is a re-run...mostly. We had more bear visitors this week, hence the inspiration (I use that term quite loosely). Anyhoo, we have enjoyed watching our bear friends roll down the hill and then run back up to do it again. And again!

I have never been a fan of garbage. My least favorite chore growing up was taking out the garbage. On the days it was my turn, the garbage was always piled up to the top of the can, requiring me to squash it down to make room for one more bag. I grew up in the South, so with the heat, the large outside can served as a fermentation unit for its contents. It was gross.

Now I have children and a husband that do garbage duty. Since we live out in the country, we have to haul our garbage to the dump. I’m really sad I don’t have that chore....NOT! We have this large plastic bin with a lid that protects our pungent gift to the landfill from varmits ( that is a southern term for raccoons, unwelcome cats, and any other furry scavengers) until the days we haul it away. We smugly thought we had out-duped any predator that might want our discarded scraps with our oh-so-ingenious plastic bin idea.

Boy were we wrong. As I said we live in the country. We live on a mountain at the end of the Blue Ridge. In the country. Bear country. Yep, this morning I met what I am sure is a relative of Smokey The. He had figured out how to open our tightly secured bin, and was pawing through our left-overs. My dog was absolutely no help....he took one look at the bear and decided his services were much more effective from INSIDE the house. My dog, Shiloh, even gave up his potty opportunity in order to bark at the bear. From the safety of my kitchen. In fact, I have never seen a dog run inside so fast. I feel so safe. But, I digress.

Anyhoo, back to the bear. He just sat there feasting on a bag of discarded jelly beans. I'm with him, if I had to choose between last night's chicken carcass, some mystery meat long forgotten in the freezer, four days of coffee grounds or the jelly beans, I’d be right with him..... picking out the orange ones. I couldn't quite tell which ones he liked best, but it was apparent he didn't mind they were from at least two Easters ago.

Of course Smokey The decided his snack-time was over about the time we dug out a camera. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a working camera at 6:30 in the morning? And, as if the stress of digging through a hall closet determined to spill every useless item on my head while looking for a camera determined to not resurface until well after the bear has gone into hibernation isn't enough, did I mention Shiloh was barking the entire time? Of course, the minute said bear ambled down the hill disappearing out of sight, John's brain started to function and reminded him the cell phone in his hand was actually capable of taking photos. sigh.

We have decided to alter our garbage storage from now on. I have mixed feelings. I love watching these seemingly cuddly bundles of playful fur. But, they do scare the poo out of my beloved Shiloh. And they do have teeth. Lots of teeth. Just saying...

Do You Know Me?

Do you know me? You know what I am willing to share. You know of me. You know little snippets carefully edited leaving shreds and shards of truth to be discarded. You can deduce and decide and interpret based on what I present. I am all of the things you believe, and none of them.

I am strong when my strength is needed to carry another towards victory. I am weak when my demons and fears devour that strength. I am joyful and joyous at this exquisite world filled with beauty and light and life. I am immersed in sadness so profound it clings to me like a viscous shroud. I am angered at injustice and unfairness. I am soothed by seemingly insignificant acts of kindness.

I am a child seeing and tasting and experiencing life without the cynicism of advanced age. I am an old crone bitter and jaded. I am an eager teenager yearning for acceptance and love. I am a wise adult battle-worn with my mistakes and trials held high as hard won trophies. I am an infant needing to be held and cuddled. I am a petulant prepubescent wanting to be left alone.

I am fastidiously sloppy. I am genuinely insincere. I am acutely dull. I am clearly misunderstood. I am comparatively unique. I am a happy pessimist. I am hopelessly optimistic. I am terribly nice. I am tragically amusing. I am a conservative liberal.

I am witty and wry. I am corny and silly. I am serious and studious. I am laid back and high maintenance. I am introspective and shallow. I am curious and apathetic. I am flippant and sincere. I am sarcastic and literal. I am empathetic and unfeeling.

I hurt. I feel. I sob. I yell. I ache. I curse. I needle. I sneer. I erupt. I falter. I sigh.

I giggle. I sing. I jump. I dance. I heal. I understand. I support. I hug. I soothe. I love.

I am human. I am me.

The Rest of the Story

I have read endless laments on email and Facebook about children returning to school and their mothers left grieving and wistful. I, too, wrote of Ashley's first day back to college. My younger daughter is attending academic pre-season sessions in preparation for the start of high school in two weeks (family members will please resist making comments about my age). I do realize am less sentimental than, well..... most human beings, but I have been known to shed a tear or two regarding life's passages. It's just that, um......see....okay, I have to come clean. Deep breath. Here goes......I cry out of absolute unadulterated joy at having MY HOUSE BACK!! There. I feel better.

I love the start of school. Gone are the endless days with interminable hours left for me to fill with entertainment and meals. No longer do I have to hear that nerve shattering, fingernails-on-the-blackboard whine of "I'm boooorrrrreeeddddd". I can eat what I want for lunch without a care in the world about nutrition, or sugar content or reports to children's services. I can watch hours of HGTV and Food Network and (shhhh, don't tell) The View. I can read an entire book without having to give a symposium on the plot or list of characters or how it has affected me.

I know. I have flunked Mommyhood 101. I am not supposed to like the fact that my little chickies have flown the coop. I am not supposed to giggle with unabashed glee as the car pulls out of the drive and I am left with the sounds of silence. I am supposed to weep and rend clothing and immerse myself in PTA, or PTO or whatever they call those insomnia curing gatherings designed to fill the void of that much discussed and cussed empty nest. I am supposed to become a room Mommy and bring 'Nilla Wafers and Kool-Aid on cue. Hmmm. Wonder if they still serve Kool-Aid in high school?I did love the grape kind. Yum. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I just cannot bring myself to, well, BRING myself to these events.

I love my girls. I am their biggest cheerleader. I am unbelievably proud of them. I enjoy spending time with them. It's just that I have already GRADUATED from high school/college and have been there, done that with sleep overs and shopping trips and make-up and school dances. I don't speak their language anymore, and have no clue about most of their music. I don't get verklempt about the new Twilight movie or orgasmic about the Jonas Brothers. I don't get spending more money for torn up/ripped up jeans than one would pay for a pair with the knees still intact.


My point to all of this drivel is that while I adore my chilluns', I love my time equally. I like quiet. And quiet is hard to come by in this house. Even without the girls here today it wasn't as quiet as I would have liked. 'Cause it turns out that Shiloh AND Spike snore. Loudly. I had no idea cats snored.........Anyhoo, when I have the opportunity to exist in a world absent of Delia's catalogs and ranch dressing, even if for a few hours, I appreciate my girls more. Just saying..

First Day of School

I remember vividly Ashley's first day of school. She looked precious with her crisp plaid dress and perfectly tied navy grosgrain bow. She had picked out her school supplies carefully and with great excitement. She was bright and eager as she skipped down the hall to meet new friends. That day was seventeen years ago. And a lifetime.

Today Ashley returns to college. This is not her first experience with college. Like her Mom, Ashley had to figure out her life a bit before deciding on a long term career goal. Ashley has not had an easy time since graduation from high school. She has earned a lifetime membership in the School of Hard Knocks Hall of Fame. And somehow, her sweet and joyful spirit remain intact.

Ashley is as eager today as she was all those years ago. And frankly terrified. She worries about fitting in, and being successful. And I am just as nervous as I was watching my five year old baby girl walk into kindergarten. Instead of hoping for a lunch mate, I wish for her a friend to share coffee. I am confident she will find her way to the bathroom and library. This time, I worry about her finding a parking space near her classrooms. I hope her teachers appreciate her journey, and encourage her to shine.

Seventeen years seems like such a long time. Yet I can shut my eyes and picture her marching into her classroom with confidence. I can hear her giggle when she learned her teacher was the mother of one of my classmates. I can smell the brand new boxes of crayons, and the dusty residue of the chalk. I can taste the saltiness of stubborn tears choked back. Seventeen years of triumphs and failures. Of joys and heartbreak. Of hope and despair. Of learning to close one by one each intricate chapter of our lives, and turn the page to a new one.

There will be little fanfare for this first day. No photos of Ashley entering her new school. No balloons or banners or packing boxes or those elusive extra long twin sheets. No cubes posing as appliances, or invitations to mixers. Not this time. This time Ashley is taking with her determination, drive, tenacity, and wisdom. The wisdom of one who knows who she is, and what she wants to do. And I have never been as proud.

A Whole Lot of Nothin'....

I was gonna go to bed without posting anything. 'Cause I just flat couldn't think of anything to say. I know! I will pause whilst my family members close their gaping mouths........Anyhoo, I am blank. Empty. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. You get the picture. sigh.

I have inspiration. I have lots of inspiration. My youngest niece started school today. My older daughter returns to college Monday. My sister-in-law is back from a long sojourn to India. We are in the middle of a national health care debate. We still have troops overseas. Top Chef started a new season....See? There is a lot going on. One would think I would be able to draw from some of this - ANY of this - and write something witty, or clever, or inspirational, or meaningful. One would be sadly mistaken. The best I can do is offer this up as relief from insomnia.

Maybe it is my dinner. Too many carbs in my carbonara. Maybe I am just pooped. I don't know. I do know that I still fear my much older sister, and she depends on this blog to start her day. She is a creature of habit - what can I say? So, Kimmie, this pile of nothingness is for you. I hope maybe tomorrow I can come up with something. Just, well...not saying....

Understanding Each Other

"Try to understand men. If you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and almost always leads to love."
— John Steinbeck

I think it important to understand each other better. In order to do so, one has to understand the time and place and circumstances in which a person was born. For the past 12 years, Beloit College has published a "Mindset List" to "look at the cultural touchstones that shape the lives of students entering college." We are all aware our kids have never dialed a telephone, or typed on a manual typewriter, or known a time before space travel or Internet. The Mindset List gives us further insight into students' cultural awareness. Here is this year's list. Enjoy!

The Beloit College Mindset List for the Class of 2013

Most students entering college this fall as new freshmen were born in 1991

1.For these students, Martha Graham, Pan American Airways, Michael Landon, Dr. Seuss, Miles Davis, The Dallas Times Herald, Gene Roddenberry, and Freddie Mercury have always been dead.
2.Dan Rostenkowski, Jack Kevorkian, and Mike Tyson have always been felons.
3.The Green Giant has always been Shrek, not the big guy picking vegetables.
4.They have never used a card catalog to find a book.
5.Margaret Thatcher has always been a former prime minister.
6.Salsa has always outsold ketchup.
7.Earvin "Magic" Johnson has always been HIV-positive.
8.Tattoos have always been very chic and highly visible.
9.They have been preparing for the arrival of HDTV all their lives.
10.Rap music has always been main stream.

11.Chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream has always been a flavor choice. 12.Someone has always been building something taller than the Willis (née Sears) Tower in Chicago.
13.The KGB has never officially existed.
14.Text has always been hyper.
15.They never saw the “Scud Stud” (but there have always been electromagnetic stud finders.)
16.Babies have always had a Social Security Number.
17.They have never had to “shake down” an oral thermometer.
18.Bungee jumping has always been socially acceptable.
19.They have never understood the meaning of R.S.V.P.

20.American students have always lived anxiously with high-stakes educational testing.
21.Except for the present incumbent, the President has never inhaled.
22.State abbreviations in addresses have never had periods.
23.The European Union has always existed.
24.McDonald's has always been serving Happy Meals in China.
25.Condoms have always been advertised on television.
26.Cable television systems have always offered telephone service and vice versa.
27.Christopher Columbus has always been getting a bad rap.
28.The American health care system has always been in critical condition.
29.Bobby Cox has always managed the Atlanta Braves.
30.Desperate smokers have always been able to turn to Nicoderm skin patches.

31.There has always been a Cartoon Network.
32.The nation’s key economic indicator has always been the Gross Domestic Product (GDP).
33.Their folks could always reach for a Zoloft.
34.They have always been able to read books on an electronic screen.
35.Women have always outnumbered men in college.
36.We have always watched wars, coups, and police arrests unfold on television in real time.
37.Amateur radio operators have never needed to know Morse code.
38.Belarus, Moldova, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Armenia, Latvia, Georgia, Lithuania, and Estonia have always been independent nations.
39.It's always been official: President Zachary Taylor did not die of arsenic poisoning.

40.Madonna’s perspective on Sex has always been well documented.
41.Phil Jackson has always been coaching championship basketball.
42.Ozzy Osbourne has always been coming back.
43.Kevin Costner has always been Dancing with Wolves, especially on cable.
44.There have always been flat screen televisions.
45.They have always eaten Berry Berry Kix.
46.Disney’s Fantasia has always been available on video, and It’s a Wonderful Life has always been on Moscow television.
47.Smokers have never been promoted as an economic force that deserves respect.
48.Elite American colleges have never been able to fix the price of tuition.
49.Nobody has been able to make a deposit in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (BCCI).

50.Everyone has always known what the evening news was before the Evening News came on.
51.Britney Spears has always been heard on classic rock stations.
52.They have never been Saved by the Bell
53.Someone has always been asking: “Was Iraq worth a war?”
54.Most communities have always had a mega-church.
55.Natalie Cole has always been singing with her father.
56.The status of gays in the military has always been a topic of political debate.
57.Elizabeth Taylor has always reeked of White Diamonds.
58.There has always been a Planet Hollywood.
59.For one reason or another, California’s future has always been in doubt.
60.Agent Starling has always feared the Silence of the Lambs.
61.“Womyn” and “waitperson” have always been in the dictionary.
62.Members of Congress have always had to keep their checkbooks balanced since the closing of the House Bank.
63.There has always been a computer in the Oval Office.
64.CDs have never been sold in cardboard packaging.
65.Avon has always been “calling” in a catalog.
66.NATO has always been looking for a role.
67.Two Koreas have always been members of the UN.
68.Official racial classifications in South Africa have always been outlawed.
69.The NBC Today Show has always been seen on weekends.

70.Vice presidents of the United States have always had real power.
71.Conflict in Northern Ireland has always been slowly winding down.
72.Migration of once independent media like radio, TV, videos and compact discs to the computer has never amazed them.
73.Nobody has ever responded to “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
74.Congress could never give itself a mid-term raise.
75.There has always been blue Jell-O.

copyright -Beloit College Mindset List

Why Can't They Just Behave??

For Deb.....

We have all been there. The heavy sighs at a mere suggestion...the scowls....the arguing...the talking back...those LOOKS!!......the answers-to-everything-we-say-no-matter-what....the "I have all the answers and you are a freaking idiot" attitude. sigh. I know! Parents these days can be really difficult to handle!

Yup, I said parents. My parents taught me to listen to those in authority. To listen to doctors. To follow directions. To take the "yucky medicine" even when it tastes bad, or is a pain to remember, or -insert excuse du jour. My parents insisted we follow up with due diligence every ache, pain, or anomaly with a medical professional. And, they never once told us our friends, acquaintances, folks on the street, receptionist at the vet, or soap opera characters counted as medical professionals.

What in the heck happens to parents after a certain age? Are they just so pooped out from raising kids they can no longer process anything rationally? And, add in the deafness, blindness and other sensory deficits that come with ageing along with the surliness and "the world has crapped on me" attitude, and you are left with what a dear friend said so well - a Helen Keller type existence without the sense of altruism. I liken it to a geriatric version of the Seven Dwarfs - Grumpy, Grumbly, Dribbly, Drooly, Snarly, Snoozy, and Woozy. Oy! By the by, said friend and I have a pact that when one of us gets to this point, the other must step in and relieve us and humanity from our misery.

And before you think I do not love my parents, you are sadly mistaken. As Tina Turner said, "What's Love Got To Do With It?" I saw my own parents dealing with an increasingly difficult grandfather. He regulated the temperature for the entire house based on his comfort level. If he felt cold, the heat was on. In July. In Florida. He wouldn't drink enough water. He insisted on large glasses of orange juice in spite of being diabetic. He could be maddening! He was still my Dad's father. And we all loved him. My grandmother decided what she could and could not eat with cardiovascular disease and atherosclerosis. She could not have shrimp (too high in cholesterol) but insisted on Bojangles fried chicken at least twice a week. She would hand out a list of food "dos" and "don'ts", but continued to smoke four packs of cigarettes daily. While on oxygen. I kid you not. But, she was my grandmother, and my parents went out of their way to accommodate her.

I would do anything for my parents. As would John, or any of our friends who find themselves "of an age". We know our parents have changed a gazillion diapers, cleaned up a bazillion cuts and scrapes, wiped countless snotty or bloody noses, wiped our brow, and said "there, there". Our parents have driven the equivalent distance from the Earth to the Sun to ferry us to piano lessons, and dance lessons, and scouts, and football games and birthday parties. Our parents have given and given and given. And now it is our turn. I understand this concept. I embrace this concept with honor and love.

So how do we balance the love and respect we have for those who have given their hearts and souls so we could be.....well, the "we" we are, with the need to guide and direct them as their ability to make sound decisions decrease? How do we show them they are loved in the middle of wanting to box their ears? How do we bridge that ever decreasing gulf between child and caregiver, knowing sooner rather than later the roles will shift completely? Just as there is no instruction manual for raising children, there is no manual or guide for raising parents.

Somehow you just muddle through. You try to avoid edicts - the "you need tos". You try to slip in a subtle (or not so subtle) reference to a friend of theirs...."So and so tells me she/he has discovered that taking his/her blood pressure medicine has decreased his/her headaches and blurred vision". You sometimes resort to reverse psychology. Hey, they did it to us, so all is fair....And sometimes, you just decide it isn't worth the battle. That sometimes we have to back off and let them live. And sometimes, we have to back off knowing they will die. 'Cause in the end, dealing with the fear of no longer having these wonderful, bright, loving, caring, folks that nurtured, and sculpted, and molded us into what they hoped would be masterpieces born out of love, is the hardest part. Just saying...

Excuse Me!

When I was young, I was taught to say "excuse me" before walking in front of someone. Note the before. My Mom and Dad never once said, "AFTER you plow into someone, THEN say excuse me." Their method of teaching was apparently avant-garde. An enigma. Alien to human life forms. Because I, along with my siblings, was apparently the only one to be taught this way. sigh.

Ashley and I went exploring in some of the smaller towns near our house today. We meandered through shops and cafes. The day would have been perfect if we hadn't somehow been completely invisible to everyone else. For some reason unbeknownst to moi, folks were unable to detect our presence until they had trampled over us. Then, as we were left examining our extremities for signs of permanent injury, the tramplers would toss a casual "excuse me" over their shoulder. What the heck?

I am not a small person by any stretch of the imagination. Except at Ryan's tonight. And there I felt like a freaking Barbie doll in comparison. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I am not hard to miss. Even if I could somehow slip by undetected visually, my size 10 boat feet would definitely pose a logistical issue. I am aware of my girth. I am aware of my lack of vision. Because I am sight impaired, I try extremely hard to be aware of my surroundings. I work diligently to avoid inadvertent collisions with folks. I frankly have no idea why I bother. I learned today that most folks do not care one teensy weensy bit who they run slap over to get to their destination.

It got so bad, Ashley and I got the giggles at one point. Serious giggles. With much spewing and a snort or two. I guess it was a bit of hysterical laughter. A release to keep from sitting in the corner crying at the lack of human kindness and basic respect. Because after this happens over and over, one starts to question.....well, everything. Is it what I wore? Did my deodorant give out? Do I look like an easy target? How in the world did I tick off a complete stranger so much?

I really don't think it is personal. And there lies the problem. We have stopped seeing each other as fellow human beings. With feelings. And, well...feeling. We see through other folks instead of seeing them. We frankly do not care about each other. We have become so hurried and rushed and important and insulated and isolated we can no longer feel empathy. Or a basic care and concern.

One time today I fought back a bit. I was sitting on a bench holding multiple boxes along with mine and Ashley's purses. The bench was situated in a wide aisle. In front of me was a little less than a foot of clearance. Behind me, the aisle had over four feet of clearance. A woman wheeling a suitcase (I kid you not) decided to squeeze her less than petite frame (think Barney - as in the dinosaur) whilst WHEELING THE SUITCASE in front of me. With less than a foot clearance. Much less when you factored in my previously discussed size 10 feet! As the front wheels started over my feet, she scowled at me and spat out "excuse me." I then said, " I am sorry Ma'am, but you are not excused. There is no excuse for you to attempt this when there is much more space the other way."

I'll bet you are thinking what I said made a difference. That the woman realized the error of her ways, and apologized. That she was horrified and mortified at her insensitivity. What I said did indeed make an impact. Because before I knew it, the second set of wheels impacted on my feet. Right over the tops of them. And then she said......wait for it......."Bitch". I kid you not. Yes, I apparently offended HER! I was left with little choice. I had been taught the right way. I knew I had to turn the other cheek. To take the high road. To be the better person. So, I simply responded "excuse me." Just saying.......

Heart of the Home

We have all heard the kitchen is the heart of the home. And, in my family, this is true. I started thinking more of this concept as I was simultaneously cooking and watching HGTV and The Food Network. John's newest PhD student and family have just arrived in Virginia with a 26 foot moving van, two children, assorted anxious family members and great hopes and dreams for a bright future. My way of welcoming them, and making (I hope) their day run a bit smoother, is to bring food. Food prepared in the heart of my home, and taken with love to the heart of their new home.

As I was preparing the various dishes, I couldn't help but notice the difference in my kitchen and those shown on television. I have a nice kitchen. And it is functional. I don't have granite counter tops, or a 6 burner gas range with grill. I have just enough cabinets, and one lazy Susan - or, as Lauren calls it, a spinning Lucy - but I don't have warming drawers or glass racks or an appliance garage. Heck, I don't have a car garage! But, I digress. Anyhoo, my kitchen is a one butt kitchen.....and my one butt is about all it can fit comfortably. It does have a really large island and the apparently requisite stainless steel appliances. It doesn't have bells, whistles, or any WOW! factor.

What my kitchen does have is a soul. I had many great kitchens to emulate. My first memories are of the smells in my great-grandmother's kitchen. Mama Jones' home seemed always to smell of something wonderful baking or simmering in her kitchen. My Gran's kitchen was always busy. Gran cooked for family, friends, neighbors and strangers. Neither of these women had gourmet kitchens. Their kitchens lacked wine fridges, and roasting ovens,and built-ins, and pendant lights. Their kitchens had utilitarian floors, not slate or hard wood.

One of the most ridiculous things I have heard on television, is when recipients of a grand kitchen dare to say, "I guess I will have to learn to cook now." HUH? Are you kidding me? These are not kitchens intended to provide the life force of a home. I think of the waste. The whole concept of creating a kitchen just for "show" is lost on me.I think maybe Pottery Barn should come up with a grown-up version of a play kitchen - one that looks pretty, but without working appliances. In this world of take-out and dining out and keeping up with the Jones', our homes are suffering from a kind of coronary disease.

I think of what my Gran and Mama Jones and others in my life could have created with such excess. And then I realize they would be completely out of place in a magazine perfect kitchen. Their kitchens were made for use. Lots of use. They expressed their love in every morsel they created. When you broke bread with them, you were sharing so much more than mere nutritional sustenance. You were sharing a part of their soul. Just saying...

Tightening the Belt

Times are tough. The economic crisis has hit all of us in some form or another. And, while John and I are eternally grateful he is employed, even institutions of higher learning are not immune from feeling the pinch. John has been awarded raises every year he has been at GMU. Unfortunately, the State of Virginia hasn't had the money to actually pay those raises. Some of the options discussed for further reductions in spending include lay-offs and pay cuts. I just hope we can agree that failing to pay a raise or two equals a pay cut and leave it at that. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I got to thinking about the whole situation, and I decided to share my own thoughts on some of the actual money saving tips being shared over the Internet. Okay, I realize most of these are frankly not helpful at all except as inspiration for my latest rantings. It is my blog. And if I didn't laugh, I would cry.

Forgo Luxury Items

Um, duh! When you are faced with economic hardship, you must learn to do without. I get that. However, there is a limit. When toilet paper becomes a luxury item, life has ended as I know it. There is great fluctuation in price from the cost-cutting, butt cheek chafing, splintery, wood chip filled one ply, and super-soft, doubled rolled, quilted, tufted, aloe infused upscale brands. Think 1000 count Egyptian cotton vs. sandpaper. Why is it that you have to endure splinters when you are poor? The difference in price is astonishing! Unless you factor in antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids... I am all for giving up my yacht, country club membership and laser hair removal treatments in order to have decent toilet paper.

Eat In, Not Out

Here is a no-brainer. I have scoured the Internet for tips and they all tell me this piece of non-information apparently written by CAPTAIN OBVIOUS! DUH! Can someone, somewhere also then tell me how to keep my very fragile hold on sanity in the meantime? I mean, if I have to concoct one more freaking culinary masterpiece out of a can of beans and a few packets of left over taco sauce, I may just scream. Sometimes a takeout meal or dinner at a restaurant is all that keeps me from rocking in the fetal position in the corner. I will give up wine, lobster and steak dinners, expensive desserts and vow to never order a starter again. But give up a sanity saving blue plate diner special? No way!

Change Your Appliances to More Energy Efficient Ones

Here again is a little factoid from those who write these useless...ahem, I mean, useful tips on line. If you are broke, you can hardly afford to go out and re-do you kitchen! K? Enough said.

Have a Family Fun Night at Home

This is code for a)YOU plan a meal that is affordable, nutritious, "fun" and appeals to everyone; b) YOU come up with games or movies that are age appropriate and (again) appealing to everyone all the while enduring comments such as "this is soooo lame"; c) YOU act like cheerleader extolling the value of such an evening as compared to going to a theater, bowling alley, or friends house; and finally d) YOU get get to clean it all up! Now, wasn't that FUN??

Buy Block Cheese Instead of Pre-Shredded

Yup. This tip is going to keep us going financially. Seriously, this tip is all over the Internet. I kid you not. Some folks must spend an absolute FORTUNE on cheese! I mean, changing from shredded to block cheese might just save me ten bucks. A YEAR! sigh.

Sell Your Useless Gold and Diamond Jewelry

Are you kidding me? I have never been so wealthy that I have a ready stash of "useless" fine jewelry. I don't even own much in the way of costume jewelry. I have always felt conspicuous in jewelry. Much like a tree adorned at Christmas. Without the twinkle lights, of course. But, again, I digress. Do you think I could get anything for my Pat Benetar feathered earrings from college? They were HOT!!

Forgo Designer Coffee and Make it at Home

I really worry about folks whose financial stability hinges on the amount of coffee they drink and the location they obtain said coffee from. I love an occasional Grande Skinny Hazelnut Latte -no whip. But I don't drink so many cups of this decadent indulgence that I am forced to choose between my house and my latte. And besides, when did coffee move from the life sustaining necessity column to the frivolously indulgent column? Really!

I realize I am a tough customer. What I really want is to keep on going without changing much of anything, and somehow save hundreds of dollars a month in the process. Unless someone has a magic wand or genie in the bottle or a winning Lotto ticket to share with me, I realize this ain't gonna happen. And before someone out there with less cynicism and more fuzzy wuzzy in them than I can muster at the moment sees fit to remind me, I am grateful for what I have. I know of MANY who are facing much tougher hardships everyday. I have a house. I haven't had to face the prospect of foreclosure. I have plenty of food. And I have a family that greets yet another tuna dish with a smile. Just saying....

Those Were The Days......

Some of my old friends gather once a month for lunch in my home town. I have been a few times; my sister more often. Most of us have reconnected by way of Facebook. I have had a blast reconnecting with ghosts of my distant youth. It has been fun seeing how each of us has aged. It has been more fun to see those that have fought the aging process with a vengeance. The social groups and cliques that seemed to define us thirty years ago are no more. The lines of division are as blurred as our bi-focaled vision. High school and its drama and angst seem almost foreign now.

I wasn’t ugly way back when by any means, but I definitely suffered from fashionista challengus. That is Latin for a complete dork in the wardrobe department. My yearbook picture in the tenth grade shows a shag hair-styled me in overalls and these really odd looking blue plastic upside down framed glasses. I kid you not. I tended to gravitate toward the Garanimals for teens look. Kind of first grader meets Mister Rogers.

I was a band geek and darn proud of it. There I fit in. We wore a uniform, so at least once a week, I was dressed as cool (or not) as everyone else. I excelled in school academically - not so much socially. I had lots of friends -we were a kind of support group for those that couldn’t buy a popular friend. It wasn’t that the popular kids were disgusted by us, they just weren’t able to see us. We existed in a kind of alternative reality to them. They were cool. We were not. In a twisted ironical sense, we became kinda cool by virtue of our absence of coolness.

Because we existed "off the radar," we were able to get away with some really cool things in high school without ever being suspected. The huge fiberglass Bi-Lo cows from an empty grocery store ended up on the roof of our school. Not one person thought to look at us. We climbed the water tower, and put hundreds of "For Sale" signs in our friend’s yards. We became masters of toilet papering houses by employing our paper-route friends. They could throw a roll like no other. We even built a working still. Those were the days........

At the monthly reunion lunches, some of the geekiest of all geeksters meet up and attempt to prove once and for all that good guys finish first. We are lucky. Some of the popular kids show up as well. They have apparently forgotten that we weren’t worthy of their presence nearly 30 years ago. Either that, or all of their fickle cool dude pals have dumped them. We share pictures of our children, husbands, wives and dogs. We give little snippets of our lives, carefully edited to eliminate anything less than stellar. We promise to stay in touch, and "do this more often." We laugh heartily at the dumb things we did in high school.

I come away perplexed as I often am at the impact three or four years out of an entire lifetime can have on a person’s psyche. I didn't enjoy high school so much. I did all the requisite activities.......marching band, prom, powder puff football, clubs, sleep-overs, etc., but I never had the perfect Farrah Fawcett flip, or an add-a-bead necklace. I didn’t know all the words to Heart’s greatest hits, and I didn't "get" the musical genius of Van Halen. I couldn’t pull off the Madonna look if I worked at it for a week solid.

Solid. That was my group of friends. We have become teachers, and nurses, and doctors and academics. We have raised good kids, with good values and a strong sense of family. We were able to rise above and sail beyond what was trendy and cool, and find ourselves. We have taken our experiences all - the good, the bad, the painful and the heartbreaking, and have written our own "rest of the story" that has exceeded all expectations of the jocks, the cheerleaders and the "it" crowd.

I have raised two wonderful kids. One is sparklingly outgoing with personality that exudes light and life and fun and exuberance. The other a proud geek in her own right - scarily smart with a wicked sense of humor and loyal to the core. They both are inundated with good friends. They make no apologies for what they stand for and who they are. They are both equally accepting and tolerant in a world that seems less and less accepting and tolerant. My kids aren’t popular in the "Hollywood" or "made for TV" version of reality. They don’t own the trendiest clothes, or have the latest hair styles. My oldest drives a white Saturn - no expensive SUV or sports cars here. What they are is everything I wanted to be - loving, giving, accepting and kind. Maybe one day, that concept will be popular.........

Lots and Locks of Love.... Part Deux

The photographic evidence!!




Hair today, gone tomorrow...



Officer, I really didn't do it!



Note the look on Lauren's face...

Tracey was very kind

Here goes!!

Wow!!

All smiles, and very proud of herself!!

The new "do" takes shape

Lauren with 12 inches gone, but with her beautiful spirit intact!

Lots and Locks of Love

Today my Lauren is donating nearly a foot of her hair to Locks of Love. Four years ago, my Dad was diagnosed with a recurrence of colon cancer. He had undergone surgery six years prior to that to remove the first tumor. This time, it came back with a vengeance. Donating her hair is a tangible way for Lauren to honor her Papa, and recognize what he has endured.

Lauren was quite young when Dad's battle against cancer began. She and my Dad shared a love for and a teacher of the pipe organ. Dad thought she was witty and sweet; she thought he was nothing short of wonderful. Lauren struggled to find a way to deal with her emotions, and to help the greater cause. She decided to grow her hair to the length required for a donation to Locks of Love. Locks of Love provides real human hair for hairpieces and wigs for those who lose their hair through the treatment of cancer.

Lauren's hair does not grow fast. And it is baby fine and stick straight. The growing out process has taken quite some time, and a great deal of patience. There have been times when she has thrown her hand up in defeat and declared the whole process ridiculous. But then she realizes the impact her gift could have on another person; particularly a child.

Lauren's Aunt Mona is battling breast cancer as well. Lauren's determination only grew with Mona's diagnosis. The effects of chemotherapy and radiation continues to be one of the cruelest blows a woman can endure - in fighting a disease that involves a part of what defines us as female, many women have to then suffer losing their hair as well. Lauren wanted to be a part of restoring a sense of normalcy to someone. And so she continued on with growing her hair.

Lauren's hair now cascades down her back in a lush curtain of sable silk. In a few hours, it will be shorter by a foot. Twelve inches. No doubt there will be tears shed; tears shed for her Papa, Aunt Mona, her English teacher, dear friends at church, and countless others who have lived through this hideous curse of the worst kind. She will mourn the loss of her hair as well. But, knowing Lauren, that mourning will be kept quiet. She will not lament publicly her loss. Because she knows hers is but a fleeting glimpse at what others live with every day. Just saying...

And That's The Way It Was.....

Remember when Walter Cronkite ended the evening news with his famous tag line "and that's the way it is"? He was the epitome of a classic correspondent and anchor. He was there when the Cold War began...and ended. He brought us the first images of man on the Moon. He with real emotion broke the news of John F. Kennedy's assassination. When he gave us "breaking news" we stopped. And listened.

News is no longer what it once was. The news shows more resemble 24 hour reality shows. While Oprah denounced the genre of salacious talk-smack shows rife with in-your-face confrontational "issues", the television "news" networks embraced the style. Because they are labeled as news shows, a tacit credibility is given where none is deserved. Oh, there are individual exceptions to the rule, but they are buried in the quagmire of a publicly endorsed and embraced fertilization program. That would be the spreading of manure, folks.

As long as the public accepts the 24 hour news outlets for what the truly are; 24 hour entertainment for those for whom prime time has become too safe and sane, then we may be able to rise above the fray and keeps things in perspective. I love to be entertained. I love the use of pertinent social issues and current events to show our vulnerabilities. I enjoy a healthy belly laugh aimed at those who take themselves way too seriously. I do fear, however, that we have gone too far. I love Jon Stewart and think him a comic genius. There are many folks that actually use his show to replace the "real" news. This is a dangerous practice. One has to have the knowledge base to truly "get" what he is poking fun at. Without watching or reading the actual news stories, one is missing a huge piece of the puzzle.

Thank goodness for print news. The writer has to use his written word to convey all the emotion the on air "personalities" shriek and scream at us ad nauseam. Instead of yelling over someone or patronizing a guest, the writer is left open and exposed to critique and verification. The news stations have become nothing short of tabloid news outlets; the National Enquirer disguised as a sleek television production. And some of the anchors are no better than those that write of alien abductions and Elvis sightings.

I don't love this era of sound bites and play by play news. I don't love the continuous crawl under every single broadcast. I am cool with news once a day. Or not....I think we have so inundated our society with so called news, we have turned ourselves into a jaded, cynical, unfeeling nation incapable of being shocked or awed or surprised. Tell me what is good about that? We are interrupted so many times with "breaking news", we no longer believe it to be true. We are more often annoyed at the inconvenience of our regularly scheduled programming being preempted.

I am a blogger.Duh.Therefore and ergo and so it would seem, I can then be a bit critical of this new medium as well. I think blogs are great. They are, however, often brought to you by folks like moi who have not one wits worth of expertise on most of the subjects we write about. Blogs are great forums for STARTING a discussion, or to invite folks to read more on a given subject. They should never be treated as the definitive word on, well.......anything.

I don't twit, tweet, or Twitter. I know a twit or too, and they appear in great numbers on most of the news outlets. But I digress. I simply don't get it. I think Twitter adds to the apparently insatiable need for instant, just add water news. Or non-news...

The point in this rather lengthy diatribe is that we have lost what is really news. When we make news out of issues and situations and events where news doesn't exist, we leave ourselves vulnerable to complete and total desensitisation. And what follows is a harsh, uncaring, cynical world incapable of recognizing what is important to us all. Just saying....

Bad Words

Republican. Democrat. Socialist. Conservative. Liberal. Each of these words have been used with all of the spite and venom and vitriol and disgust as any traditional "four letter" word. Which one do you spit out with all the anger one would reserve for "cursing" someone? Because the "honors" don't fall to any one party or group. We have become personal. We like to inflict pain. And the political arena has become the venue of choice. Wow! What a country.

When did this happen? When did the lines between rational, intelligent discourse and a Jerry Springer-esque jive fest become so blurred? When did we ALL get so self righteous? And narrow? And tunneled? When did the idea of compromise become so frightening we can no longer even THINK of the possibility? When did any disagreement bring with it an accusation of being somehow less than American?

I have frankly had enough. I started my young fledgling political awareness as a republican. A Reagan republican. I believed in the ideals he seemed to stand for. I liked that he seemed to be larger than life.....an American's American. I watched as tears streamed down his face as I along with other college students performed for him the night before his inauguration at the Ellipse. I saw him beaming as we sang with him the National Anthem at the Kennedy Center.

Since then, the Republican party has left me behind. I can no longer support their platform. I do not hate "them". I simply and respectfully disagree with the ideals they support. I have become more liberal as I age. Perhaps it is the line of work I found myself in. Perhaps it is the rigidness I perceive my former party to adhere to. Perhaps it is my very real and sincere belief that we are a country of immigrants and that we need not forget that by becoming isolationists. I have never liked the idea of "I got mine, you get yours." Perhaps it is because I have a real problem with a political party defining "appropriate" morals. And yes, I do concede that all republicans are not rigid, or isolationists. I know many who are the most giving of all. I am talking of the broader party line, not individuals.

And there lies my dilemma. And this dilemma belongs to all of us. I have dear friends with whom political discourse simply cannot occur because it gets personal. Very personal. As if we have somehow become completely intolerant of those with an opposing view. Before all republicans denounce me as one of "those" democrats, I am not a democrat either. I have a hard time accepting their party line as well. In fact, my "party" doesn't exist. And folks, party is a completely inappropriate term to describe the riotousness and mean-spiritedness of most political organizations in this country.

I am dumbfounded by those that e-mail and spread rumors they have made NO effort to authenticate. On both sides. Or all sides. The latest "news"/rumours about the health care bill are frightening at best. Is our current system broken? Yes! Does Obama and his team have all the answers? No! But it is a start. My husband has lived overseas for most of his adult life and is a dual citizen of Australia and the United States. All of the countries in which he has resided have some form of socialized medicine. Are there problems? Sure. But the lies and distortions shown on e-mail and television make it difficult for someone to form an intelligent opinion. I know personally a surgeon in Denmark. I was treated for a sudden illness in Scotland. I observed emergency care in Australia. None of what I know or have observed comes close to the horror stories bandied about recklessly. And I have personally endured some pretty horrific medical coverage experiences on this side of the pond.

I am a retired nurse. I advocate health care coverage for all human beings. Period. I don't frankly care what color, creed, nationality,sexual orientation or political party they represent. "They" and "we" are all precious human beings. We all deserve to be healthy. Period. When we become a nation of "us" versus "them" we start a dangerous precedent. Obama is at least trying to start the discussion. He is giving us a place to begin. Do I agree one hundred percent with every detail of the plan?Are you kidding me? I don't agree one hundred percent of the time with much of anything. But we cannot afford to go much longer by simply placing Band Aids on an arterial laceration. It is a political plan. Yes. Who would you rather make these decisions? This is the very foundation of how our country works. Majority rules in a democratic process to provide for its constituency.

I love this country. I am no more or less patriotic than those who declare "us" different or flawed or less Godly than "they" wish. I can see the best of many countries and governments. I can see their flaws as well. We are not a perfect Union despite our best efforts. "We" are not better than "them". We are different. We are a country of diverse heritages, backgrounds, social classes, thoughts, ideas, opinions and beliefs. And there is room for all of us. Just saying.

The Little Things

I have travelled around the globe these past months. I have had life altering experiences. I have seen incredible scenery captured digitally and stored forever in my own memory bank. I have watched the sun rise over the Pacific ocean and extinguish over the Atlantic. I have breathed in the all encompassing arid dustiness of the Outback and watched snow swirling over the Alps. I have heard the boisterous songs of the Hofbrauhaus, and the stirring life rhythms of the Maori. It has been an incredible journey.

It is the little things that have made this journey a life changing adventure, however. Those moments are harder to capture. They don't translate well in a Kodak moment. I still think of my first hot dog in Denmark - it sounds so cheesy, but it is true. After weeks of preparation, and tears and frustration; after leaving my kids and my dog behind; after a brutal journey and a horrendously long layover; that hot dog bridged the two worlds colliding in my psyche. It was a tiny bit of home, but all Danish in style and preparation. Crisp, hot, juicy, and covered with just the right amount of piquant mustard and crispy fried onions and pickles with a hint of sweetness, that hot dog fed my travel weary soul.

One of my favorite things to do in Denmark was to do...... well,.... nothing. We had a great place to do nothing, too. Our flat was a block or so from the Aarhus Bay opening up to the North Sea. Walking paths and thick green grass went on for miles at the water's edge dotted with park benches facing the view. We would go down and watch the sailboats take advantage of the sea breezes. Or we would watch people strolling or jogging by. We would just sit. And watch. It was heavenly.

Coffee. I love coffee. I am an admitted coffee-holic. We had some amazing cups of coffee on our travels. Vienna was lovely and stunning and beautiful - insert mind blowing adjective here. But it is the coffee I will remember most. Vienna does coffee like no other place on the planet. Coffee isn't just a beverage; it is a form of art. Coffee is presented with a flourish on a small silver tray with teensy little dollhouse-sized sugar bowls and cream pitchers. The aroma is decadent, the temperature perfect and the taste sensational. To drink coffee in Vienna is a sensual experience. Australia comes in second in my coffee ranking. Their Flat White is creamy without being sweet or cloying. Just great robust coffee married with the perfect amount of frothy steamed milk. Yum!

Some of the little moments were not so small. At least in the big scheme of things. Skype was a lifeline to home, and often a lifesaver. As simple as it sounds - in the midst of great scenery and adventure, I liked the moments with my kids on Skype - yet, the fact that I could video conference with them from halfway around the world wasn't a small thing at all.

When one of our students had the seizure on our plane, I went to his aid. The scene was rather chaotic and tense as you might expect. I knelt at his head for over an hour waiting for the paramedics to board the plane. I was stressed beyond belief, and after only 2 hours sleep from our all-nighter at the Sydney ER, I was also exhausted. I remember seeing another student praying and meditating in his seat throughout the ordeal. His calm composure and sweet face carried me through. I will always remember his face.

His was not the only kind face in the midst of crisis big and small. Frau Storm in Hamburg rescued us after missing the last train connection back home to Aarhus. The duty manager for the Sydney airport sought us out to make sure we were able to re-join our group after disembarking with our ill student. Some kind faces were found in little moments of joy. Gary "the voice" in Hallstatt made us laugh and helped make an ordinary meal extraordinary. Our Polish friend on the train to Krakow helped us navigate the train station and then giggled the hours away on the train with us. Our translator in Prague worked tirelessly and with an easy smile to bridge the communication gaps between us and John's colleague at Charles University. Countless bus drivers in Australia gave wonderful detailed history lessons and provided much laughter.

We are home from our adventures. We are staying stateside at least for a few months. My house is full again with girls and pets and friends and the life clatter that makes it home. We are busy. Ashley has registered for college and Lauren is involved in volleyball camp. Our friend, and John's colleague from Denmark, comes in a mere four weeks to live with us and teach at John's university. John's new PhD student and his family are moving to Virginia. We have school uniforms to shop for and text books to purchase and meals to cook and errands to run and........and in the midst of it all, I look over to see Lauren stretched out on the couch, bone-weary from her first day of volleyball camp. She has a small smile even in sleep. Ashley is on the love seat trying to get her schedule sorted out for this fall. Her brow is furrowed, but her eyes are bright with excitement. It is the little things that matter. Just saying...

The Diva Does Down Under

Do you remember the television show Designing Women? Julia Sugarbaker was the lead character. She was opinionated, quintessentially southern, and had more than a slight bent towards the dramatic. I know Julia Sugarbaker. Or at least the inspiration for her. My Kimmie. Kim has a southern drawl not often heard outside of Gone With the Wind or a sweeping front portico whilst juleps are being served. She is opinionated. She is brash. And she is nevah, evah, seen without the perfect fashion accessories.

I took this southern bell/diva with us on our trip to Australia and New Zealand. Kimmie had never ventured out of the United States save one emotionally scarring trip to Jamaica. For weeks, she assembled her travel wardrobe. One might think that would include a backpack or sturdy walking shoes or an all weather jacket. One would be terribly mistaken. And one would not understand fully how a diva operates. Kim would nevah sacrifice fashion for the sake of orthopedic health and/or comfort. Where I wore my rubber-bottomed-Velcro-fastening-water-proof-hiking/wading/trekking shoes, Kim donned high-heeled, open toed, leather slides. I kid you not. To her credit, she did not once complain about sore feet or aching legs. She was thrilled about the versatility of these leather slides. They did match nearly everything she took.

No self-respecting southern bred and born gal would go without the perfect hat to shade her delicate complexion from the harsh effects of the sun. And so Kimmie wore a hat. Not a ball cap, or crushable/foldable utilitarian hat. Nope. She found the only girlie straw hat with sweeping brim available in the southern hemisphere. Seriously. It looked like it belonged at the Kentucky Derby at the pre-race brunch. It did look really nice with her faux safari wear. And those damned open toed shoes. Oy.

Kimmie did manage to forgo jeweled ornamentation on this trip. She was not completely unadorned, however. She found a pink and red plaid scarf at the Sydney Swans game that was to feature prominently in her wardrobe for the remainder of the trip. Who knew one could purchase a pink and red plaid TEAM SCARF at an Aussie Rules football game that would meet and/or exceed the expectations of an American DIVA? Who knew? Kim always managed to looked put together on the trip. I looked slept in and schlepped in. sigh.

The one day that I will remember forever with a delightful mix of perplexion, amazement, awe and respect is the day the Diva donned her high heeled open toed shoes to go trekking in the woods and on the beaches of north Auckland. While the rest of our small band of merry makers took water shoes, and wore fast drying clothing and comfortable sweat shirts, Kim sported a denim ensemble topped with that dang plaid scarf tied in the perfect fashionable knot at her neck.

We hiked to a couple of water falls, and then trekked out over towering sand dunes to reach isolated beaches dotted with looming lava formed rock peaks. Kim finally gave up the high heels and went bare-footed. About this time, one of our group detected a narrow path leading up the tallest of the rock fortresses. Kim decided it would be fun to climb the rock. I had to forgo as I decided a blind chick with little depth perception probably had no business trying to hang on to a sheer cliff face. So John and I stayed on the ground and watched as the others made their way along the rocky path slick with ocean spray and moss. John was convinced I needed to brush up on splinting techniques for the broken bones he was positive we would have to treat.

We watched as the three more adventurous/stupidly eager members of our group carefully tip toed up this cliff face. At one point, the path is so steep and so treacherous, there is only a rope hand-hold secured by a couple of bolts into the rock. Kim was undeterred. She kept up with the others and without mussing her hair, or losing that perfect knot in her scarf, she scaled that rock. Soon she was a tiny dot high above us. Her reward for her stupidity......ahem....bravery was a panoramic view of hundreds of miles of the most gorgeous coastline on the planet. I was proud. I was amazed. I was laughing my butt off. 'Cause she still had to get down.

Carefully, and without breaking a sweat, she managed to get off of that rock in one piece. Barefooted. With accessories intact. Julia Sugarbaker aka Kimmie the Diva had climbed her lava mountain, and lived to tell about it. In great, glorious, sugar-coated detail.

One might think I could be jealous of my sister. Or that I don't respect my sister and her oh so southern ways. One would be wrong. I admire my sister. I love that she is who she is - proudly and without apology. I love that she was willing to take chances and risks and still managed to keep intact what makes her, well....HER. I am still, however, the little sister. It is my job to point out her uniqueness. And, okay...... on occasion poke some fun. Just saying....

Piah - note the tiny person on the beach

Beach at Piah

Kim and the dreaded hand rope

The druid and her trees

Waterfall...duh

A New Best

Hallstatt, Austria has long been what I deemed to be the most beautiful place on this planet. I was taught to believe this from my father. And he knows everything. And I believed him. Hallstatt is truly breathtakingly stunning. It is, however, not the most beautiful place on the planet. Sorry Dad.

Today we rode a ferry boat out to Waiheke Island which lies around 15 nautical miles from Auckland. The ocean is the most exquisite aquamarine blue with the slightest jade tint. Lush islands in more shades of green than I have in my vocabulary arsenal with sheer lava cliffs peek out from pounding surf and sandy beaches. I have found paradise. And I just might not leave it.

Waiheke is the best of Ireland, Scotland, South Africa and vintage Napa Valley. Wineries and olive groves form a patchwork quilt covering most of the open spaces. Tiny beach cottages share the same space as multi million dollar mansions. Sheep, alpacas, and a kaleidoscope of birds coexist in perfect harmony with their human friends. There is a relaxed feel; unhurried and peaceful. A sign reads "slow down, you're here" when you disembark.

John and I shared a bus tour of the island with the rest of our crew. We loved every minute of it, but were able to spend the rest of our time alone exploring this Utopia. We enjoyed a lovely lunch of fresh caught seafood and a glass of cool, clean Savignon Blanc. We strolled down tiny streets and ventured into the few artsy boutiques, kitchy souvenir stands and elegant wine shops. All the while we were surrounded by miles and miles of unspoiled beauty - a deserted beach; a lone tree; a fog shrouded mountain.

Peace. This place has a peace about it not often found in the hurried places we find ourselves. I felt a calm and comfort I have not felt in many days. One can be completely isolated on this island, and yet share the warmth and camaraderie of its inhabitants when ready for company.

I did make it back on the ferry to Auckland albeit with some resistance. I know I will be back to Waiheke and to New Zealand. There is something magical about this place that has made an indelible mark upon my soul. And I will not soon forget it. Just saying...

Far and Away

No, I have not gone off to that elusive blog spot in the sky, or disappeared into the wilds of Australia, or been eaten by a Dingo. Internet has been frightfully expensive and wireless access rather difficult at best to find. At least with a signal strong enough to allow me to actually use the dang thing. So, for those of you waiting patiently and with great anticipation for the next monumental blog post from me, I apologize. For those of you with actual lives, I totally get that you have not even noticed my absence. And I forgive you. I think.

Anyhoo, we are actually in New Zealand now, having just arrived after fourteen glorious days in Australia. We have done the usual "touristy" things one does when they venture to the ends of the earth. We cruised around Sydney Harbour and rode the monorail and visited Chinatown. We attended an Aussie Rules football game and had an exclusive "behind the scenes" tour of the Olympic Stadium. I also was treated to a night in a Sydney Emergency room. As a nurse, I was thrilled to be able to see how Aussies deal with cuts, scrapes, cardiac arrest and other maladies. Right.

I will start this story at the airport. We had completed our rather extensive tour of Sydney and were traveling on to Surfer's Paradise on the Gold Coast, and then on to Brisbane. Checking in with 36 people and bags took us only minutes. We headed towards our gate and readied ourselves for boarding. Some of the students ate very expensive Krispy Kreme donuts ($25 Australian a box), while others opted to wait for the delicious breakfast we would surely have on board. Just as we pulled away from our gate, the pilot came on and told us we would have to return to the gate as someone had checked illegal fireworks in their luggage. Seems to me they could have "discovered" this little factoid prior to this point, but whatever. Anyhoo, after about a thirty minute delay, we began our taxi to the runway. As the plane was turning into position for take-off, one of our students suffered a massive seizure. The plane stopped and we were able to get him stabilized. John and I left with said student and returned to Sydney.

We were not entirely shocked and/or awed by this seizure. We had spent the previous night in the hospital with the same student after he collapsed in his dinner plate. Apparently Miso soup is not his thing... The dinner incident was his first seizure.Ever. The ER staff determined he was more than likely suffering from profound dehydration. His activities certainly pointed to that - especially the 14 mile hike immediately preceding the first "event". He received many liters of IV fluids and deemed safe to travel on to the Gold Coast. Oops! By the by, he is now completely recovered and home safe and sound with his family. John and I were able to get him settled in hospital, contacted his family etc. and made our way to join the rest of the group.

We were treated like royalty by Quantas - I was the only medical person on board at the time of the "incident" - and they got us on the next available flight to Brisbane. We boarded the plane - by now we had been awake for nearly 36 hours - and settled in. The pilot then came on with an announcement that we were being delayed because a child had refused to board the plane, but his luggage ( and his parent's bags) were already stowed. Oy! I was beginning to believe this was a sign I should just stay put in Sydney! After twenty minutes or so, we finally took off. I think. John and I were busy serenading our fellow passengers with a lovely snore duet and did not notice.

I am glad we moved on to the Gold Coast, as it is stunning. I had been before to Surfer's Paradise, but not to Brisbane. Brisbane is beautiful and clean and completely surrounded by water. The river snakes its way through Brisbane, and opens up to a large port. Public parks and green spaces are abundant. We took a river cruise out to where John lived and worked while in Australia, and visited a Koala sanctuary. We got to feed and pet kangaroos, watched a sheep dog demonstration, and held Koalas. We saw Tasmanian Devils, and Wombats and Duck-billed Platypi. John led a walking tour of downtown and we ate at the river at South Bank.

From Brisbane, we flew to Cairns. There we visited a rain forest in Kuranda, saw the Coral Sea and learned about the area's significance in World War II, and saw an aboriginal demonstration. I got sick. Really sick. I am calling my illness the Kanga flu. I have not seen many piggies on this trip, so I have to believe my flu is not the dreaded swine flu. As if that matters when you have to schedule rest breaks between the bed and the bathroom due to extreme fatigue and malaise. So, while the rest of the group went out to the Great Barrier Reef, I stayed in my less than great hotel in my much less than great bed drinking endless cups of tea. Great. The group was treated to quite an underwater show, and I think they all count the Reef as a highlight of the trip. I know I did last year.

I was able to drag myself out of the bed after a day or two, and ventured to the Outback. We took the students to an tiny little village 560 km away from the next town continuing West. We had lunch in a country pub and visited the general store. We more than doubled the population that day. We did get to see Kangaroos in the wild and some great limestone outcroppings. From there we traveled back into the rain forest and treated the kids to a swim in a pristine watering hole at the base of a water fall.

Yesterday, we were up and on the bus at 4 AM for our departure to New Zealand. We arrived yesterday afternoon, and only had a few hours of daylight. What we saw was incredible! New Zealand has to be the most beautiful place on earth. Hands down. As this post is now starting to resemble a PhD dissertation, I will leave our journey for now. I will try to post the "rest of the story" as soon as possible. Thanks for all that have inquired about our travels and those that have missed the blog!!

Just Roll With It Baby

Today is finally here! We are going to Australia!! WOOT! I am excited! I am thrilled!! I am pooped. sigh. Life has hit with a vengeance this week. Seriously. But, being resilient and stubborn and frankly obligated to go, we are headed "down under". Our journey to get to start this well.....journey...ahem.. has not been without drama. And before you say all the "life happens", "you aren't given more than you can handle", and life vs. lemons equals a fruity summer drink crap, let me assure you I know. Believe me. I am the Queen of seat of the pants, pulling up by boot straps, keep on plugging and all that jazz.

We have planned this trip for months. As one might do when one takes a rather lengthy sojourn abroad. As John Lennon so aptly put, "life is what happens when you are busy making other plans." And life happened. Cool. I am used to adjustments and tweakage and complete one-eighties. Really. I am a middle child. It is how we are wired. Although I have some serious concerns about said wiring. But I digress.

My Mom was to come to Virginia to house sit, pet sit and kid sit. She is quite the sitter. Dad, being actively treated for cancer, was to stay behind with the support of my brother and some dear friends. And Kimmie's dog. Cool. Unfortunately, Dad's cancer decided it wasn't awful enough, and decided to wreak complete and total havoc. Dad tried his best to hide the fact that he had fever and chills from my Mom, but he totally underestimated the power of Momdom. Moms have a sixth sense. Heck they have a seventh, eighth and ninth sense, but we don't want to unduly alarm the male population, so we don't necessarily let on all of our powers. Anyhoo, Dad could not control the shakes and Mom hauled his butt in to the doctor. Now he sits in complete discomfort at the University Hilton in Augusta, eating completely inedible and undefinable food whilst getting the medicinal equivalent of the atomic bomb through his veins.

That left us with a cat and a dog to fend for themselves for three weeks, a daughter not wishing to stay alone for that length of time, and my young nephew. My money was on the pets to figure out a way to make it. Sooooo, turns out that most ( Okay ALL - in a six state area) pet boarding places are fully booked. Especially the week following July 4th. Who knew? There went plan B-F. We decided to haul the menagerie and Ash to North Augusta. She could then take over the care and feeding of my nephew, and Shiloh could go see his grandmother. I know she is equally thrilled to have him in her house.

This was all decided on Friday. We leave today. Fortunately, Paul was able to meet us in North Carolina Saturday morning, and we made our way with a "sedated" cat ( nice way of saying bombed out of his mind), a neurotic dog, Ashley, my sister (couldn't leave her here, cause she is already freaked out about flying) nineteen suitcases and a partridge in a pear tree. Poor Mom. By the time they all arrive at her house, the cat will have the munchies and Shiloh will need extensive therapy. Add to that it was the 4th of July, and since Shiloh is morbidly afraid of plastic Wal Mart bags, I am going to go out on a limb and guess he will not "enjoy" the fireworks so much.

We are back in Virginia now. We are packed. We have enjoyed many, many Bloody Marys to help soothe nerves. That Vodka was out of date or something. 'Cause it didn't work. We will go ahead, though, knowing plans change. Sometimes at the drop of a hat. And we will once again, roll with it. Just Saying.

The Queen is Coming!!!!

My mother is on her way to Virginia as I speak/write. I love my Mom. I am glad she is coming. She is keeping my nephew while my sister travels "down under" with us. She decided it would be fun to bring him here and hang with my elder daughter. Ashley likes that idea as well. All fine and dandy. Except for one eensy weensy teensy little detail. My mother is the QUEEN of clean. And she is coming to my house. Today. sigh.

I did not get the clean gene. I checked. It is absent from my genetic make-up. Oh sure I know how to get the scunge and grunge and obvious dirt out of my house, but I cannot for the life of me compete with a woman who could eat off of her floors. Literally. Her house would pass the white glove test. Mine would get honorable mention if and only if a tired old grease rag were used. I have tried. I really have. I just cannot mix the right potions or cleaners or solvents together. Or something.

Mom's house is not perfect by any means. She occasionally has a light dusting of, well......dust. I have a freaking dust zoo. Bunnies? Who came up with that concept! Dust bunnies sound so innocent and almost cute. My dust creatures have limbs. And teeth. Oy! I have tried swiffering, and sweeping and puffing and buffing. I think I may need to call the National Parks Service to discuss a more effective way to cull my herd.

I think Mom is partially bionic. Shhhhh!! Don't tell anyone, but she can handle Clorox(tm) with her bare hands!! I know!! You have to be careful around Mom, 'cause she will Clorox(tm) anything in sight!!! We did not curse as children. Oh no!!! Are you kidding me? Mom would threaten to wash our mouths out with soap. Soap pshaw - we knew Clorox(tm) was the weapon of choice in her cleaning arsenal. And we knew she was not afraid to use it.

I am a retired nurse. I know about cleanliness and sterile fields. I worked in surgery for Pete's sake. I can do clean. Or so I thought. Somehow it is different at home. I mop and the dog thinks it is wonderful that I made him a nice shiny clean space to drool, lick, scratch....well you get the picture. And let us not forget how well dog hair sticks to damp surfaces. Icky. I clean my kitchen. To a glorious shine. And then John happens. John is brilliant. He is kind. He is all the things the Boy Scouts want a man to be. Except the cleanliness thing. John flunked that one. I have decided a clean kitchen pales in comparison to a good man. So sue me.

I try to clean and declutter. Again, John kinda gets in the way of that particular chore. He is a pack rat. Plain and simple. I had some old Christmas ornaments gathered together to take to Goodwill. I came home and the basket was empty. Hooray! John took them!! I have extra room! This is great! This is awesome!! Well, maybe. Turns out, whilst putting away some things in John's office, my sister came across the items slated for Goodwill. Stashed in a drawer. She laughed so hard I thought she would rupture her spleen. I was not nearly as amused. Poor slob - John is a sentimental one. sigh.

I will spend the rest of the day attempting to hermetically seal my house. I will Kaboom(tm) toilets - by the by, have you ever noticed how toilet cleaners sound suspiciously like explosive materials? But I digress. Anyhoo, I will tackle the grout and baseboards and fan blades and......who am I kidding? I will sweep, dust, and use some rather strong scent that smells clean. Call it creating an illusion of clean. That I can do. And I will graciously and humbly relinquish any hope of ever being able to clean as well as my Mom. Just saying.

Ease On Down The Road

I consider myself a pretty savvy traveler. I have had the fortune to travel a great deal both domestically and overseas. I have learned to pack clothing for up to five weeks in a single suitcase, can leap through security in a single bound, and can navigate through the maze of an international airport with ease. I am travel chick.

Enter my new sidekick Kim. Kim has done some traveling in her very long life. Okay, most of it was on I-20 between Columbia and Florence, but she has traveled. She has been to California a couple of times, Jamaica, Lake Tahoe, and New York City. Oh, and to my house in Virginia. I think that covers it. Anyhoo, she is about to embark on a trip of a lifetime. With moi. And thirty or so college students. She is joining John and me on our trip to Australia and New Zealand! I know!! Right? This is exciting! This is great!!! OMG! Who am I kidding? This is painful. sigh.

I love my much older sister more than you can even imagine. I am just not sure I love her enough to survive a 14 hour plane ride on top of a 4 hour plane ride. Jeez! And this after TWO jet crashes in recent weeks. Add to that a rather amusing, but perhaps untimely photo posted on Facebook of a friend of ours hanging out of the cockpit window of the plane he pilots. A commercial plane. She is fine, she says. She is not nervous, she says. She is in dire need of a Valium salt lick, I says. Her big old brown doe eyes well up at the mere thought of something going wrong on this trip. She has no cuticles left. She has resorted to the age-old and well documented shoe buying therapy strategy. This is gonna be a long trip.

Once we get there, I know we will have a blast. I cannot wait to see her hold a koala, or feed an kangaroo. I will have someone to giggle with when John lapses into his best (and therefore worst) Crocodile Dundee accent. She will get to see the Sydney Opera House, and the Great Barrier Reef and the Auckland Tower. We will eat Kiwi, and Vegemite. Okay, I personally have absolutely no plans to place even a single morsel of that vile disgusting goo called Vegemite in my mouth, but I have managed to convince my much older and yet quite gullible sister that it is a delicacy not to be missed. Shhhh!! Don't tell! Photographic evidence will be posted on a future blog.

I am thrilled Kim is coming. I am just not enjoying the travel preparations so much. She is still one of those people who insist on bringing those little bitty eensy weensy travel tubes and bottles on an extended trip. She now has more than enough lotions and potions and creams and gels to fill a super Wal Mart. All in frustrating doses of more than one, but irritatingly less than two uses. And might I add that it would take up much less room to have...I don't know...two or three BOTTLES of this....CRAP.....ahem, I mean these beauty products versus hundreds and hundreds of vials and packets?

AND! What possesses people to bring along on a trip stuff they would never, ever, in a million years use in their "real" life? No, Kim, I really don't think you need a prostate health vitamin, Mr. Bubble, Dippity-Do, or that very expensive cream designed to reduce the "appearance" of cellulite. You are only gone three weeks. Her suitcase looks like it belongs to a traveling salesman or magician. And then there are the shoes.

How many shoes does one need on a three week trip overseas? Shoes are heavy and bulky and might I say it again....they go on your feet. Your feet!! She may be naked due to the added weight from her travel sized gems and all the dang SHOES, but her feet will be quite stylish. As if. Maybe Kim is channeling her inner Ginger. In Gilligan's Island those folks were amazingly prepared for just about any eventuality due to the packing forethought of Ginger and Mrs. Thurston Howell III. Okay, go ahead. You know you want to. She is traveling with "the professor and Mary Ann"........ Original. Really.

Anyhoo, I am ready to go already. I am through with the endless trips to buy sh...stuff for this journey. I would like to be past the dreaded luggage scale. And we will have fun. I know we will. Just saying.

I Shopped...and I Dropped

I went shopping today. I do realize that is neither exciting, nor particularly intriguing in and of itself. The fact that I loathe, abhor, despise and detest shopping is probably not a tidbit most of you are aware of. Therefore and ergo and so it would seem, you would have no reason whatsoever to be sympathetic with my plight. sigh. But shop I did, and I have the battle scars as evidence.

I spent this day of retail torture, ahem...therapy with my much older sister. She was looking for a few things to take to Australia, and I was looking for a miracle. I had hoped against hope that somehow there existed an outfit that would instantly transform my rather ample figure into a hip version of Twiggy. Turns out modern technology hasn't yet come to fashion. I did learn that clothes designed to make you look ten pounds thinner instantly are great. Unless you have more like forty to lose. But, I digress.

We went to at least a hundred stores and my much older sister tried on at least a thousand pairs of shoes. I am not a shoe junkie. My sister is the Southern equivalent of Imelda Marcus. She gives new meaning to "ped"o'phile. (get it?.... I crack myself up). Anyhoo, she tried on more shoes than I have owned in my entire lifetime. In my defense, I have had to wear sturdy shoes with Velcro fasteners since my stroke. There ain't much fun in trying yet another shoe intended to keep me from busting my ....head.

Finally, at the last store - of course it was the last, we didn't need to go further - she found them. The Holy Grail of shoes!! She was excited. I was baffled. They were wedge heeled black slidey on sandaly things with a twisty thingy in the middle. They were shoes. To wear on feet. I mean, puleeze!! Kim took the shoes - note they were the only pair like them IN THE ENTIRE STORE - and asked how much they were. No sticker, no SKU number, no box, no nothing. And so it began. Six different saleswomen spent the next forty-five minutes trying to identify and assign a price to these shoes. Because they had no number, they decided they could not sell Kimmie the shoes. OY!

I was mesmerized by the entire ordeal. Okay, I was numb from the pavement pounding and could no longer feel my legs. And I could no longer keep my eyes entirely open. So I looked mesmerized. Anyhoo, these women strategized, and huddled, and deliberated over these shoes that turned out were not even on the inventory list. They did not exist! Cool! I suggested they give them to Kim for free since they apparently were not even present. That went over well. They finally decided to assign them a number and sell Kim the shoes. I suggested a 70% savings due to the time spent on these..........SHOES!.....Ahem. Finally the manager said Kim could have 20% off for her trouble. The clerk rolled her eyes at the manager and gave Kim 50% off. Half off! WOW! AWESOME!! Not free, but okay, not bad. Although half off seemed a little steep to me given they were not even technically real!! Just saying.

Sixty-Nine Minutes

Today would have been Matthew's eighth birthday. I decided to re-post this entry in honor of him and his wonderful family.

There is a new show on T.V. called "What Would You Do?" It takes the viewer through different scenarios to see how we as humans react and behave. What would you do if you knew you only had one day left on Earth? That questioned has been bandied about for centuries. Some people automatically think of travel; others time spent with loved ones. I thought again of this question after talking to a friend today. She told me the story of her son's birth some years ago. Her son only lived for 69 minutes.What if you knew you had only sixty-nine minutes?

Sixty-nine minutes is a short period of time. A little over an hour. The time it takes to drive from my home town to Columbia, South Carolina. The time it takes to grocery shop. The time it takes to "do" lunch. A hairdressers appointment. A class in school. A church service. A life time.

What if you knew you only had sixty-nine minutes? Would you cry? Would you sing? Would you be angered? Would you hug and kiss loved ones? Would you say something profound? Offer new insights into life, and love, and loss? I would like to think I would spend it surrounded by my children and husband. I would want belly laughs and terrible jokes. I would struggle for the "right" words. Do I give advice? Do I say goodbye? Godspeed? What if my last words were inane, or coarse, or worse?

This friend's child could not speak. He was a tiny baby, born in love and adoration. He spent his only minutes in the arms of his Mom and Dad; his siblings and grandparents. His mother smelled his sweet breath, and heard his mewling cry. She gazed into his angel face and memorized each feature. He was warm against her chest.

Sixty-nine minutes and a life time. An indelible mark made on the intricate embroidery of her life fabric. A quiet strength born of an anguished joy imprinted forever on her heart. A son. Matthew. Gift of God.

This friend learned a lot about life and love in those fleeting minutes. She learned she had the fortitude of giants, and a capacity for love that has no bounds. She learned of sacrifice and loss. She learned the full meaning of bittersweet. Through loss, she gained insight into herself. She is better having known her son.

What if you only had a day left? Would you try to change the course of history? Would you spend it frivolously? Would you spend it in quiet meditation? What mark would you leave? What legacy will be yours?

What if you only had sixty-nine minutes?

A New Appreciation

I have recited the Pledge of Allegiance at every single school function since I was 4. I have seen the presentation of the colors at high school football games, college graduations and even a presidential inauguration. I have been to Arlington National Cemetery, and the White House and the United Nations headquarters. I have seen fireworks shows and the schmaltz of the fourth of July. I can honestly say, I have never felt as patriotic as I did the on the day of Lauren's moving up ceremony.

Lauren's moving up ceremony was pretty typical of ceremonies held all over the country to celebrate the brightest and the best of a particular set of students. Lauren's school is small, and her class fewer than fifty. The ceremony had an intimate, elegant feel. The students all wore corsages and boutonnieres pinned to their dress uniforms of crested blazers and plaid kilts or steel gray pants. They filed in as solemnly as any eighth grader could be expected to be to the strains of an Elgar Pomp and Circumstance.

And then it began. We recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I have known the words to the Pledge at least since Mrs. Taylor's class in kindergarten. Maybe even before then. Let's face it. We all tend to "just say" the words, and barely listen to what we are saying, especially when enduring any program held in a gym. This time, in our midst, was a friend of ours who also happens to be a three star General (retired) in the United States Air Force. He sat in front of us and over a bit. With a voice trained to reach thousands of troops, he did more than a mere recital of familiar words. He boomed his pledge of eternal allegiance to our flag and country. With new ears, those words became monumental.

We sat down after a hearty rendition of America. The organizers had rightly decreed the National Anthem all but unsingable, especially by eighth grade boys going through inevitable voice changes. We watched and listened to several presenters and speakers. I was having a difficult time concentrating. I kept hearing those words. Spoken and believed in by that voice. Lieutenant General Fairfield had caused a prodigious shift in my understanding and appreciation of what we are saying when we recite our Pledge.

The ceremony ended with a rousing ovation for the class of 2013. We stood as our children filed past again. This time the colors were removed from the stage and led the procession. The colors stopped directly in front of General Fairfield. He immediately stood ramrod straight and saluted his flag. Our flag. His salute was overwhelming. When he snapped his arm up and placed his hand at the precise angle above his brow, I was moved to tears. The power and beauty and simplicity of that single movement spoke volumes about his dedication to this country and its people.

General Fairfield has in his lengthy career, commanded over 100,000 troops. He has witnessed the ultimate sacrifice of many friends and colleagues over the years. He has risked his own life as well. The man I saw, though, is more than a General in the military. He is a proud grandfather cheering for his eighth grader and ours. He is a great role model and loving mentor for all of Lauren's classmates. And their parents. He is an American. His love for this country is profound. His devotion palpable.

I will never forget how I felt watching the General react as he has thousands of times to the presentation of our flag. He responded as if he were seeing our colors for the very first time. And I, an admitted cynic, heard the Pledge and saw the devotion and respect with a new appreciation. And I am forever changed.


I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America
and to the Republic, for which it stands
one Nation, under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.

The Birth Of A Diva

Yesterday my much older sister became my very much older sister. She is so close to fifty now, she can see it peeking over the horizon. One would not recognize her quickly advancing age unless one looked closely, though. For an old lady, she still looks pretty good. I know I am merciless to my sister. I pick on her terribly and she is constantly subjected to my own particular brand of sarcastic "humor". Although my idea of humor and hers are probably vastly different. Anyhoo, in spite of my, well....spite, I actually love my sister very much. She is one of my favorite people, and my very best friend.

Kim has not always appreciated her infinitely younger sister, however. I sprang into her life ending her reign of the one and only after a mere fifteen months. From my first memories, I thought she was divine. She did not necessarily share my adulation. sigh. She was tolerant, and thought it somehow her duty to help raise me. She tried. I tried, too. Mostly her patience.

We shared a bedroom for the first ten years or so of our lives. We read books, and played Barbies - well, she did. I was more a fan of my brother's GI Joes. Anyhoo, I digress. Kim had fish, and with them came the inevitable fish funerals. Kim would talk to me during thunderstorms and help me go to sleep when I was scared. As much as I loved sharing with Kim, I still longed for "my" room. I remember the excitement I felt when Mom and Dad announced we would have our very own rooms in our new house. I was thrilled! Until we had to actually go to our separate spaces. The room was too large and too empty. Oh it had furniture and stuffed animals and the "stuff", but there was a void. I found it difficult to enjoy my new space. I grieved for Kim - she never looked back.

Kim was my role model, confidante, mentor, tour director, and my voice. Yup, I once suffered from almost crippling shyness. Kim made it easy for me to function. She was ready with a smile and personality larger than any Vegas entertainer. Instead of resenting her spotlight, I basked in the glow. I loved every thing about my sister. She was perfection to me. Where I felt awkward and clumsy, she was the epitome of grace and poise. She was beautiful and fun and smart and talented.

My sister always had the most beautiful, long, thick, mahogany hair. As drum major in the marching band, she was required to wear it "up". Kim was coiffurely challenged. She tended toward the hair- don't versus the hair-do. Anyhoo, every Friday night, all that hair had to be crammed into a rather small drum major hat. Enter moi. Although my hairstyle was suspiciously akin to the shape of Mom's largest mixing bowl, I could braid, twist and coif like no other. It was a great set-up. Kim would be forced to be nice to me during the week 'cause she learned pretty quickly that how gentle I was with her hair was directly proportional to her kindness towards me. Brand new blouse with the tags still on? Before that blissful era of Friday night mayhem, I would have never been allowed to gaze at it from a distance. Now, one might see me sporting it to school. It was a beautiful time.

Somewhere along the way, I grew up. I became comfortable in my own skin and confident in my own abilities, and Kim and I became equals. We were able to get beyond squabbles over clothing, or drama about school or who was picking on whom. Oh, we still get mad at each other, and frustrated with each other. We just can put things in their proper perspective and move on. Kim is a fantastic teacher, a loving Mom, an incredibly talented clarinetist, a Monty Python fiend, an incurable lover of shoes, a big fan of Duke basketball and equally passionate about Carolina football. She has a huge capacity to love, and a belly laugh that rivals Santa. She can do one heck of a bad lounge act Las vegas style, and has the ability to sing exactly 1/2 step below pitch. Kim is fun and funny. Most of all she is my sister. My very much older sister. And I adore her. Just saying.

I'm MELLLLTTTINNNNGGGGG........

It is hot. It is so dang hot, I am running out of appropriate metaphors and adjectives and expletives to fully describe this heat. I am talking heat and humidity so oppressive one cannot breathe. I am officially miserable.

I think the whole problem started in early 1964. When given the schedule of births for that particular year, the stork inadvertently made a error in my delivery location. I was dropped in the deep south. In a river basin. With humidity of biblical proportions. I do hope the stork has upgraded its GPS and navigational systems to prevent others from suffering the same fate.

This year the heat is no worse than in previous years. I am just no longer acclimated to it. We left Virginia the Monday after Easter. The previous Friday, we had snow flurries. We spent the next 2 months in areas where the highs struggled to make it to the upper fifties. I wore a wool coat many days. When we landed at Dulles airport, we were surprised at the warmth, but as it was 77 degrees, it was still fairly temperate. Then we headed south. And OMG!! Sweltering, blistering, life-sucking heat!

It would be different if I enjoyed itty bitty tank tops or teensy weensy shorts. I do not. And let me assure you, the general public would not enjoy the sight of me in such garb. And given the ever present sticky sweat, I am not sure shorts and tanks are the answer either.

And speaking of sweat, I am sick and tired of my face running down my clothing. I am not a pretty sight without some cosmetic "enhancement" , but I am starting to believe my attempts at avoiding psychological damage to those exposed to my unmade face are futile. One minute in this heat and humidity and I am one giganto schmear of sweat and mascara. Nice, really. I am thinking a pair of humongous sunglasses are my only hope of survival. Or a veil. sigh.

I would like to know how in the heck folks survived here without air conditioning. With air conditioning I am struggling. And a car air conditioning system is just hopeless against this beast of sweltering heat. By the time the car "cools" to a tolerable 90 degrees, you have arrived at your destination. You have arrived rumpled, soaked in sweat, with your hair reduced to a mat of frizz and damp fluff. Attractive.

I am here a week. An interminable, endless week. I have doubled my anti-perspirant and purchased industrial strength deodorant. I will fan myself with anything available, and try to embrace my new "glow". I will drink enough water to provide buoyancy to the Queen Mary. And somehow, I will convince myself that I, a girl born and bred in this place, will survive. Just saying.

A Quiet Symphony

It is early morning on my mountain. The sky is still inky black, but just over the horizon, a streak of amber pink is starting to emerge. Lightening bugs are the twinkle lights in this early fairly land. A thin veil of the lightest fog levitates just over the tips of the grass. The only sounds are an occasional bird, or deer rustling just over the hill. The cool of the morning will be replaced later by the heavy weight of humid heat. But for now, it is just cool enough to justify drinking my steaming cup of morning sustenance.

I love the quietness of the mornings. I love the peaceful slumber of my household still miles away in the destinations of their own particular dreams. I love the stillness. At these times, I am left with only the noise of my own thoughts interrupting my solitude. Those thoughts are easily quieted this time of the day. I love the feeling of my the kitchen tile smooth against my feet. I love how a blanket or throw somehow feels necessary in the coolness, and allows me to snug into it cocooned in warmth and comfort and peace.

In a few minutes, the sounds of giggles, protests about clothing choices, and laments about uncooperative hair, or Lord forbid a pimple will pierce my quiet deflating it until tomorrow. Shiloh will ask to go to the yard for his morning "constitutional", the cat will require immediate attention, and John will have lost something. Cars will make their way down the mountain to various work places. Showers, frying pans, and the gurgle of the coffee pot add to this brash life symphony.

And a symphony it is. Quiet and peace are a luxury to me. I would not want it always. I like that I am able to appreciate my quiet in a world that is far from peaceful and still and absent of sound. The crazy constant cacophony that forms our life's opus is the most beautiful noise there is. One day I will not hear daily the unique strains of a teenager's melody. My piece will be less frantic allegro of hurry and excitement and bursts of drama, and more a steady adagio that comes with aging.

Today our symphony includes a triumphant processional as Lauren walks across a stage and into the next phase of her life. No doubt the music box, nursery school, teen pop influences of her still young existence will form but a fleeting refrain that from now on will replaced by instances of sweeping emotion. Stronger themes will emerge with passages leaving us breathless with excitement.

For now, I will enjoy this snippet of peace to allow my mind to drift and remember and reminisce. To appreciate the quiet, yes, but to realize without the noise and bustle, my quiet would be rather empty. Just saying.

Rites of Passage...

Tomorrow Lauren's class will participate in their "moving up" ceremony. This is a program designed to highlight the achievements of her class in middle school, while at the same time recognizing their start in high school. The ceremony will be (blessedly) brief. Thousands of similar programs occur around this time all over the country.

I have suffered through....um.....ahem, endured many of these end of school programs over the years. I have sat in some terrible chairs and on butt numbing bleachers. I have listened to the endless drone of some poor teacher who obviously is A) trying to suck up to the principal by actually volunteering for the job, or B) being punished for some terrible crime unbeknownst to the rest of us, slaughter the names of every single child that walks up to receive their award. The whole process becomes a study in the phonetic sounding out of names absent of any vowels.

Every year, there is that one kid - you know him/her - who has never missed an hour of school (the fact that he/she caused your kid to have mono/strep/piggy flu/mad cow is not mentioned), somehow managed to make the top grades in every single class including home ec and shop, and managed to schmooze the entire faculty garnering him/her the "citizenship" award even though you personally witnessed him/her taunting kids for not selling enough wrapping paper. Each award he/she receives brings with it a sort of parent paparazzi, flashing bulbs in the face of your kid (i.e. the normal one) as they go up to receive their tenth honorable mention or "participation" certificate.

I hate these ordeals. I loathe them. They have a tendency to exalt one or two kids, while leaving 300 others bewildered, bitter, and butt sore. Before you think this is sour grapes or bitterness, both of my children have stacks of certificates and awards, and those gold colored plastic trophy things, and medals...well you get my drift. I am the parent that either forgot the camera altogether, or whose batteries died in the opening remarks, or who cannot get a glimpse of my kid because "super kid" and their entourage are blocking my view.

Before you assign me the title of cold-hearted, evil shrew Mom, ( although it has a rather nice ring to it) let me assure you I will be just as proud of my Lauren as any other parent present tomorrow. I will clap appreciatively, and refrain from "WHOOOO HOOOO" as the eighth grade class files by. I will pretend the setting is lovely, even though it is held in the gym, and I will ignore the fact that I no longer have any feeling below my waist. I will eat my grocery store shortbread cookies and Kool-Aid punch at the reception. I will exclaim at how "wonderful" and "beautiful" the whole mess.....ahem, celebration is. And, I will shed a tear or two at the fact that my baby is growing up.

These rites of passage are necessary. And somehow a required torture parents must endure. I checked my parent handbook and it says clearly under number 548 "every parent must suffer through interminable school programs at least once a year." I know. I checked. sigh. I will complain. It is part of my nature. I will be sarcastic. That is a given. I will point out every single less than perfect detail of the day. Okay, maybe I do have a slight evil streak. And I will be proud. Very proud of Lauren's accomplishments. And I look forward to watching this beautiful young girl continue on her journey we call life. Just saying.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder....

I have never been one to believe in that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" drivel. I have always thought that absence makes for nice memories, and helps you forget the stuff you'd like to well, .......forget. Ahem. Anyhoo, now that I am home, I have had a little time to ponder this concept a bit more.

I missed my girls terribly. I don't think in missing them that I somehow grew to love them anymore than I would otherwise, however. It is nice to miss and to be missed. I missed their laughter and their giggles and the fun times. I would be a fool to claim I missed the less than lovely parts. I did not, for example, miss the monthly "fairy" visits. Not one bit. I did not miss the minutiae of daily middle school drama and the intricate details of a day in the life of a young adult office worker. I did not miss homework projects or meal planning woes.

I learned that my girls are growing up. They don't "need" me so much anymore. They showed they could handle the mundane, rather pedestrian aspects of daily living. They worked well together. Sure, they had their share of petty grievances, but when the chips were down, they proved over and over how much they love and respect each other. They comforted each other, laughed together over life's less than charming bits, and cared for each other.

They even managed to cope with what a former family member (who will remain nameless) dared to categorize as a "medical emergency". That would be the fork in the tooth incident as described in a previous post. Funny, yes. And it did require the attention of a dentist to smooth out the offending "dent". But not an emergency. The girls did prove, though, that if there HAD been an emergency - medical or not - they were quite capable of handling it.

It is good to be missed as well. My girls and I had quite the blubber-fest in the arrivals hall of Dulles airport. They of course had grown twenty-five inches (at least!) and no longer looked like my cherubic little girls anymore. Both of them now possess an air of maturity and grace. And, they seem darned happy to see us. Ashley and Lauren both told me time and again how much they missed their "Mama" (Ashley) and "Mommy" (Lauren). I hadn't been called either in quite some time. After two months away, they only remembered the best of me. Not bad.

Absence did minimize any memory of the junk and trash of our less than perfect selves. Our absence made us all realize how much we actually like each other and enjoy being with each other. But fonder? I doubt that. How can you increase infinity? How much more than "to the moon and back" can one be loved? Just saying....

Goin' Home.....

Wow! Times flies, and yet stands so very still. What I have seen is amazing, yet none as exquisite as the faces of my two girls. I am on my way home to hugs and giggles and dog kisses and all that is wonderfully familiar and safe. Here are the last places we visited including Berlin, Krakow and Prague. When you hear from me next, I will have returned to my regular sweat and flannel shirt wearing pre-European chick self. Okay, maybe the flannel will have to wait until fall, but you get my drift. Anyhoo, it will be good to be HOME!


Checkpoint Charlie - Berlin


What remains of the Berlin wall



Polish Train - I wasn't kidding


Shiloh's Polish Twin


Krakow city scene


Us and 25,000 of our closest friends - Soccer is
REALLY big here.


The main square in Krakow's Old City


Maserattis can apparently drive across oceans now


Another purty church


On to Prague


Um, no thanks...we are just passing by.....QUICKLY!


What do you reckon they serve here?


Communist era car...not so fresh


My obsession with McDonalds has now taken on global proportions


Hey Mozart! Vienna called looking for you!!


We heard a concert here. Such beauty makes you feel
guilty about closing your eyes....


The Czech Royal Guard


Cathedral of St. Vitus


Looking down over Prague


Charles River


Czech Bluegrass band...seriously!


We arrived back in Aarhus at nearly eleven pm. Still light outside. sigh....

Lessons Learned Along The Way

Our travels have come to an end for now. We returned to Aarhus last evening, and will spend today trying to cram everything into our suitcases before returning to America in the morning. I have loved our time overseas. I would like to share with you some of what I have learned along the way.

1. All trains are not created equally. Seriously, there needs to be some sort of train constitution that addresses this issue. The Danes have the best trains EVER! The Polish trains? Not so much.

2. Ditto for bathrooms on trains. And, while we are on the subject, why is it that having to use the "facilities" on a train or plane immediately makes one feel dirty and stinky?

3. Travel makes you swell. Train, plane, bus - it doesn't matter. I am looking forward to seeing my ankles again.

4. When you are really homesick, nothing is better than a McDonalds cheeseburger. I know, I can hardly believe I just admitted that, but it's true.

5. Coke and water are more expensive than the beer in every single country we have visited. So therefore and ergo and so it would seem, I had to drink the beer. It was a financial decision. Yeah, that's it.....

6. Europeans make the best dang bread. Oh my!!

7. Vienna, by far, has the best coffee on the planet. Hands down. Again, poor Poland? Not so much. sigh.

8. There is a hymn in the United Methodist Hymnbook that I love. Set to the tune of Finlandia, it is "This Is My Song". Never have the lyrics meant so much to me as now.


This is my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for lands afar and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is;
Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;
But other hearts in other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,
And sunlight beams on clover-leaf and pine.
But other lands have sunlight too and clover,
And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.
Oh, hear my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for their land and for mine

9. There was no way to learn German, Czech, Danish, and Polish fluently before this trip. A smile really does go a long way with communication. All those years of charades didn't hurt either. The most memorable example was the dinner we had with John's colleague in the Czech Republic who spoke no English, but a little German. We spoke not a word of Czech, but again could speak a smattering of German. We had an interpreter who did a beautiful job, but when she left the table, we were able to keep the conversation going. Somehow it all worked.

10. Foreign money is not monopoly money. The concept of spending money, and how much you spend can get lost when it is in a different currency. I had the hardest time with the Czech money. I did feel rich - we would take out thousands at a time - but only for a moment as 1000 Czech was less than $50.

11. As much as I have complained about the searing heat and humidity of the American South, I miss being warm in June. I have worn a wool coat for this entire adventure. I am ready to sweat!!

12. Having daylight for more than 20 hours a day sounds great. It plays havoc on your internal clock, though.

13. Americans, and Southerners in general just THINK they know how to celebrate a win in football. They are deluding themselves. 25,000 folks gathered in the middle of the town square? Now that's a party.

14. There is something a little disconcerting about a cache of riot police boarding your train in Germany.

15. The Nazis tried, but they didn't kill the spirit of the Polish people.

16. Or the Czechs, for that matter. We sat and had coffee in front of the oldest synagogue in Central Europe. It was still standing. In spite of the Nazis and the former communist regime.

17. Just a word about technology. When John first came overseas to Europe more than twenty-five years ago, he called home at Christmas. Period. It just cost too dang much!! On this trip, we have instant messaged, e-mailed and Skyped with our kids and families every day. Now that is progress.

18. IKEA is everywhere. Seriously!

19. Why is it that we take the time to have a coffee, or a spot of tea, or read the newspapers when we travel, and yet speed through our "real" lives as if we are afraid to slow down.

20. I am proud of my own country. It doesn't matter who is President, or what Congress is up to, it is more about our culture and our families and our traditions. I love visiting other places, but I love coming home just as much.

21. Every culture seems to have "poor" food. Why does it taste better in another country?

22. One of the coolest things John and I did, being that we are from the South, was to eat in a Georgian restaurant. Georgia the country, not the state.

23. I miss Taco Bell. So sue me.

24.We saw a lot of folks with their noses buried deep in their guide books. They missed out on a lot of scenery and people watching and fun by doing so. Guide books are well, um......a guide, folks. Not a bound set of travel edicts.

25.Tour guides have big umbrellas they hold up high to indicate their group.Why umbrellas? Why not a flag pole? Or big honking sign declaring "we are a large group that will run your butt over if you don't get out of our way."

26. You find the pushiest, rudest tourists in churches. Go figure.

27. The folks at Hard Rock are marketing geniuses.

28. I miss Krispy Creme. Berliners are nice, and those big fat doughy Polish "donuts" are cool, but I would like a dozen hot glazed from Kripsy Kreme now please.

29. I am shallow. For all of my travel and worldly adventures, I still crave Taco Bell and Krispy Kreme. Sorry Mom.

30. Cue Its A Small World. In every country, folks have dreams. They want to care for their families and take a vacation now and again. They are brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, spouses and children. It doesn't matter what our differences are. What matters is what we have in common. As cheezy as it is, it really is a small world.

There really is no place like home - wherever home is. Just saying........

Oswiecim's Lament

Yesterday John and I traveled to Oswiecim, Poland. Its sign welcomes you to "The City of Peace" standing in stark contrast to its infamous past. Oswiecim played unwilling hosts to the Nazi's in World War II. Oswiecim came to be known by the name given to it by the Germans: Auschwitz.

The weather seemed appropriate for the occasion. Visually monotonous grey skies with clouds on the verge of dissolving into racking sobs composed the backdrop to this place of horror and despair. Somehow blue skies would have been hideously disrespectful. Visitors dressed in a kind of casual mourning wear; dark brown and black coats, navy and grey sweaters. No bright colors on anyone.

We arrived after a little over an hour in a cramped mini bus. The shock absorbers were long past their sell- by date, and the interior reeked of stale cigarette smoke and tired bodies. It seemed this minibus was suffering from one heck of a hangover. Leg room was non-existent. Anyone over five feet tall couldn't feel their feet by the end of the journey. To hear the stories of people spending as many as ten days crammed into a railroad car intended for goods, not humans, made me feel more than a little small for complaining about my trip. And while I was able to use the WC as soon as we arrived, the inhabitants of Auschwitz were allowed a single bathroom break a day.

Auschwitz is really three main camps; Auschwitz I, Auschwitz II - Birkenau, and another smaller camp. There were more than 40 additional satellite camps as well. The size and scope of these places is incredible. Auschwitz I is set up more like a museum. Different barracks tell the stories of daily life, sanitation issues, the gas chambers as well as intimate glimpses of those who were held there. Auschwitz was the site of many gruesome experiments and "treatments" performed in the name of medical science. Those images and stories were the hardest for me to accept.

The images were powerful in their simplicity. A room full of eyeglasses could be just a room of glasses. Except that they represented thousands and thousands of people. There is an entire room of shoes. Over 48,000 pairs. This in a camp where most of those held had no shoes to wear. Or the ones they had were completely inadequate against the wet and the cold and the snow. One of the most heart wrenching images to me were the suitcases. Thousands and thousands of suitcases bearing the names of their owners. Stickers and luggage tags from Hungary and Austria; Norway and Yugoslavia. All packed with care by those led to believe they were going to a better place. The final rub - the German's SOLD them train tickets to Auschwitz.

From Auschwitz I, we traveled a short distance to the much larger and sprawling Auschwitz II-Birkenau. We walk along the railroad tracks first to the "selection" station, where a mere glance by a guard could mean instant death in a gas chamber or the slow agonizing death from starvation, exhaustion, or disease. From this point we walked on to the cremation area. The Nazis blew up the cremation ovens in a desperate last ditch effort to keep their disgusting secret from the rest of the world. What is left is exactly how the Soviets found it upon liberation.

There is a terrible silence that permeates this place, yet you somehow feel as though you could hear the cries of those that perished. It is an agonizing walk from one end of the property to the other. Barracks stand as they did then; brick facades over mud floors so dank and damp the little bit of straw used for "comfort" rotted. Snow and ice turned quickly into thick black mud. As this area was constructed over a swamp, it never really dried.

At the end of the railroad line, where over 1 and one half million people were slaughtered, stands a quiet memorial. The memorial is beautiful and stark. The area beseeches us to learn from these horrors; to never forget. It is not necessary. For those that journey to this place, the memory will never fade. The images of such terrible atrocities are forever burnished into the souls of those that pass through those gates.

After a full day of tramping through the muck and mire; after trying to comprehend the kind of human who could inflict such cruelty on another; we retreated to the cafe on site. The folks at the State Museum must have realized how much comfort visitors would need after seeing such gross inhumanity. In the cafe three lovely older women - grandmotherly types - serve up comfort food; thick soups and stews, mashed potatoes and dumplings. And they smile and call visitors pet names. In that moment, somehow the world shifts back on its axis again, and all is right again.

The women in the kitchen exemplify the villagers of Oswiecim. This village of peace en masse served the prisoners in ways large and small. A bit of bread, extra rations, information, correspondence, a pair of gloves, a safe job, medicines. The folks of Oswiecim knew of the prisoners' plight and did everything possible to aid them. Once the camps were liberated, they took former prisoners into their homes and cared for them - some for months.

We left Auschwitz and Oswiecim with our shoes covered in ash caked mud, and our hearts heavy with grief. We are forever changed having been there. We will never forget. We must never forget.

Auschwitz

Strength

What is strength, really? When we are faced with adversity, we goad ourselves into some unrealistic image of......what? Mountain mover? Lion tamer? Goddess of serenity in the wake of our most violent storm? We seem to have the need to proclaim our desire to remain strong, or to dig this strength out of the deep recesses of our very being. "I will be strong" becomes an incessant mantra.

Strength is good. But it is also a lie. None of us, when faced with real pain or tragedy or despair really want to be strong. Sometimes strength is a necessity in order to continue trudging through the mire, but it is not what we really want. We want comfort and care. Kindness and empathy. Understanding and even some days, pity.

So what is wrong with wanting to gather up our tinker toys and escape to the bosom of our Mom? Or friends? Or spouses? Or therapists? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, I think the whole strength idea its completely overrated. "Be strong" we tell someone faced with a brand new diagnosis of cancer or dealing with an untimely death or going through a divorce. Huh? Why not, "it's okay to crumble; to have your knees give way. It's okay to rail against the world and its annoying insistence on continuing to methodically rotate as you spin completely out of control."

I heard the strength accolade myself. "You are so strong" I was told regarding my stroke recovery. Um, not so much. I cried. A lot. I was pissed. I was frustrated and confused and horrified. And really pissed. My "strength" wasn't really strength at all. It was acting. I smiled to keep my kids from running away. I laughed at my struggles to keep friends and strangers from becoming uncomfortable with my disabilities. I made jokes because I found a long litany filled with profanity was less acceptable. Preferred personally at times, but definitely not as acceptable.

We have all been there. When adversity hits, we somehow become little automatons hell-bent on pleasing others. We act a certain way, so as not to be labeled as fragile. We react a certain way so as not to be deemed incapable of coping. We are afraid of disappointing; of becoming one of "those" people. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why have we convinced ourselves that anything less than a Stepford approach to a life blow is a failure? That if we conform to our skewed idea of strength, then somehow we avoid the distasteful and much maligned weakling image?

Here's a thought. Why not embrace the very human emotions that make us, well.....human. When we are faced with adversity, tragedy, pain - that we allow ourselves to feel. Even the crappy emotions. When we allow ourselves to hurt, and admit we are hurting, then the healing can begin. When we no longer have to keep busy and pretend everything is "normal" or fine, then and only then, can we find our true strength. Being strong doesn't preclude help. It takes strength to ask for assistance; and even more strength to allow ourselves to accept assistance.

Strength is good. It sounds nice to want to "stay strong." I just think it sometimes gives a false sense of righteous accomplishment. My version of strength is not yours, or the next guy's. Strength comes as a result of the adversity. How we derive that strength is as personal and unique as we are. Some folks insist on internalizing pain. Some need a sounding board or wise counsel. Some folks choose endless diversion. Some use prayer. Others rely on solitude or meditation or music. And some require a renovation so complete everything must be stripped away until all that is left is the foundation.

And, sometimes strength comes from simply surviving the fall. Just saying...

Ma2

I am one of the lucky ones. I have had a pretty good life. Oh I "suffered" through the normal teenaged angst and drama, but overall nothing completely scarred me for life. My parents were present and involved, much to my chagrin. I had siblings and pets and my own room. My years fighting acne were blessedly brief, and I went to Prom and football games. I also had a best pal, and through Martha, I had my other mother.

Other mothers are cool. They have to act like adults and all, and even have to discipline at times, but they don't come home with you. You get to have the best of them, and they get the best of you. Most times. My other mother, Margaret, has certainly been through some "stuff" with me. And she still somehow loves me.

I met Margaret when I was thirteen years old. Her oldest daughter, Martha, became my best friend the moment she arrived in Augusta, Georgia. Martha had two younger sisters, several cats, and Brownie the dog. Martha's Dad was an oncologist/hematologist at the medical school. I loved the controlled chaos of the Bru's house. Avid readers and music lovers, the house was filled with books and Cd's and the sounds of piano practice and Martha's french horn. Meal times were boisterous affairs with much laughter and great food.

I loved being at the Bru's. Going to their house was an escape from my tragically boring average American teen life. At the Bru's we could stop what we were doing and watch the squirrels, or page Martha's Dad to come watch the Muppet Show. At their house, Martha's position as the eldest allowed for some perks that I benefitted from by association. For a middle child, this was Utopia.

Margaret was the best kind of other mother. Girls and mothers have long had a history of struggle. My mother and I certainly had our share of well,.....struggles. This does not mean I didn't love my own mother. I did. I just didn't quite appreciate her as much as I should during my youth. Margaret patiently listened to my grievances and gripes and moaning. She never spoke ill of my Mom. She never took advantage of her "position". She gave advice, but mostly she allowed me to find my own answers by talking through a particular situation. She taught me how to love my Mom. What a gift she gave to me.

Margaret has been there for me in my darkest hours and my brightest days. She sat with me after surgeries, wiped my brow when I was ill, and was my biggest cheerleader when I graduated from nursing school. She has celebrated marriages and births, and held my hand through the pain of divorce. She has washed sinkfuls of dishes, and brought many a roll of toilet paper to yet another "new" house. And somewhere along the way, she became my friend more than another Mom.

I couldn't ask for a better friend. Margaret is the kindest person I know. She is generous and loving, and intelligent and honest. When I am away, as I am now overseas, I miss Margaret as much as I miss my own "real" family. Sometimes, even those of us that stray towards the dramatic; that tend to hit every single bump in the pothole scarred road of life; get to have a few bright spots to savor. Margaret was more than a bright spot. She has illuminated my days, and provided me with my best light in order to allow me to shine.

Yesterday was Margaret's birthday. And I forgot. For that, I am ashamed. So, to my other mother, Margaret - Ma2 - a very happy, albeit belated, birthday to you. May there be many, many more years of your love and wisdom and joy.

City Of Smiles

Our time in Denmark is coming to a close. The shrieking sound of joy you just heard was that of my girls. They are more than ready to reunite with us. To be missed is a wonderful thing. It is also daunting. Our memories concerning those we miss are often clouded, and a little muddy. We tend to have a sort of memory tunnel-scope, or internal photo crop allowing ourselves to remember only the good parts.

I do miss my children. I miss their laughter and smiles and carefree teen-aged/young adult optimism. I miss the concern over petty minutiae. I miss the mundane and silly. Like them, I have chosen to focus on all of the good they exude. I have little memory of any angst or strife. I have chosen a self imposed lobotomy allowing only images of the good times, the giggles and the love.

I guess it is a good thing we censor. I would hate it if my parents only remembered the times I smarted off at them, or had a screaming fit, or melted in a puddle of "you just don't understand ME". Luckily, they are equipped with the same editing tools as I, and remember my first dance recital, or the summer I baked coffee cakes and pastries every morning. They allow themselves to focus on the finished product ready to attend a dance, and not the tears and drama during preparations. They can recall the stories read by fire-light, and card games at Table Rock. They are a little fuzzier about restrictions imposed and punishments doled out.

I like the way we remember. I will, no doubt, remember everything wonderful and magical about this City of Smiles I have lived in these past months. I will forget any frustrations with communication, or weather less than perfect or issues with noise in my building. I will instead focus on the charm and beauty of this seaside town and its lovely inhabitants. I will focus on the best doggone hot dogs on the planet, and forgive them for any culinary creations that were less than stellar. I will remember the stark beauty of their bright red flag crossed with the clean white of eternal optimism and hope as it sails against Danish blue skies.

I love to travel. Memories in retrospect are about the adventures and the discoveries. We forget painful feet and frustrations with the actual getting to and from places. we don't remember pointless squabbles with our spouses. We forget uncomfortable temperature extremes. We instead remember why it is we travel in the first place. We travel to open our hearts and minds to a different way of being. We become more proud in experiencing other's pride of nation; of people; of culture. We allow ourselves to take a step or two outside of all that is familiar and comfortable and walk for just a moment in some one else's shoes. And, although those shoes may be their best, drug out for just this occasion, in those few steps we gain access into another person's soul. Just saying....

Dedicated To The One I Love

Today is John's forty-seventh birthday. Have you ever noticed the number doesn't seem quite as daunting when it is spelled out? But, I digress. Anyhoo, I thought it would be fun to share some lesser known factoids about John with you. Okay, maybe it is just fun for me, but it is my blog. So there.

1. John really does know all of the dialogue and most of the choreography from Sound of Music. And somehow, he doesn't look entirely ridiculous when he decides to "put on a performance".

2. John has waked me up nearly every morning since we have been together with a cup of coffee. All together now - AWWWWWW!

3. John did not like dogs so much growing up. Just another reason to believe Shiloh is not really a dog.

4. An excerpt from one of John's books was used in a speech by Thabo Mbeki, the then President of South Africa.

5. John awarded Evonne Goolagong an honorary Doctorate when he was a professor in Australia.

6. John has lived in seven countries besides the US.

7. John's accent is a conglomeration of all of the countries he has lived in. Kinda faux Prince Charles meets Crocodile Hunter with a little Kiwi for flavour.

8. John and I are from the same small town in South Carolina. The town is not small anymore, and nothing much is the same....sigh.

9. John's personality is scarily similar to my sister's. It is like waking up every morning next to Kim with body hair. On the one hand kinda cool. And yet, kinda gross.

10. John LOVES Celtic fiddle music. His family does not share this particular "appreciation".

11. Boxer briefs. :)

12. John loves to travel. He loves being home just as much.

13. Make a clock tick near John, and he will give up the nuclear code.

14. John cannot sleep with any light in the room. No clock displays, computer lights, NOTHING!! But he can sleep through sounds similar to an eighteen wheeler changing gears( his snoring) with no trouble. Go figure.

15. John's favorite food is pizza. Doesn't matter what kind. Just call it pizza.

16. He will also take anything on his plate and shove it between pieces of bread to make a sandwich. The actual ingredients don't really matter. It is a method.

17. John is an historian. He studied history for many years. He has three degrees in history. John hates museums. HATES them.

18. John would move heaven and Earth for my girls. I forgive him a lot because of that.

19. In the seven years we have been together, John has not one single time gone out of the house without his collar turned under in his shirt. I don't really know how he manages to do that EVERY SINGLE DAY.

20. John makes the best chocolate chip banana bread ever. He also makes one heck of an omelet. And that folks, is the extent of his culinary expertise. Oh, he can cook other things, they just aren't completely edible. But the bread??? Awesome!!

21. John endures a lot of ribbing. He takes it quite well.

22. John wears glasses. He doesn't actually look through them much - mostly over them - but he wears them.

23. John was there every single morning and night at my parent's house the first year of Dad's cancer. This was the same year he commuted nearly two hours one way to work. He never complained. Not once.

24. John is very competitive. He is the most competitive person on the planet except for George Biggar. Of course, being competitive, John would claim the top spot. And then George would have to argue his merit. See?? And so it continues.

25. John loves sports. If it is played with a ball, a paddle, a pole, or club, John will watch it. He knows about sports most folks have never heard of. And most sound like negative bodily functions like hurling, knur and spell, stool ball, shinty, and jukski.

26. John and his first college roommate would fight over which soap opera to watch. John loved Guiding Light and El preferred General Hospital. They would race each other home to get their pick on before the other. I kid you not.

27. John is an action/adventure movie kind of guy. He gave all that up for the chick flick when he married me and my girls. We love him for that.

28. John was a "Trekkie" in elementary and junior high school. He even had the shirt.

29. While John does love Aston Villa, and the Baltimore Orioles, and his Aussie and South African teams, all are trumped by the University of South Carolina Gamecocks.

30. John is the kindest, sweetest guy I know. He loves Ashley and Lauren with a fierceness and devotion words cannot adequately express. He loves Pierce just as much. We are all better people having had John in our lives Happy Birthday!!

Images

I am a little more than concerned about the image of America as portrayed in Denmark. No, I am not talking about politics, necessarily. I am talking about the garbage exported from America and shown on television overseas. OMG!!

No wonder folks overseas don't have a clue about the "real" America. Seriously. The offerings this week on Danish TV were such classics as The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, re-runs of Days of Our Lives, a "reality" show featuring Hulk Hogan, and those pre-teen Disney sitcoms that cause me to have a reaction similar to what Chinese water torture must evoke. There is also a constant stream of "vintage" 80's MTV music videos. (I hate referring to my high school years as vintage, sheez). Interspersed throughout the day are movies I wouldn't pay a dollar for in a discount movie theater.

AND, as if the programming wasn't bad enough, Dr. Phil is on the air in Denmark. Every day. Every single solitary day. OY! It is not that I have any particular issue with Dr. Phil personally, it is just that I think the entire planet should be spared the "dirty laundry" of our society. Couldn't we share something a little more up market than this crap?

Then I started thinking about what I watch in the States. And I realized there is little on our airwaves that I would be proud to share. I thought of the comedies on Saturday night I enjoy. But they are British. I rent my movies when I make the time and effort to actually watch a movie. I do enjoy Castle, but they won't ship that particular show across the pond until they have bled it dry in the States first. And, they do show Top Chef every now and again and the occasional Law and Order.

We are not alone in our image problem. I have been "fortunate" to have access to some German variety shows that make Lawrence Welk look like a flashy Broadway production. They have the corner market on cheese. There is not a single European country that does not have a version of American Idol. They also have children's versions of Idol that are particularly fascinating in their awfulness. I have seen a Turkish soap opera, an Indian game show, a Norwegian talk show and countless reality shows. Apparently, gathering a group of incompatible dolts together under one roof and subsequently watching them verbally abuse each other is a concept universal in its appeal. I don't get it.

I do have to admit that I am hooked on one particularly terrible show. I can't help myself. It is spectacular in its repulsiveness. I feel a little like a rubbernecker at the sight of a fatal car crash. As disgusting as it is, I just can't help but watch. I know. sigh. Oh, yeah! I'll bet you want to the know the name of the show so you can "avoid" it. Don't worry I won't let on if you just HAVE to see it after this. It is Crowned - The Mother of All Pageants. The concept is hilarious. It is another "reality" show depicting the daily "trials" of these mother/daughter teams as they vie for a fictitious crown. It is deliciously awful. You gotta see it.

In the meantime, I will try not to care that Americans are continually portrayed as flamboyant bimbos on a perpetual search for "real love" on a Hollywood set. I will do my part to promote a more realistic, true image of Americans. I will encourage those I come in contact with to see for themselves the "real" America, and to not look to the television to define us. But I cannot give up my latest discovery. So, I will have to live with myself as I succumb to the tawdry shallowness of Crowned. Just saying.

Six Years And A Lifetime

Today this admitted serial marrier celebrates an anniversary. To most of the planet six years is no big deal, really. To me, it is a proud accomplishment! John and I often respond when folks ask us how long we have been married, as to whether they want a cumulative "score" or not. This is not a sneer at the institution of marriage. We just feel as though we have been together much longer than our six years. And, we have learned we might as well laugh about our numerous marital blunders.

John and I have known each other quite a long time. We met when I was only twelve years old; he a much more mature fourteen. We were in junior high school then. I thought he was the most handsome specimen of early teen male I had ever seen. And he liked me. For a seventh grader, having a ninth grader like them was the ultimate coup. John sported the most enormous pair of glasses ever manufactured, and a shaggy, slightly unruly version of the Beetle's bowl cut. I was hooked. And, he was willing to face my parents in order to gain permission to escort me to the final dance of junior high: The Freshman Dance.

We still have photographic evidence of said dance - I with my seventies pixie and a dress the absolute antithesis of sexy, and he in a coordinating navy tuxedo. Thirty-two years ago. A lifetime. After the dance, John moved on to high school. It was hardly cool to be a high schooler dating a kid in junior high, so I in my white cotton pique dress with the smattering of red flowers and navy polka dots, was relegated to the photo album. sigh.

Neither of us intended to become serial marriers. We both chose life partners we believed to be appropriate companions and partners and who would compliment us. It just took us each a few tries to perfect the process. Neither of us has any regrets about our respective past lives either. We believe firmly in the notion that we are the sum of all of our experiences and joys and trials. We both have learned a lot about life and love and ourselves through our struggles to find the perfect soul mate.

I liken my past relationships and their failures to putting together a puzzle. A gigantic jigsaw puzzle of a glorious landscape. With thousands of pieces. For years I tired to force some of the pieces in spaces where they didn't quite belong. The end result appeared to be just like the image the front of the box depicted. Except, if you looked closer, you would see some of the pieces had ragged, frayed edges causing the picture to look off kilter and almost warped. You cannot force a relationship anymore than you can attempt to jam a puzzle piece into a space it wasn't designed for. From the outside, the result may be pleasing and look just like any other relationship. Only with closer examination do you see the damage to the pieces from numerous attempts to wrest them into a place they have no business being.

John and I have taken this puzzle called life, and have managed to effortlessly join all of the pieces together without manipulation. There are no torn or tattered bits distorting our tableau. Upon meticulous inspection, one will not find the components shoved into an uncomfortable contortion of some mere facsimile of a relationship. Ours is real, and true; the image sharp in its clarity.

Today, this serial marrier and her partner celebrate our six years plus thirty. Together, we have endured many of life's proverbial curve balls and have emerged triumphant from each trial. We are the sum of all of our past heartaches and blessings. Just as we together are the sum of our love and devotion to the other.

Southern Hospitality

My parents were hosted by our friends yesterday in Odense, Denmark. Odense, besides being our friend's (and John's colleagues) home base, is also the birth place of Hans Christian Anderson. After a train ride through the countryside, Klavs was the host for lunch at his home. He prepared an enormous traditional Danish feast for them. Mom is now officially Danish, having eaten pickled herring. Dad passed it to John....

After lunch, everyone strolled around the old town, and the pedestrianised shopping streets, and enjoyed a lovely afternoon. And a lively but brief hail storm. Verner then took everyone back to his house for supper. His sweet wife Gerda joined the group. Verner entertained my parents with endless stories about Denmark. And some were probably even true!

Mom and Dad got to meet my favorite international puppy, Hector. Hector is an English spaniel with deep, dark brown eyes the size of saucers. The last time we visited, Hector indicated his desire to come back to America with us by making a nest in my suitcase. I would have gladly taken him!

The whole day was a study in Southern Hospitality. It seems that this phenomenon so often credited to the traditions of the American south, does in fact exist in other places. Odense, being in southern Denmark, was an appropriate venue for this international version of the kind of hospitality I have come to take for granted.

I am grateful for the kindness of our friends. I am thrilled Mom and Dad got to experience what it is like in the "real" Denmark. And to think they traveled nearly 5,000 miles to experience true Southern Hospitality. Just saying...