Diamonds up to her knuckles

Recently, I cleaned out my kids' old "dress up" box, filled with boas and princess gowns and scads of faux jewels. We boxed the jewelry for some out of state little girl cousins and sent it off. My cousin was so grateful and said though, the girls fight over the huge *diamond* ring. It brought to mind a story from a friend that has always touched me.

Throughout my 20s, I was in retail, at a grocery store. One of the cashiers was an elderly widow. She could have retired several years earlier, but said she had no idea how she'd fill her time. She was one of the sweetest women I ever knew and always looked forward to the days we both were scheduled.

We were in the break room one day and I admired her ring. She always wore a diamond cocktail ring, one that was completely inappropriate for cashiering, but I knew there must be a story behind it.

Joan smiled looking at the at least one inch band of diamonds that encased her ring finger. She said, "It was a gift from my husband before he died."

She went on to explain. She and her husband grew up together in the same neighborhood. He was a few years older than her and she followed him around everywhere. She had a crush on Joe from the time she was six. Since he was older, he finished school and went into the Army.

Before he left, he said, "Joan, please wait for me. When I come back, I'm going to give you diamonds up to your knuckles."

Sure enough, she waited, he returned, and they married. They couldn't afford diamonds up to her knuckles, much less an engagement ring, but Joan never cared. They made a wonderful life for themselves. They weren't able to have children, but they had good friends and nieces and nephews, their home was always filled with love. He worked in a factory and she worked at the store.

They were both getting ready to retire when Joe was diagnosed with cancer. She took a leave of absence and cared for him. That year on Christmas, from his sick bed, he told her to go into a certain drawer. In that drawer was the ring. She was touched but also admitted she was a little worried about how expensive it was. His illness was eating away at their savings. She didn't want to add to his stress with her worry, so she said nothing. She didn't want to wear it in case she had to return it. It stayed in the drawer with the receipt. Every so often he would come out of his delirium and ask about the ring and she brushed it off saying she was doing chores or whatever and took it off. He never saw her wear the ring.

He died about a month later. The day of his funeral, she took the ring out of the box and put it on. She said she felt horrible that she didn't enjoy it when he was alive but there was nothing that was going to stop her from remembering his love. She never took the ring off from that day on.

Joan glanced back at her ring and said, "He never had to give me diamonds up to my knuckles, I'd give it back if I could have him."

The ring sparkled in that dreary break room and her eyes shined with a lifelong love and devotion to her Joe. She knew, she didn't need a ring to have the most precious gem in the world.

Foot Removal 101

We’ve all done it. We’ve opened our mouth and inserted our foot. While the intent may have been innocent humor, the result is still the same. Someone was hurt by a thoughtless remark.

I used to work at a grocery store. I will never forget the first time I rammed my foot into my mouth so deep, I’m surprised I don’t have sneaker treads on the back of my throat. I was on hold with a bank to see if there were funds for a check. The person on the other end of the phone didn’t seem particularly bright or astute. As I sat waiting on the phone, rapidly losing patience, I turned to my co-worker and whispered, “I’ve got a real retard on the other end.”

My co-worker had a child with Down’s syndrome.

Another time I was talking to someone about how I had picked up relish at the grocery store three trips in a row, forgetting that I had picked it up the previous week. I made the self-deprecating remark that I had early onset of Alzheimer’s.

The neighbor I said it to had a parent with Dementia.

This week, I made a remark about being unable to control what my fingers did when I typed and called it keyboard Tourette’s.

The friend who read that comment has a child with Tourette’s Syndrome.

Each time I have made these thoughtless remarks, I never know how to unsay them. Instead, I want to thank the folks who pointed it out to me. It’s never easy to admit being wrong, but it’s a lot easier than continuing to offend. I think it’s a valuable lesson to remember that when we make jokes, if it is at anyone else’s expense, it ceases to be funny. It's a brutal reminder to really think before we speak.

My sincere apologies as well as a thank you for the wake up call. My shoe isn’t very tasty, and I really would like to remove it from my diet.

Gracefully Aging

Last night, during one of the warmer nights of the season, I offered to take the kids for ice cream after dinner. The local ice cream shop is operated by a family we know, so any excuse to go there is a good one.

When we got there, the drive through line was about 10 vehicles deep so we decided to go in. I'm really not quite sure I ever want my life to move so rapidly that I cannot pause to order ice cream.

We placed our orders as I glanced around the parlor. I noticed an elderly lady, thick knit cardigan on, polishing the last of a sundae. I was impressed that she could finish an entire Peanut Buster Parfait, but there was a slight stab in my heart that she was there alone. I didn't want to stare, but I couldn't help but glance at her table from time to time.

Within a moment or two, her elderly companion joined her and she handed him the last bit of the sundae which he finished with gusto. Then he slowly stood up and picked up her jacket, holding it delicately to put over her sweater laden shoulders. They threw out their single sundae and headed to the car.

What seemed to be an ordinary moment caught my attention. You see, that is where beauty lies. Not in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary. First, I felt silly for being surprised to see elderly at an ice cream parlor. I don't know why people would like ice cream any less as they age. In fact, it's a treat that has no age discrimination. Second, I got a craving for the same sundae she had. Third, I was charmed by the simple chivalry in his behavior and their slow routined pace to their car, where they were met by a small fluffy dog.

I didn't mean to stare. I really didn't. I hope they didn't notice. I just couldn't help but feel in awe of the simple, basic, everyday love and affection they shared.

I ordered the same sundae, incidentally.

Dear Lord

An opinion piece about a new facebook group that opposes President Barack Obama. Dear Lord.

Prom as a Rite of Passage

It's been an interesting week in the Fresh home. Our firstborn who is a freshman in high school was asked to the Prom.

Watching her wings open conjures all sorts of parental angst. The logical side of our brain knows it's time to let her open her wings, the emotional side knows that with wing opening comes more dangers. We want to cite the dangers of flying, but also know that it's how she must learn to soar and that flying always begins with a few false starts.

The question probably most accurately isn't whether if she is ready to fly, but rather are we ready to let her fly?  Someone reminded me today that a lot of girls never even get asked to their dances. I traveled back over a quarter century.

***

It was my senior year. I wanted to go to the prom in the worst way. It was the mid 80s and I envisioned a pink, ruffled, crinolined skirt, off the shoulder Scarlett O'Hara-esque look. I wanted to know what this rite of passage was all about. What I lacked, however, was a date. It began to feel hopeless when a twist of fate put a situation before me. A friend of mine broke up with the boy she was going to the prom with about two weeks before the dance. I knew he already had ordered his tuxedo and it was non-refundable. Stalking like a desperate female, I saw opportunity and decided to pounce.

I had always been quite shy in high school. I preferred the world of books to the world of dating and my grades reflected as much. I don't know what inspired me, but I decided to ask this boy to the prom. I hardly knew him, but figured I could appeal to his practical side. Gathering every ounce of courage I had, I asked if I could talk to him after lunch. With a bit of stammering, I asked if he'd be interested in salvaging his tux deposit by going to the prom with me.

He smiled shyly and said yes. Then he suggested we probably ought to get to know each other before prom and we went to a coffee house one evening to visit. He was a perfect gentleman. The night of prom arrived and we spent the evening surrounded by mutual friends. We danced and laughed, it was a perfect evening. I was so proud of my date for being brave when he glanced across the room and saw his ex-girlfriend with her new beau. After the prom, I had forgotten to put a key into my itty bitty evening bag, and I had to call the local firetruck to bring a ladder to climb into my house to change clothing for the afterprom. That had to be qute the image in the crinoline, me climbing a firetruck ladder to shimmy through my brother's bedroom window.

OH, but it was a memorable weekend and I'm so grateful to the boy who said yes. I'll never forget it. Belated thanks!

Two interesting asides: My prom date and my then future spouse share a first name. The future spouse's high school was holding their prom in the other half of the banquet hall. Years later, our wedding reception was held in the same room as my prom. I opted out of the Scarlett O'Hara look for that night, mercifully.

***

As parents, we decided on a conditional yes.

To be safe while she's reaching new heights, she has to wear a helmet.

That ought to do it. I wonder if it should match her shoes or her dress.

(photo: the author, though the dress wasn't as pink as I remembered and the crinoline was lumpy) I still wouldn't trade it.

Go Fish

Growing up on a farm in a small town, I was asked by my sophisticated city cousins and friends, "Don't you ever get bored?" Alternatively, "What do you do for fun?"

My grandparents had a small lake and a rowboat and many summer evenings after Grandma had cleaned up the dinner dishes, she would grab her tackle box and walk down to the lake. She would take the rowboat to the middle of the water. As the ripples gently lapped the side of her boat, the sun cast a fiery glow on the placid water as it set behind the pine grove. Grandma would cast out her line. The red and white bobber would float gracefully on the surface of the water and Grandma would just watch for a nibble. We lived nearby and sometimes we would go visit in the evening. I loved when we got there before Grandma went out in the water, but if I did not, I would wait patiently on the dock until Grandma was done.

The times I was able to go out on the boat with her, I would chatter up a storm. Grandma would just smile and keep watching the bobber. One day she told me how fish would not bite if there is talking. I understood. This was a time to be quiet. Most of the time we never even caught any fish, but we never felt cheated. Rowing the boat back to the shore, cleaning up the tackle box and walking through the field back to the house, I learned the importance of silence in my life.

Today, when the noise in my world threatens to overwhelm me, I pause and reflect. When I find myself running from one lesson to another, to the grocery store and then to the cleaners, I mentally row out on my grandparent's lake and cast out my line. I still rarely catch any fish. However, it never has been about the fish.

I row back in renewed and fresh.
****

Thank you, Grandma.

When I was a young married adult, my grandparents split their farm into saleable lots. My spouse and I thought about buying the lake, but without the path to and from the house, it felt less than authentic. It was more important to let someone else create a new magic on the lake. I pray they did.

I dedicate this story to my grandmother, Gertrude, who would have been 96 today. She was one of the most incredible women my life ever touched.

She didn’t end her life on the farm with the lake, but I doubt she ever needed the lake to know the importance of fishing. Thank you, always, Grandma. We love you and will always hold you close. You are our matriarch.

Hermit crabs and other assorted family pets

Is there any request harder to resist as a parent than, “Can we get a pet?” The nurturer in us wants our children to learn the responsibility of caring for a living creature; the overworked parent in us is unprepared to take on yet another responsibility.

Couple that with a spouse who simply has no desire to have an animal in the house and the path to pet ownership is a difficult one. The pet faction in our house is affirmative by 75 percent. However, that 25 percent negative vote is a strong one. Majority does not rule when the 25 percent is adamantly negative.

My children have gone to great lengths in an attempt to sway the decision. I can never forget the play they performed where the younger one crawled around barking and panting in a makeshift costume comprised of paper puppy ears and socks on her hands. The older one pretended to care for her, of course taking a little too much joy in yanking her sister around by a collar. The demonstration being that they were well aware of the intricacies of pet care, not that the older child likes yanking the younger one around.

I became an accomplice with my daughters last winter. I began with bird feeders scattered throughout the yard, progressing to butterfly gardening in the spring and feeding a stray cat in the early summer. Finally, it became apparent that I too was part of the conspiracy to have a non-human living creature become part of our household. We’d take clandestine trips to the pet store and window shop, spending a few moments holding and petting assorted pets.

It reached a fever pitch when I finally persuaded my husband to at least consider a fish tank. A weak compromise at best, as there is a certain art to keeping fish alive. After about six flushed fish, we realized that the chemistry involved in aquarium ownership is far too complicated for our family. The carnivore fish-eating snail in the tank did not help matters any. Eventually, and we learned far more about the circle of life than ever intended. Many tears and fish funerals later, we decided that a snail was not an exciting pet, sending us back to the pet store for possible alternatives.

There we spied the perfect pet. A hermit crab. No water or chemicals to balance, no fur to shed, no waste to scoop, no noise. But a pet nonetheless. Thus, Hermy became a member of our family. Hermy is a rather shy fellow but occasionally he will get out and crawl around, munching his assorted foods. We discovered that Hermy likes fish flakes, which is quite a blessing since we had a plethora of those, and no living fish. After about two months and a pet that was still living, we decided Hermy needed a companion. We brought home Raindrop, another hermit crab. Raindrop makes Hermy seem like a party animal, as she primarily burrows into the corner and we never see her move. We’ve brought home two more hermit crabs and learned again about the circle of life via their deaths, yet Hermy and Raindrop persist.

I was a little sad for my girls that their hermit crabs weren’t traditional pets. Hermy and Raindrop will never play fetch or snuggle on a lap. In fact, Hermy pinched my daughter one day and I thought she her heart was going to break in half. How could her pet that she loved bite her?

With many kisses and reassurances from me, as well as a really colorful bandage, my daughter came to forgive Hermy and loved him even more. She’d cautiously warn anyone who wanted to hold Hermy that he gets scared and may bite. She protected Hermy like a mother bear with a cub.

I still feel my children are a little shortchanged in the pet department. About the only time we ever see our crabs move is immediately after their baths and then they crawl around for a few moments. Then I hear the gleeful giggles as Hermy and Raindrop scamper down the hall. I know they love their pets.

One day I commented that our hermit crabs don’t do very much. Very seriously, my 5 year old looked at me and said, “Mommy, they are nocturnal aminals”, (yes that was the pronunciation, though nocturnal was said correctly). With amazement I raised an eyebrow asking, “Nocturnal?”. Matter-of-factly she continued, “That means they are active at night.” Still in bewilderment I asked, “Where did you learn that word?” My 8 year old piped in, “I told her all about nocturnal aminals,” she continued, “like bats and owls too.” As my amazement at my little biologists faded, I realized that not only are they happy with their pets, but they are learning more about unconditional love than I ever imagined.

Last night, when I went up to bed, I heard a rustling in the cage. I crouched next to the hermit crabs and saw them crawling around and playfully chasing each other. I wanted to wake my daughters immediately and tell them that Hermy and Raindrop did something. But then I realized my girls already knew that. They already knew that our crabs were nocturnal and had told me so. My girls wouldn’t need to see what the crabs were doing to believe that they did it. They went by what they knew and believed.

The faith and patience of children. The littlest amongst us teach us the greatest lessons. I’ve learned from my children how to better be a parent. They accept their pets for what they are and what they do and love them unconditionally no matter what expectations they may have had. They’ve learned that it isn’t about what their pets can do for them; it is about what they can do for their pets. Each day they have a new food that they’ve read hermit crabs may enjoy. We have the best-fed hermit crabs on the planet. Today they sampled some cat food, left from feeding the stray cats, of course! They love knowing that they keep two miniature creatures alive and thriving. The rewards are limited, yet vast. And isn’t that what it’s all about?

At one time, our family had seven happy hermit crabs. They were charming. My favorites were Forrest and his Jenny, because we bought them at the same time. We have since become dog people, but I still miss not having to pick up after hermit crabs. Nor did they need brushing, walking, or intense affection. Neither did they bark incessantly when I was trying to talk to someone important on the phone. But I still wouldn't trade our misnamed dog, Einstein, for anything. Except maybe another hermit crab.

Best. Day. Ever.

Yesterday, I posed the question on my Facebook page, asking my friends to describe their "best day ever".

Considering the average age of my friends, I was asking them to choose one day out of approximately 15,000 days.  Heck, I was asking myself to do as much.

My friends were generous and thoughtful in their replies. One friend was so silly I literally snorted as I read his reply. We all have touchstones with a great day, the day we'd like to replay/relive/reenact. The majority of my friends cited their wedding day, with a close second as the birth of their child or grandchild.

Without doubt, such days are special beacons of light in my own life. But if I'm being brutally honest, while special, I cannot claim them as "best days". My wedding day was shadowed by nerves about a life changing choice, bickering divorced parents, and a gown that rubbed my shoulders raw from the tulle that made the sleeves puff. The birth of my first child was fraught with fear, because she was 5 weeks early and had trouble breathing. I won't even mention the pain of natural childbirth. I don't denigrate such examples to take away from the fact that both days were glorious and wonderful days in my life, but rather to suggest they weren't my "best. day. ever."

No, my dearest readers, I rather would like to tell you about a day in my life that hasn't been topped yet. I hold out faith that the best is yet to come, but when I look back, this particular day is about as close to perfect as I can remember. I wish I was writing then and had taken notes, perhaps with the ill guided belief that I could possibly duplicate such a day. I am not hopelessly mired in the past. This is just a day I will never forget and can honestly say, everything about that day was perfect.

I humbly present : my own personal Best. Day. Ever.

I was in college and we were on one of the last ever family vacations at the Jersey shore. I had made friends with some locals. My friend MC arranged for us to come up and spend a day at his parents' house so we could head into NYC to see our first ever Broadway show.

My brother, my best friend, and myself were all guests of his family. We slept at his house (where we could walk to the top of his street and overlook the skyline of NYC) and got up that day and went into Manhattan. We had a hearty breakfast that can only be prepared by a mom. (love you Mrs. C, still all these years later!) We rode the bus into The Port Authority. We spent the day exploring the city, our two streetwise friends trying not to laugh at their Ohio bumpkin guests. We went down 42nd street, where I was baffled by the man standing outside an adult theater bawking like a chicken. My streetwise friend explained he was actually selling crack. Crack crack craaaaaaaaaawk.  Yeah, I was naive.

We shopped in Greenwich Village, where my other friend told us Ric Ocasek from The Cars complimented her earrings. We laughed, ate dinner, and headed off to the show. Did I mention that our tickets were free as the result of a friend of the "mom who cooked us breakfast" making a phone call. Does it get cooler than that?

We saw the show Dreamgirls. Yeah. That one. The show that later became a movie and the vehicle for Jennifer Hudson's fame. But this was way back. This was Dreamgirls in 1987. It was spectacular. The original production before anyone knew how huge it could be. It was incredible.

After the show, our seasoned, somewhat blase tour guide suggested we do "that tourist thing" of a ride around Central Park on a horse drawn carriage.

We paid the man and did the "tourist thing" much to the indulgence of our native friends. It was ... unforgettable.

We rode the bus back to my friend's parents' home. Our day ended as beautifully as it began.

I still consider this day magic, over 20 years later, because I am still friends with everyone involved. It was a spectacular, love filled day with friends who will never forget each other.

Jackie, Mike, Doug. Thanks for being there.

I love you, always.

I look forward to making the best better, I never settle, but still remember the day everything was perfect.

What I do not like about certain talk show hosts

I have decided not to use his name, because the talk show host I reference already approaches demi-god (demagogue) status in popularity. I prefer not to build on that. I’ve used his name several times on my Facebook page in an attempt to understand his appeal, and few of his fans have accepted my invitation to explain his appeal.

The best/only answers I received are “he is funny”, “why does he make liberals so mad”, and “liberals have the rest of the media”.

If mocking those you don’t agree with and ridiculing them instead of engaging in sincere dialogue is funny, he is indeed funny. I think that is why I am most angry. My views are reduced to a scornful, scathing label. I am now simply one of those liberals. I am angry at the lack of respect that is encouraged by such media kingpins. I feel defensive around family and friends in ways I never did prior. My friends are encouraged to speak up in such a way that attacks me personally. I cannot tell you the amount of hateful forwarded email and posts I receive with the demand that I answer these charges, because I am one of those liberals. The contempt for my opinion hurts. Instead of dialogue, it is about name-calling. Political differences have taken friends away from me. I would blithely like to reply that “they weren’t that good of friends anyway” but that is not true. They were, it stings, and I miss them.

I have a lifetime of experience that predicates the way I lean and the values I hold close to my heart. I do not insult other peoples’ walks in life; mine is no less valuable than theirs is. In college, I ran for a student government office. A good friend of mine was managing my campaign and advised me to learn to keep my temper under control, that anger and disdain for those who didn’t agree with me would hurt my chances. I learned that lesson years ago and even though I did not win the election, I won something much more important. I won the ability to listen to and respect everyone’s view.

As far as the having a lock hold on the “rest of the media” goes, I beg to differ. That implies that only one side uses the media, buys television time and appears in the newspapers. Our current administration is in place largely due to grassroots efforts, not mass media. Absolutely, as the stories gained momentum, the media reported them, but the media reports what is happening. The same thing has happened with the tea party movement. I do appreciate op/ed pieces and I read both sides, but when one side continually engages in divisive behavior intended to turn us against each other, I stop listening. Incidentally, I no longer listen to Michael Moore, either, because I found the title of his book Stupid White Men to be utterly insulting. To borrow from Forest Gump, stupid is as stupid does. Moore engaged in the same disturbing behavior and subsequently lost my respect. I am not interested in listening to anyone who uses insults to pull us apart.

What most stuns me is his attack on religions that support social justice; the straw that broke my back. I take my faith very seriously. Slight and belittle me, but when my core belief is insulted, watch out. I want to throw my hands up in disgust. Instead, I will try to repair my broken back and build a bridge. My upbringing as a Christian indeed emphasizes social justice, yet I do not feel anything close to a Communist or Nazi. Such statements insult the real spirit of Christian generosity. As a Christian, I know not to store up riches on earth, to share with the poor, and to help my brother or sister however I can. I do not view such choices as a ticket to eternity but rather instructions how to make the world we live in today a better place.

My faith gives me hope in what at times seems to be a hopeless world. But beyond that, what if we substitute the word nice or kind for Christian? What if we just are nice and kind to those we encounter, in every step of our daily walk? What if we do such things not in the framework of an organized religion, but simply as a member of the human race?

AT THE BIJOU: DANCING WITH THE CLOUDS

My lovely friend and writing colleague, Absolutely*Kate has featured one of my pieces on her writer's blog, AT THE BIJOU.

I'm so thrilled to be on her marquis, pop over and say hello...

Thank you friends!

AT THE BIJOU: DANCING WITH THE CLOUDS

*wink wink, nudge nudge* it gets better...

as soon as you buy my beachfront land in Arizona.

I follow this hilarious mom blog written by a few mothers of preschoolers and young children. At first, it was an older, wiser look back of "thank goodness" I'm past those days. But suddenly, as I read today's post and wanted to patronize the writers with kindly pat on the head and assurance it would improve, I knew I was full of sh**.

I am the parent of two daughters, 6th and 9th grade. They've outgrown Hannah Montana (and I'll never tell anyone that on occasion they haven't because on the off chance that their friends somehow or another discovered my blog (as if) and read this... THEY HAVE OUTGROWN THE MOUSE*EAR CHANNEL AND ALL ITS OVEREXPOSED STARS).

They have outgrown Mommy and Me outings, unless it includes a credit card with unlimited dollars but extremely limited input from said Mommy.

And, they are in school "allday" which really amounts to 4 hours to myself in which to run the errands that make their lives go smoothly. And try to freelance write.

So, we start with the guilt laden question from the day they were potty trained. "When will you go back to work?" This question was usually met with the incredulous stare of "what do you mean back?" For 24/7, I was on diaper then potty, feeding, cleaning, and entertainment duty. Assuming it was until both children were in school "allday", that is approximately 28,200 hours, 705 weeks, 13.5 years (based on a 40 hour work week with no vacation schedule), of solid work and you have the flippen nerve to inquire WHEN I WILL GO BACK TO WORK?

Nonetheless, I felt compelled over the past several years to attempt that "back" stuff. I sold kitchen gadgets, I worked at the church, I wrote about men's shirts for a catalogue, I used to get up at 3 AM every morning to work as an editor for a European website. (3 AM because there were no interrruptions and because it fit in well with their start of day timezone).

Now, I'm back to work as an unpaid taxi driver and staff to two kids, a dog and a spouse.

Yeah. Back.

Oh I was supposed to talk about how it got better, right? (s'cuse me, there's something jamming my fingers, knuckle crack) ahhh yes.

Don't worry mommies, it gets better.

Don't mistake my sincerity for sarcasm.

You can look forward to the day your child barges into the bathroom, not to help you pee, but to rummage for the hairspray that works better than hers.

You can look forward to the day that you graduate from the eyeroll to the simple glare of somehow or another behaving inappropriately in public. Public can be defined as anywhere anyone who may know someone who knows someone and text back can be. Inappropriate can be defined as picking lint off the sleeve, saying hello, or even worse, greeting a friend of theirs. It makes no difference if you've known this friend since preschool and they once sang Barney songs together. (attempt to be cool mom disclaimer: they did not watch it, mom just had the TV on that channel!)  If that friend and your child are no longer in the same social strata of middle or high school, it's an unforgivable crime to greet them. Unless your child greets them first.

You are required to master the art of texting, because a phone call indicates the dreaded, I have a parent sign. Yeah, because your peers, like the Disney icons before them lead completely parent free unsupervised lives. Uh huh.

You are subjected to demands of "absolutely nothing to wear" the minute you've finished the last load of laundry. Made me long for the days when dad dressed them. I cannot believe I used to cringe at the get ups. Dad actually once took daughter to dance lessons with the tights OVER her leotard (like pants?).  I should have celebrated them so they didn't have such a ridiculous sense of fashion that there are varying degrees of appropriate jeans. Last year, after such an announcement, coupled with a demand, I made it easy on said child. I took all her clothing with the exception of five outfits. I figured that she would be less overwhelmed about her choices of what to wear. She was allowed to choose the five. I'm not THAT mean.

In fact, I'm so nice that instead of getting up to write for Europeans (for pay) at 3 AM, I get up to make sure the last load of laundry for your sporting event is finished before said offspring goes to school. And she better not flippen dare tell me she has nothing to wear, or she'll wear that clean sports uniform. Ungrateful one!

You are required to color code charts and overlaying calendars to make sure every child is at the required place at the appropriate time. Heaven forbid you suggest they find a ride. Even worse, I've discovered are the times you offer to drive another child home (in the hopes of reciprocation) and decide to stop at the store because you're driving right past it for that loaf of bread, deposit said child at doorway 5 minutes late with a parent pacing the driveway wondering where their precious offspring could be.

Pour me a glass of wine.

WAIT!

School all day also means your child will receive DARE education, which is noble but also means that if you so much as have a glass of wine in the sight of your child, you will be lectured by said child about the evils of alcohol.

So yeah, moms, it gets better when they go to school all day and you go back to work.

No, that is not my nose growing. It's my wallet, getting stretched. Because I haven't figured out a way to be paid for all my nonwork hours of taxi driving, laundry doing, and errand running, yet. But I'm a writer. Really.

Tagged, I'm It!

Blogger friend, Kass, who mercifully is no longer silent, has tagged her readers in a simple fun photo tag.

*Instructions*

Open your photo folder and go to the 10th photo, post and tell us the story behind it. OH wow.

This photo was taken with my daughters the last Halloween before we moved away from our home on the west side of Cleveland in 2007. We moved 10 days after this photo was taken. In the background, you can see a rose trellis, which was part of my beloved rose garden. The window on the left hand side was my office and the little rose garden and bird feeders out front of it used to keep me company when I wrote.

We built that home in 1997, and the first rose I planted was when my Grandmother passed away in 1998. She had lived in Texas and we always called her the Yellow Rose of Texas, so I chose a yellow tea rose to remember her. As my rose garden expanded, I planted a rose for every female in the family.

The little "candy corn" was the Circus Rose because from the first time she was old enough to laugh, she was a little clown, spreading her giggles like rose petals. The little devil's rose was the Queen Elizabeth rose, a regal name for a regal child. There was also a Gertrude rose the most lovely deep pink rose, for my other grandmother who was a thousand times more beautiful than her old fashioned name. There was also a Firecracker rose in honor of my favorite holiday, and a Broadway rose for an occasionally dramatic member of our family.

Moving away was not an easy moment for me, I've written about it before, I had not lived anywhere for that many years in my life. I wasn't looking forward to starting over somewhere new, but the nature of employment in manufacturing means you go where the jobs are. It could have been Mexico or China. Mercifully, it was only 90 miles away. Sometimes I still get mad at the new owners who have let my precious roses go.

But instead, I'll cherish photos like this and make new memories at this house. That reminds me, it's time to start planning this year's garden.

Time Machine Day

I've been doing a serious purge around the house lately. It's slow going because I'm a sentimental sort of gal. This purge started in January... see what I mean? But yesterday, I discovered a paper I wrote back in 1987, for an undergraduate English class. It was a humor piece about...

Why I Did Not, Nor Would Not, Use Computers

I am so amused by this eerily prophetic piece that I am compelled to share it with you today.

To those people who consider a personal computer to be nothing more than a television floating on top of a typewriter, terms such as PC, diskette, and byte have virtually no meaning. These people are not alone, for I too belong to this pitiful group of lost souls. The closest I've ever come to being user friendly was playing video games on an Atari when I was in junior high. My computer vocabulary consisted of Space Invaders and Pac-Man. Although I recently learned that a PC is short for personal computer, my vocabulary is rather limited. Diskettes and bytes still remain a mystery.

"Once you try it, you'll love it!" my user friends exclaim. User is an appropriate term. It conjures images of drug abuse and sexual conquering. Perhaps a computer can be likened to a seductive woman or illicit drug. It traps and entices, shackles and addicts. The seemingly innocent box of plastic and wire whispers, "Come on baby, Touch my keyboard and watch me light up. I want you to get close to me." A computer somehow manages to enamor even the most steadfast opponents. I revel in watching a user cringe as I set up the typewriter to type something from rough copy. Their pain is visible as unsolicited lectures about how much easier a PC would be while informal lessons in programming begin. Perhaps people writing with fountain pens once received similar endorsements concerning ball-point pens. Once addicted, any habit is hard to break.

Television advertisements extol the virtues of a home computer. I used to believe the ability to type was a valuable commodity. Typing is no longer sufficient, as the world's fasted typist tells me how a computer improved her speed. Parents who want to give their children the best of everything are urged to buy a home computer. Certainly, a child who grows up without a computer will never be able to function properly in society. Granted, computers can do many things better than I can; plan a budget, store information, or process a report. I simply remain unconvinced that our national security will be endangered should people choose not to buy a computer. If anything, national security seems more threatened, remember the movie War Games? Is nothing sacred in the world of computers?

Of course society does have to progress with the times. Communication has come a long way since the days of cave drawings. From stone tablets to quill and scroll to pen and paper to typewriters, the evolution to computers logically follows. Elimination of error is a continual striving of man. With each step in the communication hierarchy, another factor of human error is removed; no ink blotches, misspellings, typos, or uneven margins. Computers provide the ultimate in perfection. I'm not ready for perfection, even if I am willing to make concessions to changing times. After all, I would not want to buy a Sunday paper composed of stone tablets.

Call me conventional. Call me afraid. I admit that I am old-fashioned and set in my ways. If nothing else though, computers are an expensive investment. With each new model, the old becomes obsolete. So many advances are being made on a regular basis that a home computer which came out 10 years ago is literally worthless with today's newer components. In terms of consumer buying habits, I suppose I am a laggard. But until I succumb to the temptations of a PC, I will plug away on my trusty typewriter. Ignorance is bliss.

Copied and Borrowed Bread

Sometimes someone else says it better, and this is such a time for me:
from a NY Times comment section about the Tea Party movement:

I am a conservative. I believe in:


Conserving the environment

Conserving a woman's right to choose

Conserving the quality of life for the middle class

Conserving the rights of all people to live the life they choose with whom they choose in the way they choose

Conserving the right to believe in God or not

Conserving my right to pursue a long and healthy life

Conserving the infrastructure that made this nation great.

I believe in paying my taxes, all of them.

I do not believe in loopholes, corporations having the rights of individual humans, congress having more access to health care than the poorest of the poor.

Who knew I would ever label myself a conservative?

What will you give up for Lent?

As the Christian world prepares for 40 days of solemn reflection in anticipation of Easter, a time honored tradition is to "give up something". I've taken a slightly different point of view on this tradition... read on...

What will you give up for Lent?

Disturbing Do-Gooding

Whenever disaster strikes, it usually is just a matter of time before the altruism turns sour and motives become questionable.  The news is abuzz with a story of a missionary in Haiti who has been arrested under suspicion of child trafficking. What I personally find most disturbing about this story is the layers of arrogance and presumption. To recap:

An Idaho based group, the New Life Children's Refuge had been working to set up Haitian and Dominican orphanages since last November. A noble mission, to be certain, until the leadership comes under a microscope.

The woman who founded the group, Laura Silsby, has a slew of legal and financial problems. Her house was foreclosed in December, she has 14 claims for unpaid wages and is scheduled to appear in court for unpaid legal debt later this month. Why someone with so many domestic problems would leave the country to rescue orphans suddenly feels suspect.

This writer's opinion is that sheer arrogance drove the mission. Why the same funds weren't spent helping expert disaster relief organizations is beyond my comprehension. When the runways and ports of this tiny island are cluttered with handfuls of do-gooders who cannot possibly be as well trained as the professionals, it screams "pompous".

Naturally, there is an inclination to want to help. The news is absolutely heartbreaking. But I wouldn't know the first thing about outfitting a rescue mission to an earthquake ravaged island in a different country. I think it's a safe assumption that neither did Laura Silsby. I will give her mission the benefit of the doubt, despite her questionable business records. I will assume her heart was in the right place, but clearly it pushed her common sense aside to make room. Unfortunately, these are the sort of stories that make headlines. Stories of do-gooding gone bad detract from truly effective relief.

Doctors without Borders has been working in Haiti for 19 years, providing ethical and impartial medical assistance in not just Haiti but nearly 60 other countries that are in need. The American Red Cross has so far spent or committed nearly $78 million to meet the most urgent needs of earthquake survivors in Haiti. Hope for Haiti has been assisting the nation for over 20 years.

Nowhere in any of these organizations' literature is there a request for an ill equipped do-gooder from Idaho with legal problems to fly into the nation and rescue 10 orphans. They ask for donations, for blood, and for professionals to apply for organized mission trips. There are so many ways to help. I hope that stories of such misguided altruism do not halt the much needed assistance through the proper channels. Even a simple click is something.

How can you help today?

Thank you for Commenting!

As promised in my post last week, I have donated a dollar per comment to the Doctors without Borders organization. Due to the number of comments on my Facebook page, my Care2 page, and here, while some overlapped, I donated the full pledge.

http://freshfreeemail.blogspot.com/2010/01/haitian-relief-efforts.html


Thank you for making it fun to make a difference! Please visit my blog again.
~Kim

Ten Things I Love

This was a simultaneously difficult and easy exercise. My first reaction was to list true “things” like dark chocolate, Springsteen, roses and other assorted brown paper packages tied up in string. However, I realized that those things are as close as my next thought. The joy elicited by each of the aforementioned items is equal whether it is a tangible moment or not.

Instead I decided to list moments in life that can be repeated and evoke multiple layers of memories, joy and love. There is no particular order to these items; I prefer to think that at any given moment I can love all of these opportunities equally.

One of the things I most love is a full night’s sleep. It is a simple pleasure, but an unusual one for me so I truly appreciate it. Since becoming a mother, I have been plagued with insomnia. Even when the children were old enough to sleep all night, I have not yet mastered it. Therefore, I appreciate going to bed and waking up a full 6-7 hours later. Incidentally, I just had a full night’s sleep and I am basking in joy.

Even if I cannot sleep well, I at least take pleasure in my children sleeping well. Another love of mine is tucking them in at night and waking them up in the morning. I cherish those moments even more as they get older, ever cognizant that their time at home is dwindling. However, for now, their cocoon is home and I am the matriarch.

I like sleeping outdoors. I love the symphony of nature. I love the stars over my head; I love the fresh morning air. While I do not love the act of packing a tent and setting up camp, or even roughing it too much, the love of sleeping outside is worth all the effort. This leads to my next item, watching a sunrise over the ocean. As a college kid, I slept on the beach and woke up in time to watch the sunrise. My days of sleeping on the beach are long past, but I never miss an ocean sunrise when I am near the water. Lest I come off as obsessed with sleep, I am more fanatical about rejuvenation. One of the most important gifts we can give ourselves is the true time to pause. Like the story of creation, time to rest is crucial.

This comes to my next love. I love believing in God. I love the absolute faith that what we know is not as good as the universe gets, but that something more wonderful than we can even imagine waits for us. I love that I can trust in something I cannot prove. I love the simple knowledge that I am unique, loved, and a work in progress. I love knowing that eternity waits for me and that life on earth is merely the beginning of the wonders of creation. I take extreme comfort in my faith.

My faith teaches me about my next love, my love of listening and learning. I put these together because you cannot learn without listening and you cannot listen, truly listen, without learning. Flip sides of the same coin. I love knowing that I do not have all the answers and that the possibilities are endless to acquire new information. People fascinate me; everyone I meet has something new to teach me, bringing gifts of wisdom from the path of their own lives.

The next three things I love are skills I have learned over the years. When I was a child, my grandmother taught me to bake bread from scratch. Kneading the dough, watching it rise, punching it down, smelling it bake, all this brings me love on many levels. It also explains the title of my blog, from a personal level. (Ironically, the blog originally was titled Pillow Talk, referencing my love of sleep!)

Another childhood skill was learning to play piano. While I never was an excellent pianist, the joy of sitting at the piano and playing Fir Elise by heart thrills me. I played it for a competition and just hearing the first few notes of that song brings back the challenge of preparing for that recital. Because I took lessons, I have an appreciation of music on a level I may not have otherwise. I know what work it is to make music, true music.

The third love in this category is a recent love. I ran my first 5K this past fall. I plan to run several more this year. I love the challenge of pushing my body past where I thought it could go and competing with myself to improve.

My last love is the love of making a difference. Whether that difference is for others or for me, the only permanence in life is change. Change is not scary if I am actively seeking it and hoping to better the world. I have always been in love with a good cause and love finding creative ways to improve the corner of the world I inhabit. I have a gift of expressing myself with words and I am grateful that I am able to use them make a difference.

If you have read this, please share with me something you love. Alternatively, consider yourself tagged and create your own list of 10 things you love.

Thanks for tagging me, blog friends. This was a beautiful way to start my day…

With love,

Kim

Haitian relief efforts

LAST DAY TO COMMENT!

A lovely member of several writing groups I participate in has pledged a dollar to Doctors without Borders for every comment left on her blog from now until Friday.

Thank you for paying it forward, and you've also inspired me to pledge the same, via this blog. I also will donate a dollar (up to $100 dollars) for every comment left here. I will post the final receipt from the donations next Monday.

Spread the word, my friends!

http://linda-leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/2010/01/helping-haiti-cash-for-your-comments.html

*UPDATE*
Not even 12 hours into this "comment-athon" we're at $20. Additionally, my writing colleague, John Ettorre, has pledged to match funds to $25.00. I am truly overjoyed and humbled by the support everyone is showing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

**UPDATE #2**
Tomorrow is the last day, we're about halfway to my full pledge... I've never had so much fun giving money away. Help me reach the full amount and tell your friends to come sign!

"One more year from being a child? ...

... That does not sound like growing!"

(from Richard Bach's There's No Such Place as Faraway)

An ongoing discussion in our household is when to allow certain privileges. Sometimes the law mandates such discussions a moot point. My children cannot drive until they are 16 nor can they vote in elections or get married.

Some of the other privileges are more ambiguous. It is not easy to determine the age when certain privileges are granted. My firstborn had to wait an inordinate amount of time before we allowed her to have contact lenses. Movies were another issue; we only saw G rated movies for several years. I remember the first PG movie we went to see, at age 5 and 7. PG because a minor character dies offscreen. I wasn't too concerned, and rather was excited to see my little ones growing up and it was an animated remake of a childhood favorite of my own, Treasure Island.

It proved to be an error in judgment. We got fast food toys that tied into the movie during lunch before the show. My 5 year old was thrilled with her little guy and couldn't wait to see what sort of character he was. You guessed it. He was the one who died. After the movie, she declared she would never smile again.  As I heard her announce that, my heart fell. A month later, she did decide to smile again, and even chose the movie as her birthday theme, which helped me feel much better about my decision.

Since that moment, I've tried to be mindful of age appropriate privileges, to weigh parental responsibility against peer pressure. No cosmetics until 7th grade, but leg shaving came when they started to feel self-conscious; no age discussions even took place. It's a delicate balance to walk. No dating until 10th grade, but they can go places in groups with both boys and girls.

Our latest issue is about the social network site Facebook. My 12 year old insists all her friends have one except her. Without one, her social opportunities are stunted. Indeed, I have some of her friends on my own page, and also I see they have fudged their age. I'm torn on this one. While I see nothing inherently dangerous or wrong with participating in such a venue, I also do not want to endorse lying about her age. It may seem harmless today, but I wonder how it will seem if she's "just fudging her age" a bit as a young adult to get into nightclubs? I also stress the opposite side and refuse to misrepresent their age to get a meal or admission discount.

I wrote last week on another blog how sometimes just the answer "because I said so" is adequate. This however, seems to be the opportunity for a deeper discussion. I'm not likely to change my mind, but I am hoping to make my stance more clear. Under the category of knowing what I know now, there is indeed a time for everything. We have the rest of our lives to do the adult things. I often tell my kids that now is the time for them to do things only kids can do, like be in marching band or speech and debate or school plays. My time has passed for those things, but I don't want them to miss it because they are too busy using their time doing things they have the rest of their lives to do.

What about you, my reader friends? What are you age limits for certain privileges?

Because I STILL Said So

"When religious leaders such as Pat Robertson attempt to explain the earthquake disaster in Haiti as part of a pact with Satan, he insults all of Christianity. The self-importance he spews to attempt to explain natural disasters in the framework of God’s will is horrifying."

to read more and participate in a very lively discussion, click here

Shine

Since the New Year began, I have been ensconced in office cleaning. I am not the sort of person who thinks organization matters, until I cannot see what I’m doing. I adhere to the slogan, “organized people are just too lazy to look for things”, and yet I silently envy them.

Organization is not something that comes naturally or easily to me. When I worked at the grocery store and literally was responsible for nearly a million dollars/week, I had no choice but to be organized and have a militant system for such organization. We had spreadsheets and weekly balance charts that required as much. I never wavered from my rule, do everything in the exact order, every time, the same exact way. It was my way of ensuring organization. I’ve even preached it to my daughters.

However, I digress, as I often do. You see, were it not for my lack of organization, my memory never would have been tweaked with today’s joy. I discovered a penlight, from a church retreat in 1982.

The memories flooded. I was 15, going on 16. Only a year’s difference from my daughter today. It feels like yesterday, especially when I tell stories or give her advice. She has a crush on a boy and wants to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance. My point of reference is my own nerdy self at that age. As we’ve discussed strategies over the past week, I never imagined that I would discover a memento that would bring it all to light. Marvelous Light, even.

When I was almost her age, I went to a state retreat with my church youth group. I had a very pretty and cool best friend. She went to another school, which was almost better. We never had to discover how cool or not cool we were once we left the walls of academia behind. So we arrived on a Friday evening, her parents were the youth leaders. We were in Orlando, Florida. We sat at the group rally, wearing “high energy” surf/ski shirts and expressing our coolness as much as we could. We spied a few boys in the group next to us and that was it. That age, those desires we cannot deny… we met the holy grail of youth gatherings, “cute boys”.

We arranged our workshops to spend time with the cute boys and in the best 80s effort imaginable, we were in constant contact. That Saturday evening was an outdoor church service, where everyone in attendance was given a penlight. We stood in a field, hundreds, perhaps thousands of us, shining in the dark, singing with praise, "Into His Marvelous Light". We were so uplifted. After the service, a dance followed.

I froze with fear. My joy evaporated, replaced with terror. I had never danced. I wanted to dance, my soul ached to dance, but my feet knew there was a better time to dance. This was not such a time to subject myself to that level of humiliation. The “cute boys” were less than enamored with my refusal to dance. One cute boy danced with my friend, but my cute boy found others. It happens.

After that retreat, I spent weeks in my room, behind a closed door, counting steps, listening to things I’d rather not admit to now, practicing, dancing, and almost replicating Napoleon Dynamite. No way was I ever going to be somewhere I wouldn’t dance again. I learned, I danced, I succeeded, but that isn’t the point of my tale.

This week, my own lovely child is working up the courage to ask a handsome young boy to join her in a splendid dance. I do hope… they dance. It doesn’t matter who is or isn’t watching. I hope she dances. I look at my now dead battery of a long forgotten penlight and think, indeed, that light once shined. I want her to step gracefully into that marvelous light, I want her to shine and love and breathe and live. Today is now. The moment is here.

Shine, my baby girl. Don't let your battery die, let your light glow.

Shine.

Angels Among Us

Today I had the opportunity to stand in a very long line and watch an angel at work.

I stood in a snaking line at filled with harried people dropping off their last minute packages at the post office. At the counter, stood a lady with an unnaturally tangerine tinted, tightly set, heavily Aqua-netted hairdo, barely reaching the counter with her cards and packages. Her hearing was bad enough that the entire line was privy to her conversation with the postal clerk.

She hadn't filled out the address on her package properly and it couldn't be sent. She was asking dozens of questions, fumbling in her pocketbook, and papers fluttering like makeshift indoor snowflakes.  She clutched the handle of her bag and seemed overwhelmed. The clerk behind the counter didn't wince or lose his patience. Some folks sighed audibly while others began to shift or tap their feet. The other two clerks were moving efficently, but the third line stagnated.

The lady wanted to make sure her package arrived on time. The clerk tried to read the forms to her, but she became frustrated when she couldn't hear him. Minutes passed as she fumbled a bit more with the carbon copied forms. The sign on the counter indicated that clerks are forbidden to fill out papers of any sort. She finally gave up, knowing that she would need to go home and get someone to help her fill out her papers, hoping she could find someone to bring her back to the post office tomorrow.

I stood at the back of the line watching the scenario unfold. The clerk suggested he had a better idea and he got a priority box for her. He gently repacked the present as if it were his own and taped it shut. He explained slowly what she needed to do, "Just put this out with your mail tomorrow after you put the right address on here and you won't have to find a ride back." He didn't break any rules but he truly showed compassion and assistance.

The sweet lady thanked him over and over again, and turned to all of us in line and apologized for being so slow. I think the foot tappers may have been a little humbled. She was still rustling things back into her pocketbook when it was my turn. I just looked over at the clerk helping her and smiled.

Patience is so rare in the world these days that it really stands out. We have so many time saving devices, I'm often left wondering why there is never any spare time. I am grateful that two angels were in my path today to remind me that time is precious. The slow little old lady and her chivalrous postal clerk. While you're out there, take a moment to watch for angels. They are everywhere you look. I would love if you shared a story with us here in the comments.

With many blessings of Christmas for my readers and friends,
Kim

My Christmas Angel

I've written before about my first born, I've even had her guest blog here. But ever the neglected second born sometimes misses her equal time. On my personal Facebook page, I've been posting an ornament a day with the story behind it, I realized how truly remiss I was a few times, when I had an ornament for the first born but not second.I think it's just the universal truth behind birth order. Sorry to all non-first borns. But younger ones, take comfort in the fact that your older sibling will always think you have it easier. It balances out. Today, I will take that step.

Twelve years ago this week, my second child was due. I was rather impatient because child number one was five weeks premature. I felt as big as a house and like I was 5 weeks overdue already. I took to doing daily jumping jacks (not an image you wanted to paint, I'm sure) and contemplated four-wheeling or horseback riding. I was ready to have the baby. Even my then two year old would put her mouth to my enormous tummy and yell "Baby come out!" But that baby wasn't ready.

We tried to go about our normal Christmas preparations, which included the purchase of our tree. One crisp Friday night in early December, we went out to dinner and stopped at the brightly lit tree yard after dinner. I'm not sure when the tradition of tree shopping at night caught on, but for some reason, it is prevalent.

I had a full stomach and an even more packed intestines. Pregnancy makes a woman carbonated. As we wandered around the tree lot, my spouse, my two year old and myself, the tree guy followed perilously close.

Like any self respecting ladylike female, I tried to keep my carbonation at bay. I was not sure if I had to go the bathroom, give birth or just pass gas, but I do know my midsection was about as pressurized as a spring loaded snake in a pretend can of peanuts. You know what I'm talking about, the gag gift every crazy uncle passes around at a family gathering that inevitably scares some unsuspecting soul.

That pressure would not cooperate, and as I bent slightly to examine the branches of a Douglas Fir, the spring load released. In the No Longer Silent Night, I ripped one of enduring proportions. I was grateful for my spouse because I stared accusatorily at him and said only his name, expecting a full admission of guilt.

Befuddled, he looked at me and quizzically replied, "You're on the board? Or maybe excuse you?"

I glared at him. He missed the opportunity to be chivalrous and accept the blame. I'm really sure the tree guy wasn't fooled either, but I feel like I at least salvaged some dignity. Especially when he hurried to give us a discount on the tree. We took the tree home and decorated it and waited for that overdue baby who was the cause of my spring loaded sphincter.

Oh yeah, this story was supposed to be about her. I suppose that will come tomorrow. Please forgive me second born, Christmas Angel. You do know you're my favorite. Just ask your older sister.

Anyone know if Beano is safe to use during pregnancy?

By Request and also By Complete Endorsement

Jihads, Tigers and Bears, OH MY!

I just finished a fascinating book, Alone with a Jihadist, written by a young Christian missionary. He spend a day with a Muslim extremist for a documentary. We have communicated a bit via email, and I must say, I found my own faith challenged.

I invite you to read my review of his book, naturally followed up by reading the book itself. I'm convinced it will change your heart.

My most memorable Christmas

There are several that are memorable. Most Memorable shifts depending what taps the shoulder of my subconcious. By default, I attempt to explain most memorable, with the disclaimer that they are young memories and therefore subject to inaccuracies. Nonetheless, they are as I recall. (yes, the disclaimer is a way to placate any family member who may refute what I said and remind me of a more memorable Christmas).

When I was 5 years old, we had just moved into our farmhouse. My twin brothers were babies, we had barely gotten settled in our home. I remember snippets. We spent the better part of the past few months in my uncle's garage, driving to and from the farm house while our family brought a circa 1860 home up to 1971 code.

What I remember is going to midnight mass. I don't remember why my folks told us we wouldn't have a tree, but as an adult I assume it was the insanity of trying to get settled in a barely renovated, half finished farm house. We went to mass. That year in Kindergarten, I'd learned the words to all the carols and as the organist played the pre-service music, I was proud to sing. Loudly. I remember singing Silent Night at the top of my lungs. So much for Silent. At least the Night part was accurate.

We came back from Mass and in our foyer was a tree, filled with decorations and a big note from Santa's elves. "Santa will be back later, but we put up the tree so that he'd know where to leave the gifts". I stood in the room awed. Every kid knows, the only significance of going to Christmas Eve church is that you're one step closer to morning after Santa has arrived. Who'd think he'd send his emmissaries before him?

I never forgot that magic. Years later, the magic multiplied. At a family gathering, my aunt made a remark. "I remember that year that (my then boyfriend, now husband) went over and put up a tree for you while you were at Mass." Until I was an adult, I never knew how the tree appeared. I teased my aunt repeatedly that she shattered some magic.  That couldn't be further from the truth. She made magic.

To consider that on Christmas Eve, two college kids, who likely had many other things to do, thought the best thing to do was go put up a tree for her 5 and 3 year old niece and nephews...

Yes, there is Magic.

Thank you, many years later. Thank you to my Aunt D and Uncle L. You made magic. It continues to live.

Let's talk turkey!

As the nation prepares to celebrate our national day of thanks tomorrow, I am preparing for my first ever participation in a 5K run. I challenged myself to participate in this run over the summer, when I was encouraging my daughter to train for her Cross Country team.

I would like to tell you my training has gone well. It hasn't. I lost my mojo after I hurt my foot sometime in August. I will be walking most of the 5K, but I'm hoping to find inspiration to run it by NEXT year.

That isn't as important as the reason I'm doing the 5K. It is a charity Turkey Dash for an organization near and dear to my heart. A few years ago, a young mother I knew succumbed to her valiant battle with breast cancer. She was my neighbor and friend. While she was ill, a concern that always weighed heavily on her was how people without insurance or good jobs could possibly afford to get so ill.

Her husband started the foundation the year she died to help women undergoing breast cancer treatment. The Nakon Foundation helps women meet the costs not covered by insurance. Their first recipient was a single mother who was struggling to pay her mortgage since she had to cut her work hours. The foundation paid her mortgage while she was being treated. They have helped dozens of families around Northeast Ohio.

If you would like to start your Thanksgiving morning with an invigorating run or walk for a good cause, the Turkey Trot starts at Avon High School at 9 AM. Registration sheets can be downloaded here.

Hope to see my local friends there! Have a blessed Thanksgiving.

Feast of Flash Contest results

My esteemed writing colleague, Michael Solender, has sponsored a contest for Thanksgiving on his blog, "Not From Here, Are You?" Michael is an award winning fiction writer and a newspaper columnist for the Charlotte (NC) Observer. His generosity amazes me. The original premise of the contest was that he would award $100 to the charity of the winner's choice. Not only did he do that, but the next four runners' up also received $50 for their respective charities.

He has set a benchmark for other writers to follow. I entered a short story in the contest and was awarded an honorable mention. (My story will be published next Monday).

I prefer to give him the Most Honorable Mention award instead. I am so proud to share space with him on the Internet. Please go visit his blog and show some love. He has done something wonderful, he has paid it forward.

Thank you, Michael.

Charter for Compassion

Tomorrow marks a historic day in the world.
Author and freelance monotheist, Karen Armstrong's Charter for Compassion debuts.

Back in March this year, I wrote a short blog post titled Children of Abraham. The tragic events of the past week at Fort Hood reminded me of the post as we try to make more sense of a senseless act.

The premise of the Charter for Compassion is the Golden Rule, a central theme of all the Abrahamic religions; Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

The Golden Rule requires that we use empathy -- moral imagination -- to put ourselves in others' shoes. We should act toward them as we would want them to act toward us. We should refuse, under any circumstance, to carry out actions which would cause them harm.

As we pray and remember our veterans who have perished on both foreign soil and their own, I hope we realize we still are bound to a duty to act with compassion. Compassion is not pity or self serving duty. Compassion is referred to by all world religions, in some form of the famous Golden Rule.

(the following is from Jeffrey Moses book, Oneness):

Christianity: Do unto other as as you would have them do unto you, for this is the law and the prophets.

Judaism: What is hurtful to yourself do not to your fellow man.

Islam: Do unto all men as you would they should unto you, and reject for others what you would reject for yourself.

Buddhism: Hurt not others with that which pains yourself.

Sikhism: Treat others as thou wouldst be treated thyself.

Taoism: Regard your neighbor's gain as you own gain; and regard your neighbor's loss as your own loss, even as though you were in their place.

Confucianism: What you do not yourself desire, do not put before others.

Come Soar with Us!

My friend and I have collaborated on a very exciting new blog. We are politically opposite, but also are Christian women of deep faith. We are hosting a forum for peaceful and respectful discussion about current social and political events. Even if we don't agree, we have an opportunity to listen to the other side. I speak to the more liberal views, while she shares her conservative leanings. We are very encouraged to be vehicles toward finding common ground.

We graciously invite you to join us in this exciting new forum.

Thank you!

Lifted on Eagle's Wings

My life of crime

When I was a child, Mama Fresh liked to sew many of our clothes. One outfit that vividly stands out was when Mama must have gotten a deal on many yards of olive green extremely wide-waled arctic thickness corduroy. My brothers and I had matching pants and vests constructed of this immovable fabric. We resembled miniature soldiers walking stiffly, not in khaki, but corduroy, needing only a few medals of honor to complete our uniforms.

I used to dread those twice-annual trips to the fabric store, looking for patterns and remnants. I just wished for blue jeans (or dungarees as Grandma called them) and a simple t-shirt from the local Sears. The closest we got to jeans were denim elastic-waisted bottoms. The elastic was ingeniously recycled from Papa's worn out underpants, so the waistband was always quite wide. I tried not to think too much about the underpants recycling. Movie heroines like Scarlett O’Hara used drapes and Maria in Sound of Music used the curtains. Apparently, we had no spare window treatments. We had dad’s underpants. I still hear Mama’s voice, “Nobody will ever know or see the elastic!”

One afternoon, during a particularly long fabric-searching marathon, there was nothing left for me to look at, like patterns or cute fabric that never was on sale anyway. I thought to play hide and seek in the bolts of fabric but nobody was there to look for me. My brothers never had to go on these trips.

I wandered past a bin of buttons and two big shiny brass buttons caught my eye. I do not know if I had heard the phrase about sewing brass buttons on my underpants and thought maybe that would dress up Dad’s elastic? Or perhaps I was determined to put some medals on our military looking outfits?

I am not sure what was so compelling about these two buttons but I was fascinated. I picked them up and studied my reflection, moving the buttons back and forth like a fun house mirror. My face warped, my eyes grew and shrunk. After entertaining myself with the buttons to help pass the time, I eventually decided to go check if Mama was finished.

I was about to return the card of buttons back to their bin but they seemed magnetized to my hand. Rather than put them back, I slipped them in my pocket without a second thought. I never even considered asking if we could get them. We just knew not to ask for anything at the store. I had no idea what I was going to do with the buttons, but suddenly, nothing was more important in my life than having those two shiny gold buttons.

They seemed to glow from my pocket. I held my hand tightly over the jacket pocket, in case they would escape or someone would notice. We bought our fabric and walked out the door and it was as simple as that; the buttons were mine. Nobody knew… no alarms went off; I was now the proud owner of two shiny brass buttons.

I could not wait to get home and study my prize. I scurried up to my room and hid in my closet, carefully removing the contraband from its hidden place. Then the gravity of my crime hit me. I had stolen those buttons. The face that reflected back at me was one of shame and petty crime. I was horrified. The fabric store was over an hour away, so it was not as if we could go back there, and I knew Mama would not be happy with me. Instead I buried the buttons in the bottom of my toy chest.

Every so often, I would pull the buttons out, but that same face stared back at me. Not the fun house face, the face of guilt. I stopped taking the buttons out and let my prize languish in the darkness.

Years later, that particular fabric store was going out of business. I wondered if my life of crime had been a contributing factor. I confessed my crime to the part time clerk while I was checking out, perhaps hoping for a moment of absolution. She looked at me as if I was crazy and I am sure I heard her say, “So?”

(Yeah, sew brass buttons on your underpants, that’s what started this whole mess in the first place).

Memories... light the corner of my mind...

I may be mired in a touch of nostalgia meeting the digital age. About two years ago, we moved and I packed up yet another phase of life into boxes that have only emerged this past week: more specifically, today.

If you're like me, unpacking isn't so much an exercise in efficiency, but rather a stroll down memory lane. I moved frequently during my teen years and can name three seperate high schools as my temporary alma mater.

I found my yearbooks and started leafing through them. I recovered memories, and yes, they lit the corners of my mind. My memories of people I once knew or hoped to know or wanted to know or maybe never really knew. Nonetheless, their paths and mine crossed.

I did an experiment. I wanted to find out how mutual those memories were. It's interesting. I found an old neighbor who was thrilled to see my name in her mailbox and I also found a skeptical sort. Both sides of the spectrum, yet both signed the same yearbook page. My old neighbor has moved several times herself and we had touched base in the interim. She went to great lengths pre internet days to track me down. I remember quite well, she called a cousin with the same last name who said, well I've got her grandmother's number, and she called my grandmother who passed the message along to me. Today, it's much easier. We log onto a social network and say "hey, I knew you, remember me?" We take a lot for granted.The skeptic assumed that the memory I had could be found anywhere. I respect that as well. I won't campaign for memories.

Today, it's also more suspect. We ask people to trust us with a click. That's asking a lot. So the girl who tracked me down had a greater investment. The boy who said, "I don't think I remember you" did not. I respect both answers. In a simple click I reminded one person of a long lost friendship and another of one to rekindle.

But trust notwithstanding, our memories remain true.

Tale of two cities

Like so many other parents around our nation, my past Friday night was spent under the lights at the traditional high school football game that rallies the community. I am lucky to live in what I consider the sort of town Norman Rockwell captured in his artwork.

We have a town green, a gazebo, and a school rated Excellent by our state. Our kids win in sports, academics and arts. If they didn't occasionally get into mischief, I would wonder if our town were Stepford, like Ira Levin's famous book, though my spouse would assure you, I fail at being a Stepford wife.

We are less than ten miles away from the murder capital of the nation, an area so blighted and depressed that murder must seem a better option than getting out. Our town at times feels like the eye of the hurricane. I got lost once shortly after moving here and purchased a GPS the next day. We're out of touch with our neighbors. I read the newspaper headlines and pretend that I don't understand the reality of "not in my backyard", because it certainly is in my backyard if I peek over my fence. We're lulled into complacency.

Which brings me back to Friday night. Our school hosted one of the city school teams. The juxtaposition was staggering. Their dilapidated buses rolled into the parking lot next to our sparkling astroturfed stadium. Our arrogance was put on the line. The game was tight the first half, ending with us leading 3-0. Then the marching band took the field.

It was a tiny little assembly of 22 students, mostly drums, 4 dancers, and a handful of instruments. With a whisper, they marched in unison and played their music. I looked at our band shell filled with a sea of 150 eager musicians in crisp uniforms and even the city school uniforms seemed to pale. I strained to hear, but they simply didn't have the numbers to make a lot of noise.

For the few minutes they stood in those stadium lights, I looked over to the empty visitor section and realized how hard those kids must work. As our band lined up to follow their halftime show, we paused to listen to the last song the city school kids performed.

The stadium got quiet as the announcer introduced their final number.

Respect.

They earned mine in spades.

Pandora's Box and September 11th

This is something I wrote in the days following September 11, 2001. I republish it every year to remind myself of the central message. 

"What a world is down there," Pandora mused as she peered over the precipice of her mountaintop. “They have so much good but also so much bad. What did I unleash when I opened that box?"

She paused and sighed, still watching the humans, "They have a plethora of choices. I have seen so much from this mountain. They love, laugh, grow, live, die, and sometimes even hate. What an emotional bunch they are! So human.”

Pandora found herself daydreaming about the wonders of being human. Jolted from her daydream, there was a thunderous crash. "Oh dear", she panicked, "something horrible has happened down there!"

She looked over the edge of her mountain in the clouds and saw smoke billowing. She heard the screaming cries as the humans bled and burned. Terror gripped her as she frantically raced to find out what had happened. Had she never opened that box, eons ago. She knew this was her fault. Her lack of discipline. Guilt wracked her soul. She set free the evils that were causing this pain. In an instant of time, the human's world changed. Their innocence ended as the evil she had unleashed once again found its way into the human's world.

For days, the humans cried in pain. Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain. They tried to make sense of the senseless act. They looked to each other for explanations. There were none.

But Pandora knew. "I am so sorry," she thought.

Disheartened, Pandora closed her eyes. She remembered that fateful day when she simply had to open that box. "What have I done?" Then with a flash, Pandora remembered, one thing remained in the box... hope. Yes, hope. She walked over to her box, and peeked in, saw the shimmering light of hope. Hope had not escaped from her box. She knew the people would eventually remember the gift that remained theirs.

With glee, she watched more closely, waiting for the people to find hope. She saw hoards of folks marching to the place of the fire, reaching out, and trying to help. She saw parents holding their children tighter. She saw lovers embracing trying to seek comfort from the terror. Candles flickered and flags flew and the humans found strength within themselves. They held onto each others' hearts and hands. They remembered what was wonderful about being human. The ability to feel. The ability to comfort each other with love.

Peeking closely into one house, she saw a family, huddled around their table. They had their heads bowed in prayer. Their voices echoed to the heavens. Their songs shook the clouds. Their candles lit the world. She heard the faith, hope, and love in their voices, the simple comfort of their words, the solace in their touch. Ah yes, to be human. To know. To love. Pandora breathed a sigh of relief. Relief that she closed the box when she did. So grateful she had not allowed hope to escape. With hope, the humans would always find comfort.

Always remember, hope is never gone.