The Gift of Melancholy

As the Christmas season begins to draw to a close, I always tend to become a bit melancholy.  I had the pleasure and fun of having Christmas dinner at my house.  There were eight of us who joined at the table.  My pastor, from the Cathedral that I attend, always preaches that; “There is always room at the table.”   I know he speaks of the Lord’s Table, but I like to practice that same philosophy, for I believe that when friends and family are joined at the table to break bread, it quickly becomes the Lord’s Table.  What are we, if we are not all the Body of Christ? 

See what I mean about becoming melancholy?  When I surveyed the room, I found my sister, brother-in-law, and my niece.   I found friends of my sister, who now I call friends.  I found a friend of mine that I have known for many, many years.  And, I found my Pastor and spiritual mentor.  All of us come from very different walks of life.  All very, very different personalities, but all still sitting around laughing and trying to sing and remember the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  What other time of the year do eight people break into song together after a meal?  Maybe a quick “Happy Birthday” but nothing quite as complex as “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  There was even an award for the person that could sing it through in its entirety – an ornament filled with Ghirardelli chocolate peppermint bark.  That may have even been worth embarrassing one’s self in song.

One precious little thing that was not present was my adorable little Bichon, Gracie Lou.  Gracie was born visually impaired, and for her to be exposed to many people, with furniture moved to accommodate extra tables and chairs, would have been very hard on her.  It would have been both frustrating and frightening to her.  So, Gracie went to my friend’s house and hung out with her cat, Chloe.  After dinner and after the departure of my guests, except for one friend, Miss Gracie came home.  She sniffed all around, knowing others had been in her house.  She then sat in the lap of my friend for a while, but eventually made her way over to me, where she crawled up in my lap and into my arms, and just settled in.  As I said, I become quite melancholy.  I hugged her, and I told  my friend that I was certainly  not ready for her to leave me, but that I truly hoped that when she does die and goes to heaven, that she will be able to see all the things that she has never been able to see in this life.  The trees, the sun, the  night, all her doggie friends. Then I became tearful when I realized and said to my friend, “She doesn’t even know what I look like.”

But, then I realized she does indeed know what I “look” like.  She “sees” my gentle hands that deliver her favorite cookies.  She “sees” my tender lips that love to kiss her soft little pink belly.  She “sees” my loving arms that hold her tenderly.  She “sees” my smiles and laughter when she is her mischievous self, and I have to chase down my socks that she absolutely loves to steal.  She “sees” my heart that loves her unconditionally, as she also loves me.  Yes, she “sees” me and can describe me better than probably anyone who actually sees my face. 

Yes, this time of season certainly brings out the melancholy in me.  But, that is a good thing.  It makes me stop, reflect, and give thanks to all the wonderful parts of my life.  Where I have been and what has transpired in my past, brings me exactly to where and who I am today.  As we ring out the old year and in the New Year, may we all be blessed with those melancholy moments that bring about prayers of thanks.  It is truly a holy season!

Exactly Where I'm Supposed To Be ...

I’m one of the boomers that have moved on to a new career in my late 50’s.  If anyone would have told me that at my tender age of 58 I would be changing companies and starting over, I would have professed them as being quite crazy.

I had worked for the same Cardiology practice for nearly 39 years.  I had seen it grow from a 5 M.D. practice with 9 employees, to a 25 M.D. practice with over 250 employees.  I had moved through their system as first a Medical Assistant, to a Certified Medical Assistant, to Certified Cardiographic Technician, to the MA Supervisor, to the Administrative Coordinator, to the Patient Relations Liaison, to finally the clinical liaison for the development of the electronic health record.  So, even though I had been with the same company, I had been willing to move through the ranks and re-invent myself on a number of different occasions.

The latter position, held for 7 years,  involved assessing the clinical work flow for all areas of patient care within the company, implementing an electronic flow, building the system, and then training over 200 employees. Again, if anyone would have told me that after 32 years of direct patient care I would evolve into the computer world of patient care, I again would have called it crazy. I guess having someone with the personal touch of patient care was quite an asset to the electronic world.  At least I hope it was!

As is going on with most in the corporate world, and especially in the field of medicine, a lot of the privately owned physician practices are being bought by larger hospital based firms. Our Cardiology practice was no different.  After being in business in our area for over 60 years, our practice was purchased by a large hospital organization in the area.  With this acquisition came many changes, most of which were not good for the present employees.  Even though the company was willing to “grandfather” in our seniority, that also caused many of our long term employees to have a bull’s eye target right on their foreheads.  These employees, it became blatantly obvious, were going to be downsized and removed from the practice through attrition.   I obviously was one such employee.  I went from being an employee that was well engaged with the practice, to merely a name and a number on a piece of paper to the new organization. 

Even though the new company was implementing an electronic health record, it became quite apparent they had no intention of using me on their team to help with their project.  So, what do you think would have happened to me once they turned off our old system, and turned on the new system … hello unemployment, hello no health insurance!  I found myself knocking on the door of being one of the statistics of someone who had played the game and followed the rules my entire life … worked, worked hard, good attendance, growth in a company, health insurance provided … to someone unemployed, no health insurance, and “too old” and “too expensive” for a new company to want to employ.   I could have waited the situation out, been downsized, drawn unemployment for a while, and enjoyed some free time. My first free time in 30+ years.  But that's just not how I operate, or how I was raised by my parents. 

Instead, I am blessed!  Another large health care system in our city was also implementing an electronic health record, and they had chosen the same product that I had been working with for over 7 years.  I took the initiative and sent in my resume.  I received a call the very next morning, and  I was asked to come for an interview the following afternoon.  Imagine that! An interview, my first interview in 39 years.  “What in the world are you doing?” is the question I kept asking myself on the way to the interview.  “What in the world are you doing?”   The door to the office opened and there sat the interviewer.  I thought I might faint. I thought I might get sick.  I thought I might not remember my name.  None of that happened.  After our initial exchange of hello, we simply chatted.  When next I realized we were walking to our cars, TWO hours had gone by.  I got in my car, heaved a sigh, started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.  It felt right, it just simply felt right.  I was called a few days later and asked to come speak to the Vice President of Physician Integration. Another panic set in, and again I asked myself, “What in the world are you doing?”  This time, fate turned out even better.  The Vice President of Physician Integration turned out to be a lady I had worked with over 30 years ago.  I had actually trained her at that point!  She smiled and said, “I knew it was you, but I bet you didn’t know it was me.”  The ice was broken and another great conversation ensued. 

It has now been almost 3 months since I started my new job as their Sr. EHR Clinical Liaison.  Yes, I gave up precious vacation time that I had accrued over the many years.  Yes, I gave up my four day work week.  But, I don’t care!  I have been well compensated, and I am ethically and professionally exactly where I need to be.  I feel guilty … I love my new job so much.   I feel young, rejuvenated, with a new lease on life.  Who says you can’t feel young again at 58?    I drive to work every morning, thanking my God for such blessings.   I’ve always said that God puts me exactly where I’m supposed to be.  He does.  He really does.

This was written as a prompt from The Red Dress Club.  We were to write about a time that we made a change in our lives.  I'm so proud of myself!

Best Friend Shenanigans

I think every girl, at some point, feels the need to be blond. Visions of walking down a beach, golden tresses blowing in the wind, deeply tanned and well toned body … aww, life is good!

My best friend and I were no strangers to this desire. Shortly after high school, we made our first trip to Florida, chaperon free. Being limited in funds, we had sought ways to bleach out our hair using the sun. We had been told that lemon juice worked really well. After our arrival and check-in at the hotel, we proceeded to the grocery store. 

We had discussed our lemon juice on our 15 hour drive.  We decided we would buy “Real Lemon” in the bottle, pour it in squirt bottles , and then spray it on our hair while we were sunbathing. With the car loaded with bottles of “Real Lemon” we anxiously returned to our room, put on our suits and headed to the pool.  First we slathered up with suntan oil.  I’m a fair-skinned red head, so you can figure out the result of this step.  Then we proceeded to wet our hair and squirt on the lemon juice. We figured if a little worked well, a lot should work really well.

As the sun started to dry out our hair, mine got stiff as a board. Then came the bees!  My best friend, flapping her hands over her head said “What is this with all the bees?  What’s the deal?”  I also was fighting off the bees, when it occurred to me, “ I think they are attracted to all this lemon.”    All Bees Unite!!

We decided we would take a walk down the beach, and surely the bees wouldn’t follow.  Through the warm sand we walked, right down to the water’s edge. Nothing feels quite as good as wet sand when it squishes through your toes. Nature’s pedicure. 

We were wearing suits that were strapless.  God forbid that we would get tan, or in my case, burn lines. As we were strolling along listening to the soft rumble of the waves and the song of the seagulls, we were oblivious to the darkening clouds forming overhead.   Imagine our surprise when we began to get pelted with sharp, pounding rain drops.  We turned and started to run back to our hotel. We had to hold the tops of our suits up, or I’m sure they would have been down to our waist.

Then the stinging began. This time it wasn’t bees. The rain was drenching our lemon covered hair, and all that lemon juice was running into our eyes.   It was quite the decision, as we continued to run, whether we were going to hold up our suits or wipe our eyes. To the gratefulness of the others on the beach, we chose holding up our suits. So we ran blindly the rest of the way to the hotel, eyes clenched tightly due to the burning, stinging lemon juice. 

If you want to bleach your hair, it’s probably best to go to a salon.  Lesson Learned!

This post is for the challenge from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write a memory with "lesson learned" either the first two words or the last two words. 

Hearing Music Through My Feet

"One and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight. And one and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight."  These were words that I grew up with from the age of four until I graduated from high school.  Turn on the music, and I start to count away.     I've often said that I hear music through my feet.  My choir friends jokingly say, they love to stand behind me during the "Alleluia Chorus."  They're impressed with the hip action.  I don't even realize that I do it.  It's just a natural movement.  I still, even to this day, own a pair of tap shoes.  In fact I have two pair. One with heals, and one called jazz taps.

My childhood was blessed, and I do mean blessed with dance being a large part of my world.  I have often said that besides my parents, that my strongest mentor in my life has been my dance instructor, Miss Bette.  I studied dance from the very young age of four, and continued structured study until I graduated from high school. Then it was time to "move on."  I probably didn't really dance for another five years or so, but it seems that once I got my feet under me, settled into a job after college, and thought I had "grown up", I still often gravitated back to dance.  I joined every type of exercise class I could that involved music and dance. To heck with jogging, treadmills, rowers, stair steppers ... just turn on the music and let me dance.  I clogged with The River City Cloggers, I even taught kinder class for a period of time.   Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like 15 pairs of four-year-old feet in tap shoes.  I had a magic carpet in my class room, and when it wasn't your turn to show me the step, you got to stand on the magic carpet, with a special treat to follow. 

Miss Bette still teaches dance in our community.  She has to be in her late 70's to early 80's, and I believe she looks like she may be 60.  She has trained children, of children, of children.  She'll tell me, on times that we get to talk,  "Oh, I have Lisa's granddaughter in my class now."  She is so vibrant and proud of all the generations that have come her way.  She still teaches "tappercise" and some of my former dance mates and I attended some of her classes. She had every age group in the room, and there was a group of first time adult tappers in the second row.  All of us previous students were lined up in the first row.  She showed us the steps, then turned on the music.  Off we went!  The second row stopped about mid way through and just watched the ones of us tapping away in the front row. Bette just said, "Don't mind them. They've been dancing with me since they were four."   That's 54 years!!!!!

Dance taught me so much more than steps.  It taught me discipline, hard work, and poise.  In my "real job" I am often presenting to a full room of people.  This doesn't intimidate me.  I've been in front of audiences since I was four.    It seems that sometimes during parties or get-togethers with friends the "what if" games start.  You know the 'what if" you could do this over, or "what if" you could have lunch with.  My two favorite "what if" questions and answers are:

"What if you could have chosen your favorite job. What would it be."  My answer, I would have liked to have been 5'9" tall so I could have been a Rockette or a "gypsy" on Broadway and moved from one chorus line to another.

"What if  God asked you something you would like to do in Heaven that you didn't get to do on Earth."  My answer, I'd like to tap dance with Gene Kelly.  Just turn on the rain and give me the umbrella, and I'll be singing and dancing in the rain.

"Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.  
Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.
Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh."

If you need a  translation, Miss Bette just taught you the "Old Soft Shoe."   Just keep hearing that music in your feet.  It'll make everything seem brighter every day.

This is written for the prompt from The Red Dress Club.  We were to write about the word "rhythm" without using the word, and tell how it has played a part in our lives.

Get A Leg Up ...

The mountains were majestic, the snow like cotton rolling down a hill.  The peaceful quiet allowing a snapped twig to resonate almost with an echo.

The ski week was over and now it was time to return home. Time to face my family and friends with the realization that, yes, I was returning home injured, leg immobilized in a cast. I think my Mother's concerned look, as I limped off the plane, was the first thing I saw. Then my Father grinning, because he thought I was just kidding and trying to get a rise from my Mother.  But, all kidding aside, I truly was injured.  It was diagnosed as a torn medial collateral ligament in my left knee.  I was referred to an Orthopedist, and everyone who knew me was anxiously awaiting my first visit with him.  After the appointment, everyone was saying, "Isn't he just gorgeous?"  But to tell you the truth, my knee hurt so badly, and he had to draw so much fluid off of it, that I didn't think he looked a bit good.  However, I will say, that as my knee improved, so did he.  I ended up thinking he was pretty dang gorgeous!

I was casted for nearly four weeks with a full leg cast. My leg was absolutely straight with a cast extending from the ankle to the very top of my thigh.  I had gotten really good at maneuvering with this cast.  It was at least weightbearing, so no crutches were needed after the first several days. After tumbling down a flight of stairs, holding school books, I realized that I had to go DOWN the stairs with the bad leg first, and UP the stairs with the bad leg last.  It just didn't work any other way.

One night, about 3 weeks into the injury, I went to a darling little restaurant/cafe with friends. It was called Hearthstone Tavern, and the decor was a bit on the rustic side. I had dolled up pretty well, with wide leg pants that camouflaged the cast quite well.  I only needed to get to the table, sit down, and I would look as normal as everyone else in the restaurant. 

We were seated almost immediately, and I limped to the table with as much grace as I could muster.  Our table was a small round bistro type with four rattan chairs. The chairs were the kind that slanted slightly back with longer legs in the front and shorter legs in the back. We all sat down, and we ordered our round of drinks. Since I was off my pain medications now, I ordered my favorite Margarita. 

Before the waiter returned, I felt like my chair was just a tad bit further back from the table than I thought it should be.  So ... I cupped my fingers under the seat and scooched forward.  My life flashed before my eyes when I realized the chair was tipping over backwards.  Unable to stop the motion, and with my leg in plaster and casted absolutely straight, it came straight up under the table, and it flipped the entire table over and behind me.  You cannot even imagine the waiter's face when he showed up at our table, tray of drinks in hand to find hilarious laughter by my three friends, me on my back in the middle of the floor, with my left leg absolutely straight and completely perpendicular to the ceiling.  With my friends unable to get their breath, and me physically unable to help myself or get up ... were were just a complete mess.  The waiter blubbered something like, "How can I help?" Which just caused more raucous laughter. 

I think I finally rolled over on my right side, got up on my good knee, and was finally able to drag my bad leg up behind me. I guess I can at least be thankful the table wasn't full of food and drink, and none of us were impaled by flying dinnerware.   We were able to gather our composure and actually had a good dinner and good evening. But, every time there was a lull in conversation, the giggles would begin all over again.  And, we all knew that we were going to have to make an exit and get out of there, without causing anymore disruption.  What a night!   Talk about getting a leg up on things.

This post is an answer to the challenge by The Red Dress Club to write of one of our most embarrassing moments.

Forbidden Cartwheel

Try as I might, I can't remember any grade school trips.   I have taken myself back through each grade, just sure that if I ponder long enough, I will surely remember one or two field trips.  But, I really just don't.  I actually work with a woman who was in my grade school and high school class.  I polled her to see if she had any memory of any trips, and no, not a one.  I guess our school just didn't sponsor any trips away from school grounds.

I attended Catholic grade school and high school.  While we had more lay teachers than nuns in high school, the ratio of nuns to lay teachers in grade school certainly tipped the scale toward the nuns.  I remember picture day, science fairs, math bees, spelling bees, and book reading contests, but no field trips.

I guess the closest thing I can remember to a trip would be in the sixth grade.  I had "made" the cheer leading squad that year. That meant I got to go to all the ballgames both at "home" and "away."  Of course, "away" meant in the three cities which were about 5 to l0 minutes away from each other.  But as a 12-year-old, I might as well have been going to another state.  All those schools and all those different gyms!  And, in my cheer outfit as well. I remember feeling so proud walking into the opposing team's gym, pom poms and all.

Being a Catholic school in the 60's, we had some pretty tight restrictions on our cheer routines.  No "inappropriate" dancing or "inappropriate" words to our cheers.  I remember once it was my turn to do the free throw "score cheer."  This meant when a foul had been called and the player walked to the free throw line, I got to do an individual cheer to help him score.  I bounced onto the floor, cheered "S-C-O-R-E .. Score Bobby Score!"  I ended with a cartwheel and the splits.  When I came bouncing back to the sidelines, pony tail swaying, I looked up in the bleachers.  There she was ... Sr. Rose Patrice in full nun habit, glaring, absolutely glaring at me with her eyes slits and her mouth pursed.  Oh! Oh!  I think I did an "inappropriate" cheer.  I worried the rest of the weekend that I was really going to be in big trouble when I arrived at school on Monday.  My Mother assured me all weekend that I had done nothing wrong, but then she qualified her reassurance with her favorite statement, " I think those nuns sit up all night thinking up rules."

Sure enough Monday came and all the cheerleaders were summoned for a meeting in the Principal's office.  Sr. Rose Patrice told us she was absolutely astonished that any decent girl would turn herself up-side-down and let her skirt fly up, let alone end in a split.  From that day forward, no cartwheels, round-offs, or splits would be allowed.

We all showed deep remorse in her presence, but then giggled the rest of the day about her astonishment. I must admit I felt pretty empowered that a good little Catholic girl such as myself, for one shining moment got to be a "bad girl."

Maybe it is just as well we didn't have field trips.  I can only imagine all the rules that might have been attached.

This is written as an assignment from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about a memorable school trip in grade school. 

Utter Abandon

I confess I am a snow bunny.  My absolute favorite season is winter. The colder ... the better.  I am still wide-eyed, like a child, when I begin to see the snow start to fall.  Why does it seem like it always snows during the middle of the night?  I'm sure there is a scientific reason for this. All I know, is there have been times, over the years, when I have gotten up on purpose during the middle of the night just to watch it snow.

Some of my favorite vacations have been ski trips with my friends. On more than one occasion, twelve or more of us have rented a home in a ski area and have spent the week skiing, playing cards in the evening, and cooking special meals.  Fun! Fun!  When I think back on it, I am probably pretty lucky that I had more than one ski adventure.

My first ski trip was to Waterville Valley, New Hampshire.  Yes, I learned to ski on ice, and I must say I prefer it over powder.  I never mastered edging in powder, and I have a tendency to just fall over.  My first adventure was a ski package that was all inclusive, even including 1 1/2 hours of instruction each day.  I learned to ski by the Graduated Length Method, GLM.  If my skiing prowess hadn't indicated BEGINNER, my skis surely did. They were only 3 feet long. I didn't get my poles right off the bat either. I remember my ski class was all so proud when we finally got 4 1/2 foot skis and poles. Our outward appearance, at least, looked like we might know what we were doing.

I skied the entire week of my winter get-away. To be that young again and have such endurance.  But, the last day was my undoing. In typical ski story fashion, it literally was the final run of the final day of vacation. We got on the last lift of the day and up the mountain we went.  Those rides have to be some of the most peaceful times of my life. The quiet that surrounded me was awesome.  I could actually hear twigs snap off trees, and of course the blanket of white was magnificent.  There were a lot of people going up the mountain for "one last run."  This made for a longer than normal ride on the lift, and I enjoyed every second.

When we disembarked we were on a run called "Utter Abandon." Truer words were never spoken.  It was high, steep, and one mogul after another.  I slowly, very slowly started to make my way down.  Turn to the right over one mogul. then left, and repeat.  Because of the long lift ride, and the blowing cold wind, my bindings had frozen.  I didn't know that, so when I fell very, very slowly my foot stayed forward facing down the mountain, and my left knee turned completely sideways.  This time I heard a snap, but it wasn't the twigs on the trees, it was my knee.  Determined that I would get down that mountain on my own, I insisted on getting up. With the help of my friends I almost stood up, but then quickly went right back down.  The ski patrol was called and much to my embarrassment, I got a ride down in a toboggan. My friend was so scared to try to ski down, she was begging them to pull her down too.

I really did mess up my knee, and I went home with a cast from the top of my thigh to the bottom of my ankle.  Everyone thought I was joking when I limped off the plane.

One surgery later, and the following winter, equipped with a brace, a wrap, and a knee-sleeve I anxiously got on the lift.  Once again I felt the peace of the ride up the mountain, more than a little fear standing at the top, a tentative start down the mountain, and then a bit more abandon midway down.  Not utter abandon, but normal, fun, skimming over the top of the snow abandon.  Safely at the bottom, I looked back up at the mountain, then at my friends.  We smiled at each other, then we giggled like school girls.  With a Yeehaw!! out of my mouth, I was back.  Back with my favorite snow, cold, mountain, and peaceful quiet of the ski slopes.  There's just nothing like it.

This was written as a challenge from The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to right about the first time we _________after_________.

Sing-Along!!

"Come and listen to my story about a man named Jed. Poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed. Then one day he was shootin' at some food, and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude."

That's right, I remember by heart all the words to the "Beverly Hillbillies" T.V. show theme song.  Sometimes I can barely remember my phone number, let alone a grocery list from heart.  But there is something about T.V. theme songs that are indelibly etched in my long term memory.  I can sing every word to  "Gilligan's Island", "I Love Lucy", and "Flipper".

I don't remember how to work a square root, how to diagram a sentence, how to conjugate a verb in French, but I can remember the words to "The Patty Duke" show.  That actually turned out to be pretty important. Several years ago ago, a local radio station had a contest one evening.  They challenged anyone who could sing, ON THE AIR, "The Patty Duke" show theme song to call in.  If the person who sang got it correct, they won a prize.  Well guess who won?  You got it!  Me!  I won a gift certificate to a local music store for the album of my choice. Don't laugh.  No one has offered  me a gift certificate for knowing the adjective that modifies the noun!

I am very proud of myself.  If I hadn't known Patty and Kathy were "one pair of matching bookends ... different as night and day", I would have been minus one less album in my collection.

So go ahead Jed, "load up the family and move to Beverly ... hills that is."  Who knows your reward just might be a cement pond?   And, I bet Mr. Ed could confirm that for you.  He is "a horse, a horse of course, of course", and "nobody talks to a horse of course, unless of course, the horse of choice is the famous Mr. Ed."

The Red Dress writing club asked us to write about things we remember from heart from our childhood.  I just immediately started singing!!

Beach Blanket Bingo

The towel was placed with great precision. Angled absolutely appropriately to be facing the exact rays of the sun. A nice even tan with no shadowing high on the list of necessities.

The hair was exquisitely sculpted. The perfect flip, with the perfect bangs, adorned with the perfect white soft headband. The sunglasses were the latest style. The frames you would probably recognize walking down Rodeo Dr. in California.

The bathing suite was two-piece. Not a bikini. That would not have been acceptable for that time period.  No, it was two piece.  Brown dotted swiss with a white ruffle around the hips, and also white ruffles over both shoulders.  My big sister, 16-years-old, lounged on the beach with one leg extended, the other curved to a slight angle.  Not a speck of sand on her.  I always wondered how she made it to the chosen spot on the beach, spread out her towel, and got positioned without a speck of sand on her.  She's pretty anyway, and this day she looked beautiful and adorable.  She could have been a vision in one of the famous beach movies ... like "Beach Blanket Bingo."

Now, picture the little sister.  Thirteen years old, hair slung back in a pony tail.  Trudging down to the beach with a beach bag, towel, and one of her favorite possessions ... the family poodle, Fi Fi.  This would be the first time Fi Fi had been on a vacation with the family.  It took some convincing the parents to agree to let the dog travel with us. But in reality, I don't think they looked forward to leaving her behind either. Fi Fi was quite energetic.  If there was a wrong way to do something, she would seek it out and go for it with great enthusiasm.  She shredded phone books one day, while home alone, into such small pieces that it would have put an electric shredder to shame.  Standing almost an inch deep in her paper creation, with pieces of paper hanging off her ears and mouth, made her look quite guilty.  So cute, all you could do was laugh.

The little sister and Fi Fi continued on to the beach. Found a spot right next to the big sister, and flopped down for an afternoon of fun and sun. The little sister, anxious to show Fi Fi all about the ocean and beach said, "Look Fi Fi. See the sand."  Taking one of her hands and the tips of her fingers, she made a small digging motion in the sand.

Cocking her head a bit, pricking her ears, wagging her tail, Fi Fi discovered the magic of the sand.  Slowly at first, but then with great exuberance, the digging began. I think she could have made it to China if left to the task. The sand flew. It kicked to the sides some, but the biggest majority kicked to the back of her.  And where do you think it all came to rest?  You're right!  All over the big sister, so strategically placed, looking so adorable.  Oops!

At that point, my memory recalls, that it may have been time for a shower.

This is in response to a challenge by The Red Dress Club to write about sand.

Negatives Turned Into Positives

I have become quite adept at being able to ignore negative comments that get slung in my direction.  I would wager that all of us have been exposed to this kind of emotional and verbal bullying at some point in our lives. You know. The comments that are designed to state a negative, designed to tell us something that we do is not right, not important, designed to hurt our feelings?  Instead of being able to actually speak with us regarding a topic, some folks use backhanded comments to say hurtful things. Furthermore, sometimes words are not even needed.  Have you ever been laughed at, supposedly slyly, amongst others in the room?  Haven't you had someone just totally ignore your presence, make no comment about something you've made, or even acknowledge something you have accomplished?

I remember once sharing the excitement and news of a promotion. The response I received was, "Well don't be too excited.  Most of the time they're only looking for someone to dump on."  Did I remember?  Of course, I did. This particular comment was 21 years ago. I still remember the exact intersection where we were sitting, where we were going, and who was in the car.  I still remember it word for word.  Other times I have shared what is going on in my life, and I have tried to engage conversation regarding an upcoming fun event. The response ... total silence!  I've often wanted to say, "Oh my goodness, have you gone mute?"

I could cite so many of these happenings. However what purpose would it serve?  Often, once I leave the environment, I am absolutely worn out by trying to diffuse the comments that come at me like a laser gun. Zing, gotcha again!!  But since this has happened to me repeatedly over the years, I have come to realize, and sincerely believe, that the goal is to be hurtful.  So, I have decided and chosen not to allow that satisfaction.  I refuse to let someone else steal my joy.

I have learned to take the comment, repeat it back, and then add a positive remark to the end of it. I am a firm believer that most, if not all, negatives can be turned into positives.

Do I still get injured by these types of comments?  Of course, I do.  I'm a human being, and a sensitive one at that. I have shed many tears and have grieved over many hurt feelings, when all I've ever wanted is to be included in a life.  The lesson I have learned, though, is that I cannot control other folks comments ... but I can certainly control my emotional reaction to them. I think I do it fairly well, all things considered.

This is written in response to a challenge by The Red Dress Club.  Our assignment was to write about something we do well. This is my attempt .. the word attempt being the keyword here.

Lady Ruth Fi-Fi Center

OK, so I don't end up in therapy, I am admitting now, very forthcoming, that I will be a royal wedding watcher.  Yes, I will be setting my alarm at 4:00 a.m. That hasn't happened since the last time I jetted off to a tropical isle, which would have been ... NEVER!  I want to watch it all "live"  I just don't think I could be happy with re-runs, which I am sure will infiltrate all the news mediums for the next several weeks.  No, I want to watch it live!

If we were all truthful to ourselves, I'm sure everyone of my gender, will admit that we, at some point in our lives, have dreamed of riding off into the sunset with our beautiful prince.  It may have been the gangly boy with braces and pimples in the 9th grade, our first adult love in college, or the pot-bellied mate we may currently have in our lives.  I know I had one prince in my lifetime, and I let him slip through my fingers.  If I had only been as smart 30 years ago, as I think I am today.

So here comes our opportunity to watch this lovely lady transform into a princess.  I know it's a cliche, but it truly is a modern day fairy tale.  For this brief period of time, we get to travel through our fairy tales that we only envisioned as a child.

Surely you have heard of the mechanism for determining your Royal Wedding Guest Name.  First you put Lord or Lady in front, then you add the first name of a grandparent, then you add the name of your first pet, then you add the name of the street where you grew up.

Well, I must bug off!   It's time to set the alarm.  I think I  will make some scones, have a spot of tea, and of course, will adorn myself with my finest hat.  Lady Ruth Fi-Fi Center is about to arrive at the event of the decade!

The Search Itself ...

Three days after Easter, Wednesday, March 30, 2005 my Mother died very unexpectedly.  In my blessed numbness I went through all the motions.  I personally went to her best friend's house to tell her the news. I just couldn't do it over the phone.  I went to the church to meet with our priest and nun to coordinate her sacred Mass of Burial.  I went to her house to pick out what I thought she would want to wear, choosing her teal dress which I had picked out for her for Easter.  But then the weather had turned cold, and she was unable to wear it.   I knew it to be her favorite color, but when I took it out of the closet, I realized it hadn't been hemmed yet.  I guess she had put it off, since she knew it was going to be too cold to wear it.  I could hear her saying to me, "Oh, honey that dress is too long."  But, then I knew from prior experience, upon the death of my father, that the undertaker does not want you to bring shoes.  So I said out loud to Mother, "I know it is too long, but you always freeze to death. Maybe it will keep your feet warm."  I hope it did.  Then I went to the funeral home to pick out everything else.  When I asked the undertaker if he thought the casket I had chosen was too  masculine, he said, "Well, let's just lay the dress in here and see what you think."  This was really weird to me, and my best friend who was with me, walked up about that time, and the look on her face was just priceless. I said, "Mary, does this look all right to you?"  "Yes, I think it is fine." 

The following day was her funeral home visitation.  I awoke that morning feeling quite ill. Thinking it was nerves, grief, shock, whatever, I tried to go about the day. We were to be at the funeral home at 2:00 p.m.  By noon I was flat on my back, so ill I wasn't able to even stand.  I guess I had caught the same virus that had hit my Mother so hard just two days before.  I somehow managed to dress and get to the funeral home.  The first person to visit was my dance instructor for many, many years during my childhood.   This was so appropriate, because other than my parents, she had more influence on me than anyone during my formative years.  After she left the funeral home, I continued to get sicker and sicker.  I ended up being able to stay for only about one-half hour, and then I had to be taken to the Emergency Room.  I spent the rest of my Mother's funeral home visitation in the hospital.

Who misses their Mother's visitation?  It's not something that you can say, "Oh, I understand now.  Next time I'll know to do ..."   There is no next time. There is no re-do.  I missed the hugs. I missed the commemorative stories shared by so many.  I missed the support of just being in the presence of the people who thought enough about my Mother, our family, to come to pay their respects.

It's now been six years since this happened.  I'm still not sure what the lesson is to all this.

I do know that I have always known I have wonderful friends. But their love during this was a beautiful affirmation of their importance and blessing in my life.

I do know that, even though I missed the hugs during the visitation, that the cards that came to my home almost daily for three months recreated my Mother's life for me. The memories shared with me with the handwritten notes within these cards were a lovely testament of her life on this earth.

I do know that the grief counselor at my church has now become a lifelong friend of mine.

I do know that the spiritual journey, spiritual search I have been on since this fateful day, has been one of confusion, learning, and awakening. 

Sometimes the blessing is in the search itself.


This week The Red Dress Club wanted us to recall something in our life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought  something wonderful.

The Holiest of Friday's

It is the holiest of Friday's for Christians. This last Friday in Lent ... this most holy Good Friday.  The color of the Bishop's, priest's, and deacon's vestments are in reverence to His blood and also the Holy Spirit.  The cloth draped over the cross for veneration the same sacred color.  When I come forward for the Veneration of the Cross, bow, and kiss the cross, it is truly the most solemn of actions in my Catholic heritage.

It is not about the fish fries or whether I've been able to hold true to my fasting from my beloved pasta.  It is the culmination of the last 40 days of prayer, meditation, reflection, and renewal of my baptismal promise.

I remember as a child the Passion of Our Lord being read on Good Friday.  I remember the shifting from foot to foot and wondering if the priest would ever come to the end of the story.  Thankful that it was only read during this one period of time throughout the year. Glad, when at the end, he finally would say, "The Passion of Our Lord."  As a child was it even possible to understand what we had just heard?  And, as an adult, is it possible to absolutely comprehend the love that drives our salvation?  So often we get caught up in the mysticism of our faith, and we forget that this was a man in flesh and blood, with a mother and father, and friends who loved Him.  This man, made to carry the burden of His cross, and suffer unbearably so our sins could be forgiven. 

I find myself trying to stretch this into a longer written piece, when in reality I am not even worthy to approach this subject.  I will leave it where it is, and on Good Friday, when I see the Bishop, priest, and deacon enter the church in their vibrant vestments, my mind will be on the prayerful lyrics of a beautiful song written by Timothy R. Smith, "When I Survey The Wondrous Cross"...

"See from his head, his hands, his feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down!  Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?"   ... "Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all."


The Red Dress Club has challenged us to write  about the color red without using the word "red." I was inspired by Holy Week.

What I Lack? 0.00004571634269 Nautical Leagues

I'm 57 inches tall.  I always thought that was 4'9", didn't you?  But, when I went to the conversion chart, the calculation from inches to feet was stated as 4.75 feet.  I've just lost another .15 inches.  That hardly seems fair. Some of the other conversions were:

57 inches  ... 144.78 centimeters
57 inches  ... 1447.8 millimeters
57 inches  ... 1.4478 meters
57 inches  ... 1.58333 yards
57 inches  ... 0.0014478 kilometers
57 inches  ... 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues.  WHEW! I'm exhausted and just can't go on with these conversions.

But I can tell you about the perils of a grown, single, adult who is 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues tall.  For starters, any items in the kitchen, frequently used, are kept in the first tier of cabinets.  So the kitchen is already at a disadvantage, because these lower shelves are crammed past capacity.  There are things in my top cabinets that I haven't seen in years.  I'm hoping, as I reflect upon this now, that at some point I haven't put money up there for some reason.  I could be rich! Who would know?  I would need to go retrieve the extension ladder to crawl up there and look.

I can tell you that a back scratcher works really well, when you are standing on a four foot step ladder, to wind Christmas lights around the top of the tree. Now the angel on the top is a different story.  The back scratcher won't work for her, so that is when you get the neighbor, the mailman, the landscaper, the cable guy, or whoever you can nab, look pitiful and say, "Can you please put my angel on my tree?" Hey, it's part of the Christmas festivities each year at my house.  I never know who may become a part of my Christmas tradition.  I have photos of folks in my Christmas album who I identify as, "Oh, that's who put the angel on my tree."  Gee, if I had only learned all their names, I would have quite a list of Christmas card recipients by now.

I can tell you that I absolutely love it when I am scaling the racks in the grocery store for my salad dressing, which I might add, is always at the top.  A glass bottle to boot!  When I need aerobic exercise, I don't pay for a gym.  I go to the grocery.  I have become quite adept at placing my feet securely on the bottom shelf, strategically positioning my hands midway up the shelving, and then determining which hand I'm going to release to grab the item from the top shelf, then return safely to the floor, and place the item in the basket.  I have been known to thrust my arms in the air, upon completion, just as a marathoner does when he crosses the finish line.  I just adore it when I have finally reached the top of the shelves and someone walks by and says, "Can I get something for you?"  My reply, "Naw! I'm just stretching and limbering up for the frozen food section."  The degree of difficulty is much higher over there, and you get extra points. You have to master the same scaling expertise, but hold the door open by thrusting your hip to the side, all the time while your hands are turning blue and going numb from the Arctic touch of the freezer. 

It's not just about the reaching part either.  It is really exciting, and I'm sure entertaining for others, when I take my car into the car wash. Oh my goodness, the guys just dry, and buff, and polish the car, place the baby powder air freshener in the car, and then smiling proudly hold my door open for me.  Did I know they had moved my seat back for the 6'8" employee?  Nope ... I get in, sit down, reach for my pedals, and slide right down to the floor board.  "Oh, mam, are you all right?"  "Yes, yes I'm fine.  I'm just reaching for my earring that fell on the floor!"

Yes, there are many obstacles for a person who is 0.00026058315335 nautical leagues tall.  I just make sure I can always reach the margarita mix!

What Is it?

"This, what is it?" Rao asked in his broken English.  His newly adopted mother turned and saw him with the hose and sprinkler head in his hands.

Rao had been orphaned two years before in Haiti.  He had spent time on the streets, time  huddled under make-shift roofs, always in filth and squalor unimaginable to masses.  In his young life, he had endured more than most would in a lifetime.

With his smile stretched to fill most of his face, he turned the nozzle over and around until he accidentally pushed the trigger that sent a jolt of water spray directly into his face.  He jumped with shock, and fear took over the previous smile.  "Don't be afraid, Rao" his mother soothed.  "It's just water."  Rao continued to wipe his face, saying "but dirty, dirty."

His mother, sadly, then knew his fear.  Rao was not accustomed to fresh, clean water.  He was only used to puddles with sewage, and on rare occasions, the need for him to carry heavy buckets filled with rarely available clean water, back to his living environment for the day.  Only then could he drink and wash without the fear of disease. How many times had he seen his family dwindle and die from disease related to his poverty.  He had eventually seen his entire family perish and leave him alone and frightened, fending for himself at such a tender young age.

His new mother had been on a mission trip with her Catholic Cathedral.  Their main hope had been to install a water purifier system for the school her church supported.  It had taken three to four trips to just prepare and complete the necessary requirements to finally install the purifier.  It was now in place, and the remaining task was to educate the people how to maintain the system once the missionaries returned to their homes.

It was during this trip that she and Rao met each other for the first time.  They were both connected by their mutual smiles.  Even with the language barrier, they quickly became best friends.  They were shadows of each other.  Learning of his orphan status nearly broke her heart.  As she left to return home, she felt as if she couldn't walk away.  Each step was a step in pain.  Tears accompanied her on the plane all the way home.  Would she ever see him again?

Now she had completed the months of red tape, and her return to Haiti was filled with excitement and expectations.  But, what if something had happened?  What if he was gone?  What if he was lost to her forever?  They both saw each other at about the same time, and those smiles returned.  This time when it was time to leave, they had boarded the plane together ... hand in hand.  Tears on this journey were tears of shear happiness.  As Rao looked out the plane window, as they landed in his new home, she said, "We are family."

"Rao, the water is absolutely 100% clean.  You are safe to drink it, and play in it.  Let it run over you, feel the coolness."  Rao took the hose, put the sprinkler head over the top of his head.  This time when he pushed the trigger, there was no fear.  Only a smile that could have lit the world.  With his eyes closed, his head back, the water ran over his silken ebony body.  He stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity to him.  He was safe in the enveloping arms of the cool, clean, healthy water.


The challenge for The Red Dress writing club was to view the picture of a hose and sprinkler head.  This is the story that came from that picture.

Chelsea Bear ... December 12, 1993 to April 8, 2008

GOODBYE

Today I said goodbye to my best friend.  I cradled her in my arms, with her head on my shoulder, snuggled just below my chin … just in the fashion I had carried her to bed so many times over so many years.

The doctor, who had taken care of her for so long, with compassion and love, helped her to a peaceful rest.  I can’t help but feel, that in my arms, she felt safe and secure; just as she had felt throughout her days with me. At least I hope she did, Oh, I hope she did.

It all happened very quickly.  The vet tech took her away from me for oxygen, and I told them not to let her be alone, so about a  minute later they came and got me. She had this little oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, but those big brown eyes saw me immediately when I came into the room. I told her “mommy’s here, you’re safe.”  She seemed to relax immediately.  I held the oxygen for her until they got the IV in her leg, then they gave her a little sodium pentothal, and while she was dosing off I kept kissing her face, ears, head, nose, and telling her I loved her.  I told her Grandma was waiting for her and would be so glad to see her.  I told her to give Grandma a big wet sloppy kiss, and also asked her to save a place for me.  As she got sleepier, I told her to lay her little head down, and she basically laid her little head in the palms of my hands.  Then in less than a minute I was told  she was gone.  It was all very peaceful and she was most aware that I was with her.   I tried to stay calm so she wouldn’t feed off of me and be scared.  I promised her when she was 8 weeks old that I would take care of her, and now 14 ½ years later, I refused to let her down in this moment of need.  I stayed with her, after her death, for about 30 minutes, just the two of us, as we had been for so many years. 

I went home,  and I prepared her resting place … what was to be beneath her favorite tree, where she would stand, look up, and implore the squirrels, “please come down and play with me!”  But after careful contemplation, I chose cremation and I brought her home, placed her in my hand-built pottery urn, placed carefully on the night stand, where I could tell her goodnight every night, and give her a tender and longing love pat.

A bit later in the week I needed to go to the bank.   It was all I could do to go through the drive-through that she and I always went through together.  She loved to go to the bank!  On her first trip with me as a puppy, the teller sent her a cookie, and she never forgot.  On every subsequent trip, she would stand with her paws on the console and stare at the bank tube, waiting for her treat.  I usually took an extra cookie with me, just in case the teller didn’t send her one.  You see, I would put mine in the bank tube so she wouldn’t be disappointed.  It would break my heart if she ever looked sad.  I swear on my first trip to the bank, alone, without her, I could feel her little nose so close to my right cheek as she stared at the bank tube, waiting for her cookie.  No cookie came for her.  I guess the teller couldn’t feel her presence … but I could.

In my sadness, I set out for a walk.  I followed the path we had taken so many times. I know I saw the grass bend, and the wild flowers sway, just about the same time I felt the brush of her happily wagging tail across my leg.  I stopped for a moment, listened, and walked on. With tears in my eyes, I returned home, and I realized then that she had followed me home, just as she had done so many years before.

It was then that I realized my sadness was intensified by my trying to say goodbye.  I had placed her in her earthly resting place, but I had tenderly, so tenderly placed her in her eternal resting place … my heart. 

Instead of saying goodbye, I only needed to utter the words, “see you.”  I see her all the time, and I feel her constantly. God gives us these precious gifts for such a short time, but He enables their spirit to live in our hearts forever.  This may be our biggest blessing.

“See you my dear, dear friend.”

This was written three years ago after the death of my beloved Bichon, Chelsea Bear.  I post it today in loving tribute to her.

Boiled Peanuts, and Ewwww! Jelly Fish ...

Every summer my Mother, Daddy, big sister, and I would pack into the car and head south for our summer vacation.  First to Savannah, Georgia to visit my Grandparents, and then on to Ormond Beach, Florida for beach time!

This, of course, was before there was air conditioning in cars.  So down the road we would go with all the windows down, no seat belts, and a few snacks packed in the car with us.  The interstate wasn't complete at that time either, so most of the driving was on a two-lane, sometime four-lane highway.  The first hurdle for us was the trip across Monteagle in Tennessee.  Since my sister and I both got car sick going around a lot of curves, all four of us would be crammed in the front seat together for at least the 30 to 45 minutes it took us to cross Monteagle.  At the top of Monteagle was a gas station that we always stopped at to re-fuel and take a potty break.  I remember buying a tomahawk once in the attached gift shop, and when showing it to my sister I said, "Look!  A real Indian made it."  Her reply was, "Oh sure, I bet he's sitting right out back of the gas station making those up right now."  Daddy's reply, "It was, too, made by a real Indian."  I still have that tomahawk hanging on a hook in my computer room.  And, you know, I believe Daddy was right. I do think it was made by a real Indian.

Once we arrived at my Grandparents home, it was time for some real "spoiling" time.  Our favorite part of this portion of the trip was going to Tybee Beach.  Daddy would always buy us a bag of boiled peanuts, we would rent an "ocean" canvas float, and we would ride the waves all afternoon.  On one occasion, Daddy had just gone up on the beach when he heard me screaming bloody murder. The look on his face I will never forget.  He charged back into the ocean, scooped me up, and carried me to shore.  I had had the unfortunate happening of swimming through a school of jelly fish.  Up to the lifeguard stand I was taken, and my legs and arms were washed down with an antiseptic soap and water combination.  I don't think I have been more than knee deep in the ocean since that time. 

My Grandmother was a true southern belle.  I can remember to this day, her sitting on the beach, in her dress, pearls, and high heel shoes holding per parasol.   That is a vision that I am sure would not happen today.  Grandpa would be sitting right next to her in his tan slacks, plaid shirt, hair blowing in the wind, with a smile on his face as we all played in the sand and surf. 

We usually set up our beach digs just down from the pier.  Oh, how we wanted to walk out on that pier, and Mother would never let us.  She was so afraid that the pier would fall, for some unknown reason, and we would fall into the ocean. She was so deathly afraid of water.  That old pier actually did fall one season after we had left.  A hurricane hit that area and the pier was washed out.   There is a new pier in its place now, and just this past December I visited Tybee Beach for the first time since I was a teenager.  I walked out on that new pier, thought of my Mother's fears, and when I looked down the beach where we all used to sit, I could almost see my Grandmother sitting there with her parasol.  My sister was home in Indiana, and my parents and Grandparents are all gone now.  I had an intense sense of loneliness, as I realized I was the only one there out of our group.  But, then I also had a sense of such warmth and connection, when I realized I could visualize and feel it all.

After leaving Savannah on these trips, we would head further south to Ormond Beach, Florida.  This was time devoted to just my Mother, Daddy, sister, and me.  The little cottages where we stayed, Coral Sands, are still standing today.  They are nestled a few steps from the beach, with a gorgeous view down the beach and the incoming waves of the ocean.  There was also a swimming pool where we could swim and play when we grew tired of the salt and sand. 

The one constant to these wonderful beach trips was the Coppertone Suntan Lotion.  Mother would slather us two red-headed girls from head to toe in Coppertone.  Our fair skin burnt so easily.  To this day I still use Coppertone sun products.  Over the years I have used the oil, the 4 sunscreen lotion, the 15 sunscreen lotion, the 30 sunscreen lotion, and now in this time of my life the 45 sunscreen lotion. I think I have finally realized that I will NEVER have a tan.  I love the product and that is one of the reasons I use it, but I think the true reason I use it, to this day, is the memory that the scent of Coppertone washes over me.  I smell that wonderful smell, and I am transported to my youth, my family vacations, and the loving arms of my Grandmother and Grandpa.   I'm hungry for some boiled peanuts just thinking about it ... but let's leave the jelly fish behind!!

This is written in answer to the  challenge from The Red Dress writing club.  We were to write about a memory associated with a smell.

A Special Bond

Have you ever wondered what forms the bond? 

These creatures, these souls with fluff,

cold noses, twitching ears,

staring eyes … they come to us by different means,

but all end up residing in the same spot … our hearts.

We owe them love, nurturing, and good care.

We owe them a time for exercise,

be it a walk in the park,

a ball tossed in the house, or just a good game

of tug-of-war with their favorite rag.

We owe them a home; free of danger,

and the comfort of knowing

they are safe and secure in our care.

You may ask, what is our reward? 

It’s the gift that these magnificent creatures alone possess …

the pricking of the ears, the twitching of the nose,

the loving stare, and the untiring wag of the tail.

All of this emotion is shared when we walk into a room

after an absence of as little as five minutes,

or as long as a week’s vacation. 

You see, time means nothing in their hearts.

They only know they love us unconditionally,

and the best part of their day is the time

spent with their beloved friends.

They have a keen sense of awareness

during times of stress or illness in our lives. 

Haven’t we all experienced the comfort

of a chin propped in our lap,

or a paw placed in our hand?   

Who hasn’t been rendered a tattered

and torn favorite toy, as if to say,

“This is one of my favorite things.

It will make you feel better.” 

We must have taken notice

that when the lights are finally

turned off at night, that it is our

beloved companion that makes

one more sweep of the room or home,

and when all is deemed secure and safe,

with a sigh of contentment their soul rests.  

And, we wonder what forms the bond …

One Person In Line

He was talking as he stood in line.  He pushed his tray along the ledge with hands that were coated in dirt and trembled ... the right worse than the left.  He was given his sandwich, some vegetables, two cookies.  When he reached for his soup, his trembling right hand made it hard for him to steady the bowl and some of his savory grace spilt onto the tray.  The person serving his needs saw the bowl had tipped and graciously topped his soup off so he would get his fair share.  He shuffled to a table, sat down, lowered his head, spoke some more.  He rarely joined in conversation with the others seated near him, except to make comments that really had nothing to do with any person or conversation near him.  Several times he talked animatedly, laughing, frustration, but these words to no one other than to himself.  At one point he did ask one of the servers if he could get a new belt.  He showed her that his had broken in half and was duct taped together.  It also would have fit a man at least three times his size.  He was asked to follow her to another area, where together they dug through a box.  He seemed happy that he had several belts from which he could choose.  He put the "new" one on, tipped his head, muttered some more words, and took his leave.

He proceeded around the corner and up the stairs to the magnificent Cathedral.  He continued to talk as he entered the church and took his place on the right hand side, about four rows  from the back of the church.  He lowered his head and remained quiet.  No longer talking to the unknown.  He remained seated during the first part of the Mass, making no noise, looking at no one, but occasionally lifting his head to look at the stars on the ceiling of the Cathedral.    He reached into the pocket of the coat that was literally hanging off of his frail body and pulled out a plastic container that resembled a toothbrush holder.  The filth of the holder was overwhelming. Surely this couldn't really be his toothbrush.  What was revealed within seconds took my breath away.  He opened one end and poured something into the palm of his hand.  It was coins.  Several coins.  Some were pennies, a few nickles, and maybe a couple of quarters.  He pushed them around in his palm, took two or three of them into his other hand, and put the rest away and placed the holder back in his pocket.  When the collection basket came down his row of chairs, he took his meager coins and dropped them into the basket.   His gift.  He remained seated, talking with no one throughout the rest of the Mass.  He did join in the Body of Christ during Communion.  When Mass was over, he tipped his head and walked out the main entrance of the Cathedral.  As he slowly shuffled down the sidewalk, he once again began carrying on his conversation. 

I found myself praying that the voices he heard and the conversations taking place were with his friends.  I couldn't bare the thought of him being alone in the coldness of the coming night.

She Sees With Her Heart

She sees more with her heart than most of us see with our eyes.  When she was but 10 months old, we made a visit to the veterinarian ophthalmologist to have her lower lashes evaluated.  They were said to "turn in a bit."  Maybe, just maybe the lashes were spoken of for about two minutes of that visit.  Instead, we received the very unexpected news that she would go blind.  "How could that be?  She is only 10 months old," I said.  I was told her retinas were detaching, and though the vet could not tell me when it would happen, it was thought that she would definitely go blind.

I put my precious Gracie, a sweet little bichon frise, in the car with me and started for home.  After tears by me, tail wagging for her, I told her that I was going to show her everything I could in this world.  From that day forward, we always took the same route when we walked, so it would be familiar in the future.  I took her to the lake, showed her the geese, and let her hear them honk.   When she heard that sound in the future, I wanted her to know it was a goose.  When I threw her toy to play fetch, I always said, "Are you ready? Here it goes."  Then I would throw it in the same direction.

I also took her to two other ophthalmologists for second and third opinions, being told each time, that it was a "fluke thing" that had happened, possibly an inflammation inutero with her mother, or with her as a small puppy.  I remember no such inflammation.  However, it  had attacked her eyes, and yes, there was nothing to be done. 

During this time of anguish for me, Gracie continued to wag her tail and find absolutely nothing buy joy in her life.  And slowly but surely my precious girl did lose her eyesight.  Now at the age of three, I really don't think she sees much at all. Possibly shadows, but since she can't read an eye chart to us, we don't know how much she sees and how much she has compensated vision. When we take a walk, regardless of the route, she leads me, ever fearless of what lies ahead.  When a goose honks on the lake, she immediately runs to the dining room window and looks out on the lake. And yes, I know she sees those geese.  To this day, she fetches her toys down the same hallway, always following the "Are you ready? Here it goes" statement by me.  If I have told her once, I have told her a thousand times, "You can do it."   And she has proven, over and over and over again that she indeed can!

My Gracie humbles me everyday.  When she meets a new friend, she doesn't see the color of skin, Gracie only sees the person.  She doesn't see the outward appearance of the person, she only sees the beauty of that person, and feels the gentle touch she is given.  On her first excursion to the dog park, I reluctantly took her leash off and let her loose.  I stood and watched as she started to sniff the parameters of the acre of fenced land.   Then she picked up her pace and trotted to the center of the area.  When we had arrived at the park, there were only two other dogs there. By the time we left, there were seventeen dogs who had joined in the fun.  Gracie had greeted each dog and each human at the gate, as if it were her party and they were her invited guests.  And she played with all of them.

I have forgiven the "fluky thing" that caused this blindness.  I have forgiven the medical world for not being able to  fix it.  To not do so, would be a dishonor to the heart of my Gracie.  I will forever remember that first day in the dog park. and the tears in my eyes. when she came running across an acre of land toward me with her ears blowing back in the wind and the sun on her face. She was free!    And, I could oh so see that she sees with her heart.  If only the entire world did so!


This writing is in answer to my writing club, The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about forgivness.

What's the fuzz? Tell Me What's Happening ...

When I first started watching the process, I wasn't tall enough to see the counter top.  I just knew it all looked interesting and that I absolutely loved the outcome.  I could see flour being shaken, a white substance being scooped from a large can, and water being added slowly, and of course a little salt.   Then I would see the juicy fruit being added, the oven door being opened, and then a buzzer sounding about an hour later.  Then, it was mine.

As I got older I continued to watch the process, and then finally decided that I would learn the process ...

My mother gathered me at the kitchen counter, spread out her waxed paper, and it all began.  Some flour, of course, she didn't measure.  So, I decided before she added any other ingredients, I would scoop the flour she had sprinkled out into a measuring cup, so I would know the right proportion.  Then she scooped the Crisco from the large can. Again no measuring, so I was left with the scooping method again to get the accurate measurement.  Then came the iced water.  Yes, a glass filled with water and a few ice cubes.  I couldn't measure this, since there was no chance for scooping, so I had to use the "eyeball" method.  Then a sprinkling of salt.  I would ask, "how do you know it is all the right texture?"  To which she would add, "you just need to make sure it is short enough."  By this, I think she meant the Crisco.  Because trust me, this recipe stood taller than any I've had since. 

Then in her round glass casserole bowl, she would add peaches, a little sugar, and a touch more flour. Stirring ever so gently.  Then she would take the heavy, round, wooden rolling pin, flour another piece of waxed paper, and roll the dough mixture out into a flat and perfectly thickened round disc.   She would then place this over the peach mixture, crimping it along the top edge of the casserole dish. Each crimp was the perfect indentation of her index finger on top, and her thumb on the bottom.   But she wasn't finished quite yet with this undertaking.  You see, there was always a bit of the dough mixture left over ... by design.  She would then take this dough mixture, roll it out once again, and then she would take cinnamon and sugar, sprinkle it on top, and then roll it up "jelly roll" style. 

Both of these prepared dishes would now go in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour.  Then I would begin to smell the process after just a few minutes.   About an hour later, music to my ears!! The timer for the oven would sound its musical pleasure.  Both of the master pieces were taken from the oven and then set on the wooden chopping board which had been placed on the counter top.  The chopping board had been turned upside down, because it had been hand painted by my sister in the first grade, and nothing was allowed to sit on the painted side.   Then I was told,  "we need to let it cool for just a bit."  While the cooling process was taking place, out would come a small box and the table would be set.   The master pieces would then be transferred to the center of the table, the small box opened, and the candles placed lovingly in the center of the casserole piece of art.  Then the familiar song would be sung, clapping would follow, and then my family was blessed with the best peach cobbler on the earth!! 

Yes, my February birthday dessert was always my Mother's homemade peach cobbler.  I had this for practically every birthday from the time I can remember, until my 52nd birthday.   Then shortly after my 52nd birthday my Mother passed on the second to last day of March.   I haven't had a peach cobbler of that caliber since then. Even though I spent that painstaking time of "measuring" all her ingredients, as she worked her magic, I've never tried to make her famous crust to top my peach cobbler.  I don't know if the reason for not trying is a fear of not being able to do it, or probably more truthfully, that it is a sacred memory that I refuse to give up or compromise.  Sure, I can make the peach concoction, but the crust and even the "jelly roll" style cinnamon roll-up is better left to the memory.  It's more than a memory of the actual decadence of the dessert.  It's the love it was made of.   I just choose to hold it in my heart.


The above was written as a challenge from my writing group, The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about a fruit.  My love of peaches far exceeds their flavor.  It remains a piece of my Mother's special touch.

How Can I Help ...

How Can I Help …

March 30, 2005

When a person has lost a loved one friends immediately want to know “How can I help?”  I was certainly no exception to this rule.  My friends rallied around me from the minute my Mother died, and some even during her final 2 hours of life, and “kicked into gear.”  One of my friends even stated that my friends from work should start a Bereavement Committee; they were so on top of things.  I think friends want to help because in their way they are grieving with you.  Even if they didn’t know your loved one, they love you, and in this sense they grieve right along with you.  The morning of my Mother’s death, before I left to go to the hospital and certainly before I knew this would be the day it would happen, I walked into my kitchen to a sink full of dishes and a counter top that  if you didn’t know there was a counter top there, you wouldn’t have known.  I stood, surveyed the mess, thought about cleaning it up quickly, but then readily decided I was going on to the hospital because no one would be in my house that day!  Little did I know that by the end of that day over 30 people would be in my house.  By the grace of God, my friends came to my house within an hour of my Mother’s death, brought food, brought paper products, brought soft drinks, and while I left to go to the funeral home and church to make arrangements, they cleaned my house!   I'm sure crying along the way for me, as well.  This was one of the biggest blessings they could have done for me.  In addition to cleaning my house, one of my friends and his wife even sent a cleaning crew to my Mother’s house and thoroughly cleaned her house, even shampooing her carpets.  Unbeknown to me, Mother had been so ill the night before that her house and carpet were very soiled.  I don’t know what I would have done if the cleaning crew hadn’t come.  You see, my sister, her husband, and my niece were arriving at 11:00 p.m. that evening from New York, and their plans were to stay at Mother’s house.  Everyone’s help continued for several days and even weeks after my Mother’s death.  In a sense, I know their help will be life long because simply their presence in my life is a source of strength to me.  How blessed can one person be?

Reflection … Loving father you have given me so many blessings during my life, and I’ve always said one of my biggest blessings is the gift of my circle of friends.  I acknowledged my thanks to them during my  Mother’s eulogy, in your presence, and the celebration of life Mass for my Mother.  I ask that you continue to bless my friends with  peace, happiness, and health.  They are special souls, as you well know, but I feel the need to thank you again for this gift of kindred spirits and friendship.

This writing is an assignment for The Red Dress Club.  It is an answer to a challenge to describe myself without using adjectives.  My life is defined by my beautiful circle of friends.  This is but just one example of how important friends are in my life.  As you can see by the date of this writing, it has been six years since my Mother passed.  My same circle of friends love me today, and I return their love in full force.  I have, over these six years, helped them say goodbye to their parents.  I've sat with them during their sadness, cooked the food, but mostly have loved them and given them a shoulder to cry on, or an embrace to strengthen them.  Friendship is not just important to me, it is the heart of my core.