Home Sweet Home ("Danger, danger, Will Robinson")

September and October have turned out to be busier months than I expected. 

I've been novel reading, writing, cleaning, and repositioning my possessions so I can cram more of them in here. Hence the lack of blogs.

I had intended to republish my Reflections of 10 years ago, but have been too preoccupied to even do much of that. However...

Today's blog is not a meander down Memory Lane. It's "Hot off the presses!" current events.

Well, it's been nine long days and nights since I fell prey to domestic sabotage--translation--my domicile, with sadistic, insidious, and clear malice of forethought, attacked me! or more simply stated I slipped and fell in the hall right outside my bathroom and wrecked my right foot, knee and the toe next to the big one.

Now before you ask,
No, I did Not hie myself directly to the emergency room so they could tell me what I already knew or offer me treatment that I could and would have already done on my own, and
Yes, I knew right off, with absolute certainty, that the toe was broken and all that anyone anywhere could do for me was tape it--which I knew very well how to do all by my lonesome.

Three and a half days later, when I had the fortitude to navigate in my lovely, nearly vintage, stick shift auto, I took myself to the doctor who viewed the damaged digit from a safe distance and officially affirmed my original diagnosis of "broken toe" without, mind you, laying a hand or so much as a finger on me at any time. 

She did, however, to forestall the slightest hint of malpractice, write out two prescriptions, one for x-rays and another for a boot, neither of which could by any stretch of the imagination fit into my meager budget, which I told her while she was scribbling away.

She handed them over anyway and added that no matter what, all anyone else would do was tape the toe to the one next to it until it healed, and then she sent the nurse in to replace the tape I'd worn into the office. Bah-da-bum!

The nurse arrived with dull surgical scissors and some vicious looking, non-waterproof, too wide tape that was virtually guaranteed to rip the skin right off my body when I was forced to replace it after my very next shower. Thanks, but no thanks.

No stranger to the boredom and tortures found in medical facilities, I somehow had the presence of mind that day to bring in my "busy bag" similar to the ones I used to pack for my children with a library book, hand-held electronic game, and medical supplies (tape and scissors!)

I generously allowed the nurse to put the finishing touches on the re-taping I mostly did myself with my own supplies. (I did want her to feel needed and part of the healing process.)

She was so impressed with my expertise, she told me I should have gone to nursing school. My instant response was a terse "no." And all I could think was thank goodness I've had enough Girl Scout Red Cross training and experience with my children's and my own accidents to take care of most of these things on my own.

In all fairness, I must add that they were nice enough to squeeze my emergency into their schedule and I greatly appreciate that.

This incident has reinforced my opinion about Home Sweet Home being one of the most dangerous places on the face of the earth.

My homes have maimed, and nearly killed, me on numerous occasions. I don't know why I ever thought this new place would show me any mercy whatsoever.

I bear eternal scars from the concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads in front of childhood homes from the days when I was trying to learn how to control roller skates and a two-wheeler. These are nothing compared to the implosion marks from an apple corer/slicer that dug into both palms simultaneously or scar on my thumb from the paraffin slicer that demanded tribute when I was helping mom make strawberry preserves.

I lost mobility and had nerve damage in one of my little fingers for over a year when a perfectly good drinking glass decided to explode and slash in my dishpan one bright and sunny day. That one could have used stitches, but being the little Miss Fix-It that I am, I applied homemade butterfly closures and used a Q-Tip for a splint to keep the skin from gaping open to the bone.

Ewwww! Now I'm grossing myself out, but if you want to check it out for yourself, you can see the subsequent scar is no worse than a trip to the ER would have left. The splint stayed on for two weeks; I got some mobility back in three months, full sensation back in 12 months, and surprise, surprise, I survived.

I am currently continuing to self-treat my most recent injury, to both my body and my dignity.

It doesn't take a medical degree to know how and when to alternate ice and heat to reduce swelling, or to take aspirin for inflammation. I took to my bed with my foot elevated, rested, and napped quite a bit. I've liberally applied a topical pain ointment to the injured knee that wants to stiffen up on me, and I've eaten copious amounts of chocolate ice cream, which everyone knows is a sure cure for whatever ails you. And, lo and behold, it's all helped, especially the chocolate.

I had started the process of correcting the position of the abused toe almost immediately.

** Warning: Skip this part if you are too empathetic or easily nauseated!

 As I lay naked in the hall floor after my left leg attempted a foolish, forward split and the right leg crumpled under me with the toes acting as a useless tripod, and the pain washing over me like a tsunami, I rolled onto my left hip and grabbed that poor bit of flesh and bone (yes, the broken toe!) and pulled it out of its "hind leg of a junkyard dog" position.

What the hay; I was already in agony, but not so much that I didn't know that later wouldn't be easier and if I ever wanted to get this puppy into a pair of shoes that didn't have to have a porthole carved into it to accommodate this monstrosity, it was now or never.

With a few more, very unpleasant, painful tugs and some strategically placed, nifty taping, I've almost gotten the toe back to ground level, but I may have to admit defeat eventually in getting it to point straight ahead instead of to the outside edge of my foot. 

I'm not really into repeating that much pain in an ongoing, and possibly fruitless, pursuit.

A couple days after the vicious attack, I was able to hobble up to the laundry room, via the elevator, and on my last trip downstairs, something in my foot that was loose or misplaced snapped back into place all by itself. I'm taking it easy and trying to keep the foot happy, but I know I have a way to go before I'll know if that click was 100% successful.

Meanwhile, I've been subjected to vast quantities of well-meaning, but slightly insulting advice and suggestions. To this I'd like to clear up a few things.

1) I believe that unless the owners of this building put handholds on every single wall in every apartment AND replace the flooring with fluffy foam mats, which is never going to happen, none of us living here is completely safe! 

2) I have been getting out of this tub for nearly a year and nothing close to this has ever happened so I was totally unprepared for an impromptu, ice skating disaster.

3) I DO recognize, appreciate and routinely use the handicap handholds inside the tub and I did NOT fall getting out of the tub!

4) I did not trip over the rug, fling water onto the floor willy-nilly, oil the floor, my feet or any part of my body, feel dizzy or pass out before or after I hit the floor.

5) Suggestions and comments to the contrary are apt to set me off and it is completely possible that I might retaliate at any given moment by smacking the jowls of anyone who is not careful while I'm recovering or at any time in the future--so consider yourself warned! 

I was not clumsy, negligent or careless.

It was an ACCIDENT!

Okay, believe me or not, I was an innocent in this!

I was lulled into a false sense of security and then slammed to the ground and injured when I least expected it!

But, when you get down to it, the truth is that I should have known better.

After all, I was safe at home!

P.S. Special thanks to my daughter who has been there for me all week to drive me wherever I needed to go and has run so many errands for her wounded mum, and much love to those who would have been here if they could, and have offered me great moral support from a distance. I love you all VERY MUCH!

A Blue Autumn Sky

Originally written on Sept. 21, 2000

"It must suck not to be me" is only one of the thoughts that crosses my mind as I sit here in my new chair in the front yard, basically doing nothing. Oh, one could say I was reading my mail, catching up with the latest "expert" opinion on the long-lasting, devastating effects of divorce on children--this, naturally, coming from the admitted veteran of a 53 year marriage. Next month we'll probably get the views of a virginal nun or priest on the joys of natural childbirth--or so I suppose. One could say I do not hold great value in the opinions of people who have not experienced whatever it is that they purport to be experts in, and one would be right.

The weather today has been idyllic. I know this, not from the fact that I've been outside all day enjoying it, but because my brief ventures out of the house to feed my pets and collect my mail have done the unthinkable, lured me away from my computer (and the internet), away from my afternoon television shows, away from the new murder mystery I've been devouring every minute I can steal, and into a canvas recliner under the trees in my front yard. So here I sit for a while, doing absolutely nothing and enjoying it immensely.

My cats set a perfect example for me. My unexpected appearance in their domain temporarily stimulated them into a burst of "Busy Cat" antics. They played chase and took turns at the kitty drinking fountain--reminding me that the jug is nearly empty again. It must be my turn to fill it. I, after all, am their designated "person." The one allowed to tend their needs and the one they are too polite, for the moment, to point out has fallen down on her job.

They spend time grooming each other--a hint that I should brush my hair and change my clothes before going to my club meeting tonight. They lay next to each other or touch or brush against each other in familial tenderness with such open signs of love and affection it brings tears to my eyes--and reminds me how lucky I am to have so many people to love and who love me. Now they are all napping, the cats that is. 
At rest. At peace. With the world, each other and me.

The sky is just blue today, no tints, no clouds, pure blue that warms your heart and soul. No clouds, although they are predicting rain tonight, tomorrow or the weekend for sure. Not fair to everyone trapped inside every day by work or school. The temperature is perfect, well, hot enough to mark the rim of summer and with a cool edge to tell me fall has arrived and I'd better make plans to get out to the local orchard before the best of the crop is gone.

Rain will bring that sudden drop in temperature that prompts my annual scramble for warm clothes. Now, let's see. Where did I put them? Surely I had to know that summer wouldn't last forever and it would eventually get cold again. Wishful thinking gone awry.

I usually sleep with a bit of the window cranked open in my bedroom. Not all winter, of course. It's not like I'm a health nut or something. I like the feel of fresh air on my face, though, to let me know what kind of day is just outside my well-insulated house. I especially enjoy the sounds and smells of a long, slow, steady rainfall. That's my idea of another slice of heaven.

Sometimes I think my insulation is really working against me. It holds the heat all summer, especially in the late afternoon when I find myself so warm and cozy I just drift off to sleep, sitting straight up on the sofa! At least, that's what I blame for it.

In cool weather, the house is slow to let me know that it's warming up outside. Artificial climate control, a.k.a. the furnace, throws all that off. I manage to stay comfortable all winter with a moderate amount of heat, although I tend to keep my house cooler than most people I know. "Turn down the heat and put on a sweater" still works around here, and almost lets me afford the high gas bills, almost.

Summers, of course, in the Midwest and within the walls of my un-air-conditioned house are hotter than hell. I don't NOT have air-conditioning as some kind of protest or statement. It is nothing more than the fact that I couldn't afford it after my divorce and have survived without it since. When my house gets to be unbearable, I hunt down a/c elsewhere. 

Around July and August, I often think about having a central unit installed--the only thing that would really solve the problem--but the cost of buy the unit, not to mention the added expense of paying for the power to run it, puts me right off it again.

People tell me they can't understand how I can live without it. Sometimes I don't either. Then I go out somewhere cooler, to the stores, at my friends', or I just take another cold shower and sit in the yard until the sun begins to go down. I go outside and dream of a beautiful day like today. Not too hot, not too cold, not too sunny, not too wet, not too windy. A day made for me and my cats to lounge around in the yard and just be.
                       
                                      ***

It hardly seems possible that 10 years and 7 days have passed since I wrote this, my very first "Reflections of My Day." 

Back then my life and world were very different than they are now. I was living alone in the small home I'd raised my family in; now all the chicks have grown up and moved away. I was living on an invested settlement; all of which has also flown away. 
It was a simple, quiet, satisfying life.

Per the request of my youngest offspring, I am reposting these glimpses of my life as it was then. And per her request, I will continue to add more glimpses of my life as it is today. 

Hopefully, my others readers will enjoy both equally. ;-D

Purple Music

Some sights and sounds and words and music never lose their magic.

"Turn me and twist me and show me the elf. 
I looked in the water and saw (myself)!"

If you remember saying these words, 
you'll know where I'm coming from.

I once was a Brownie and young Girl Scout.

I still remember the ceremony when I received my golden Brownie pin and had to do a good deed to turn it right side up. I remember selling boxes of cookies. I remember walking from old Harmony School (no longer in existence) two blocks east to a church (also demolished) on the corner of 74th and West Main Street for our meetings. I remember the pride with which I wore my uniform to school and my anticipation in attending those weekly meetings.

I remember bringing home the crafts I'd made that my parents kept almost forever, like a wooden slat and shoe lace mail holder. I also remember a game of catch with a jack ball that got out of hand at another meeting when I got shoved face forward under a lunch table. That's when one of my new front teeth was severely damaged, and the beginning of my major dental problems began.

I still have my old Girl Scout Handbook, and I've noticed how the badges have progressively become less domestic and challenging, and have a considerably reduced number of requirements. Way back when, our program was more about service and practical skills than Beverly Hills fluff.

My early love for Scouting came rushing back when my oldest daughter first put on her Brownie uniform, and it stayed with me some 30 odd years later when we started a troop in Arizona that grew from 6 girls to 50 before we turned it back over to their parents. It was with me, the night I received my 50 year pin and the day I walked, with hundreds of bridging Scouts, across the Mill Street Bridge.

My enthusiasm for Scouting was there in the 70s when I became a co-leader for her troop, then leader for my middle daughter's troop. It was rampant while I learned and honed my skills along with the girls and other leaders.

It was there when I worked at day camp while I was pregnant with my youngest and just as strong when I came back the following year to work with all the girls during the day, and let my baby splash in a big metal washtub by the flag pole before heading home. She and I still regret that I wasn't able to be her troop leader as well.

I've loved all the opportunities Girl Scouts gave the four of us over the years, especially the numerous trips down to Camp Butterfly where all three of my girls were with me for a week or more at a stretch. One year we went down for three weeks in a row--individual troop camp, core camp, and we finished our stay with family camp. It was a summer we'll always remember!

The evening in between the departure of all the other Scouts and the arrival of the Scout families, my girls and I had the whole camp to ourselves for several hours.

The counselors had gone into town to blow off some steam after dinner. The girls and I went down to the lake. Some raccoons were washing and eating some mussels; birds were calling from the trees; mist was gathering over the water; the moon and stars were shining on us. The camp was suddenly so quiet it was as if we were all alone in the world, but not lonely because we were together.

The nicest thing about this kind of camping is that we had the benefit of a support staff of young, energetic, knowledgeable, well-trained counselors who helped us enjoy swimming, canoeing, sailing, horseback riding, hiking, repelling, archery, star gazing--you name it,
we learned and had a blast doing it.

I think the thing I enjoyed the most was spending mornings at the lakefront, coming up for lunch, singing grace, eating and then singing while each table washed up their dishes, and finally going back to our campsites for an hour to rest before the afternoon and evening activities began.

While I'm sure the rest period was as much for the counselors as it was for the campers, I found it one of the most peaceful times I'd ever experienced before or since.

The girls and I traveled to camp in our Honda Civic so we had to limit ourselves to bare necessities, even though I did have a camper shell clamped to the roof. That shell had to hold our four big duffle bags of clothes, mess kits, pillows and sleeping bags. To that I added sturdy, string hammocks about the size of my fist, a boom box that doubled as a cassette tape player and several tapes that contained music suitable for nap time.

My youngest quickly became fond of Chopin, Bach and Tchaikovsky, and sure enough, as soon as we lashed our hammocks to the trees next to our cabin and climbed into them, she'd ask me to play the "purple music." (Tchaikovsky's label happened to be purple!)

Everyone had an extra piece of rope tied to another tree so we didn't even have to put a foot on the ground to rock ourselves to sleep as we swung to and fro, listening to the breeze rustling the leaves overhead and the sweet sounds of classical music.

How many times do we go on vacation and rush here and there until we come home and need to "rest" up from our sojourn?
Not so when we came home from camp, 
despite all our time in the sun and fresh air.

How many times do we rush through our day, doing all the extraneous duties we assign ourselves without taking time out for a quiet moment to recharge and listen to the beat of our own heart and the sound of our children growing up and away from us?
Too often, I think, and not nearly often enough.

My children's young lives passed by in the blink of an eye. Sadly I remember too little of them.

I let the pressures and stress of a family business and unhappy marriage take precedence over my paying attention to more important things like our day-to-day moments together.

I'd love for my children to follow my lead and write down the stories of their lives, now while they're still fresh in their minds. If they did,
I could relive those moments all over again;
this time through their eyes.

I cannot return to those important days and cherish them as I might have, but I do have today and I've turned a new page. Today I am building new memories, for them and for me.

I gather each good time we share like precious pearls on a string, one happy occasion after another.

I cannot ease or erase the sorrow or anger or disappointment we shared in the past. I can only step into a new beginning, a new way of loving and living in the moment.

I wake up each day, knowing we have one more chance for another purple music moment of peace and joy and love.

Our time together at camp was a welcome break from the chaos of our lives back home. 
It was all the sweeter because we knew that in the shade of those trees we were happy and safe and filled with love for each other.

It was indeed the best time of our lives.

Just the Three of Us

From the time I was 13 months old until my own daughters were old enough for overnights at the local Girl Scout camps, I rarely slept away from home. One of my best childhood friends lived down in Dutch Hollow, just a few miles away from us, but every time we begged, pleaded and cajoled our parents into letting me stay all night with her, I'd have an asthma attack in the middle of the night and have to be taken home.

It was so aggravating. All day long we played like frisky puppies, my brothers and I, Judy Ann, her brother and sister, and their cousins from one house down. As soon as it got dark and the mist fell in the valley, it was all over for me. My breathing got labored, her parents panicked, and my parents would have to come back and get me. Sometimes I'd start to feel better as soon as the car left the lowlands, and other times I'd be sick all night and into the next day.

Imagine my delight, however; one monumental year in my childhood, when my mom and her sisters-in-law decided it would be a wonderful experience for their oldest daughters to have a vacation together at our Great-Aunt Gillie and Great-Uncle Frank's old farm in Carbondale.

The three of us were a year apart in age; I was in the middle, but outside of our family reunions at Thanksgiving, we had never spent much time together. I was around 10 or 12 when we went to this equivalent of a two-week summer camp; our hosts were very near their 70s. It was a match made in Heaven because all of us kids adored them and were on our best behavior when we were with them.

A high point of our trip was that we were being allowed to take the passenger train from Belleville to Carbondale without parental supervision! It was a two-hour journey with worried, weeping parents at one station and a calm, joyful aunt and uncle at the other stop.
We felt so grown-up traveling ALONE!

After a ridiculously expensive, long-distance phone call back home, lots of quarters when a local payphone call cost a nickel (keep in mind this was the 50s), to let our parents know that, yes, all three had stayed on the train the whole way and survived the trip safe and sound and fully intact, we were whisked off to the grocery store where we were asked what our favorite foods were! This was another big event to us; our moms just bought and fixed whatever they thought was good for us, but I don't think any of us had ever been consulted about our preferences before, at least I hadn't.

We also made a stop at the dry goods store, either that day or shortly thereafter, to pick up a few yards of material. Here, too, we were given a choice about the color and pattern of the yard goods. My cousin, Nancy, was in 4-H and her latest project was making a skirt with a matching shawl. Dear Aunt Gillie decided she would teach all of us how to sew; what a brave woman she was! She even taught us a kind of sign language since she couldn't wear her glasses and hearing aid at the same time while she was sewing.

I wish I had kept a journal about this visit. I had such a wonderful time.

Gillie gave us impromptu biology lessons when she picked vegetables and cleaned chickens for our dinner. Frank taught us animal husbandry when we helped him feed the chickens and cows, gather eggs and crank the cream separator after he milked his small herd, twice a day, every day. (He let us and Gillie sleep through the morning chores, though!)

We watched birds from the kitchen windows through the binoculars that were kept, next to the old cowbell, on top of the antique cupboard made from trees cut down on her grandparents' farm in Belleville. Then we'd look for their pictures in the big bird book she kept close at hand for us for us to use.

Throughout the day we'd be busy picking berries and grapes and roses, and dressing the kittens in doll clothes. In the evenings we'd read, or be read to, from our great-grandparents' novels, Erie Train Boy and Swiss Family Robinson, Tom Sawyer and Little Women, played Old Maid and Authors or picked threads loose from our frayed-edge shawls.

The days flew by,
each one as good or better than the last.

Despite all this, there were a few flies in the ointment of our bliss.

My cousin, Sherry, suffered from terrible homesickness. She'd never spent much time away from the rest of her family and cried for them every night.

My cousin, Nancy, was very unhappy about sharing her "special" time with Aunt Gillie, and took every opportunities that came her way to tease and torment Sherry and me.

It might have been on this visit when she turned the wooden peg that locked me in the big chicken coop, and then conveniently "forgot" where I was. Just for the record--chickens are mean. When the posse finally found me, I was pecked, crying my eyes out, almost hysterical, and I have eaten fried chicken in revenge ever since. To this day, I'd still rather stare down a snake than a chicken!

I don't know what I did to annoy them, but I'm sure if you asked them, my cousins could tell you tales about me, too. I certainly was no angel, but the one thing I did not do was have a single bout of asthma the whole time I was there!

Our idyllic sojourn came to an abrupt ending one night near the end of the second week when Nancy got sick. We all piled in the car and made a hasty trip to one of the nearby relatives because Aunt Gillie didn't own a thermometer. We arrived at this old, dark farmhouse and were led through rooms filled with stacks of newspapers and magazines and boxes of who-knows-what.
It was my first glimpse at hoarding.

Sure enough, my cousin was in a lot of pain and running a high fever. I don't know if it was her appendix or not, but it was pretty clear that she was very ill that night.

Another long-distance call had to be made to her parents, and mind you, not everyone had phones in their homes back then, especially in the country, but my family did. Her mom made the trip down there in under two hours, and made Sherry and me go home with her as well. So much for our return tickets for the train and the few remaining days of our country vacation.

For the most part, Sherry was relieved to come home to her family, and I stayed mad at Nancy for a long time for getting sick, not that she could help it. Overall, though, it had been a wonderful time, but one that was never repeated.

My cousin, Nancy, went home to Freeburg where she graduated high school, and then attended college in Carbondale and lived on the farm with Frank and Gillie while acquiring her teaching degree, as did her younger sister.

My family moved out of state soon after, and our visits down there became few and far between until we moved back home.

My other cousin's family eventually moved back and forth across the country as my uncle's Air Force career progressed. I don't know that any of her siblings were born in the same state, but none of them came back here to live or raise their families.

Many years later, when I had a family of my own, I made that trip down Highway 13 many, many times so my children could get to know the great-aunt and uncle I loved so much. I know my cousins and second cousins did the same thing.

There was something so special about that couple, their unusual love story and all they could teach us about life. I owe them for so many of my best memories, for their nurturing and encouragement, and for bringing out the good parts of who I am now.

Today when so many grandparents and great-aunts and uncles are too busy with their own lives, still work at 9-5 jobs and live in small homes or in retirement communities, children don't get these kinds of opportunities. They don't get to learn life lessons at the knees of their elders and hear stories they'll remember forever.

Aunt Gillie was the family mentor and historian. She sent each of her great-nieces and nephews books on our birthdays that reflected our interests and hers. From her we learned to love reading and games, and to observe and interact with nature. She taught us practical skills and how to use the talents we were born with. She told us stories about our family's history and antics, and taught us to be proud of who we were and who we could become.

Today the family is scattered to the four winds. It's been years since the last funeral that brought us all back to our hometown. It's a shame that's what it takes for us to reconnect.

I still remember the family reunions we had at their farms down in Carbondale, the house brimming with people of all ages, from Uncle Charles LeTempe who lived to be 104 or was it 106, to the tiniest, newborn baby. It was a house and a world and a family filled with sharing, happiness, and love.

All of those children are old enough to be grandparents now, and some are.
All are old enough to have been married, divorced, and remarried. Some are.

Some have had great joy.
Some have had great sorrow.
Some have been close to dying.
Some have lost children in tragic ways.

All have been loved.

Mine is a family that is a privilege to be part of.

I'm glad I'm part of them and
that they are a part of me.

Across the Ages

I knew my dad's mother was rich for a number of reasons.
She had two houses, one in our hometown and a vacation home in Florida, and two Lincoln Towncars, all paid for, free and clear.

She had beautiful furniture for the home in town that she occasionally passed onto us whenever she redecorated.

She had a big, wooden cutting board that smelled like ham when it wasn't even a holiday, and she bought small packs of devil's food cake cookies, instead of the bargain cookies we had at my house--you know the ones with three rows of chocolate or vanilla sandwich cookies--and she handed out her cookies sparingly like the coveted treasures they were.

I knew she was rich because she had diamonds flashing on her fingers and wore real furs. She played Bridge with fancy friends and attended functions at the Country Club.

I knew she went shopping in some of the best stores in St. Louis to buy lovely clothes and other things for herself, and I knew she didn't love my mother's children because she rarely shared any of the good things she had with us.

My grandmother took good care of the things she loved, and she didn't take care of us.

I've often imagined how life would have been different if my mother's mother hadn't died at such a young age, almost as often as I've wondered how it would have been if Mom hadn't died likewise.

I imagine that grandma making us dolls out of peg clothespins, with a penciled in face and maybe a string and a rag for a dress.

She would have had us stand on a chair next her by the stove and showed us how she made biscuits and gravy for breakfast.

We would have enjoyed Kool-Aid and a piece of butter bread with sugar on top at her table.

She would have sung us to sleep with a funny old song her mother had sung to her.

She would have cried at our weddings, and been there to help and advise us when we had children of our own.

She would have been poor in material things, but rich in heart and spirit.

She would have given things money can't buy.

This is the granny I never had.

I imagine going to Arkansas to visit her and grandpa with my parents.

She'd have my aunt and as many of my eight uncles and their families as could make it home for a big, holiday celebration.

She'd fuss when all the grandkids would pile into her tiny house and swarmed her for hugs and kisses. "How'd you think I can feed this hungry mob?" she'd ask, but we'd all know how much she loved being surrounded by her family.

Everyone would bring something to add to the meal, and all the women would take turns to get the meal ready and on the table. Mom and her sister would have collected a little money from everyone to replace the threadbare coat she'd worn for too many years because she was always squeezing every penny just to keep their heads above water. She'd cry over the coat and tell them they shouldn't have spent so much, and then she'd open the next package and find a new hat to match it and some sturdy shoes to keep her feet warm and dry.

I'd sit on grandpa's lap after dinner and listen to the men talking, but when I fell asleep that night, it would be grandma who tucked me in under an old quilt made from scraps from her children's dresses and shirts. She'd put me and my siblings and cousins to sleep with stories about our parents when they were growing up, and over time, I'd understand how my mom learned to be such a great mother.

But that is all make-believe.

Mom never got to know her mother, never got to hear her tease her and her sister about living out their lives with first names that differed from the ones she gave them, never got to have a mother who could laugh at their joys, dance at their weddings or cry at their funerals.

My dad's mother had the chance to know her children and grandchildren, but I don't know how well she knew any of us. While my grandfather, Pop, could make us laugh with a joke or trick, she was less approachable and warm.
I don't know how lovable I appeared to her, but there were many times when I felt as welcome as a muddy, stray mutt on the white carpet of her well-ordered life.

Not long ago I wrote about some cheap gifts my grandmother bought us when we moved back to our hometown. One of my daughters thought it was mean to make so much of how little she'd spent, and pointed out how much a child she'd bought an inexpensive toy for loved it.
She was right about toys in general, but it's not the price that makes the difference, it's the sentiment it's given with.

Hers was given with love; ours was not.

I don't know if my grandmother had much chance of being the sweet granny type, though. She couldn't have learned much from her own mother, who was so unpleasant to be around that we kids drew straws to see who had to go with our parents to visit her.

Maybe my grandmother was trying to feel loved with material possessions or simply make a better life for herself, and there wasn't enough left over for us.

My great-aunt told me that when my dad and his siblings were growing up, she and her parents took care of them more than their parents did.
I've seen pictures of my grandmother with her three children around her at her new house. She was hardly more than a girl herself when she became a wife and mother. I can see that she probably needed their help.

I think she knew she wasn't the girl his parents had in mind for my grandfather, but according to my great-aunt, grandmother set her cap for him and he never had a chance. All I know is that Pop adored her and would have done anything to make her happy. I'm pretty sure he did.

I grew up knowing my grandmother was rich, but none of it was for me; and the thing I miss more than the much needed help she could have provided us in lean years with decent clothes and food and education was the time and attention and love that wasn't there for her children or grandchildren.

Sometimes we carry traits of people we do not admire.
Sometime we pass on knowledge we were not given.
Sometimes we have to accept the responsibility for mothering and grand-mothering ourselves and forgive those who wouldn't or couldn't do that for us.

My grandfather's sister was the closest I had to the grandma I dreamed of. Part of me has always wanted to be just like her when I grew up, but I don't think I'm anywhere near as nice as she was so I don't think that's a possibility anymore.

I'd like to think I'm better than I am, but I'm not.
I'd like to think that, given enough time, I could let go of some of the anger and resentment I've had about things that happened, or didn't happen, in my past and for the people who were part of it, but I haven't.
I'd like to think that writing about my feelings will somehow ease the pain and confusion of the child, girl and woman I was and will help me make peace with things I cannot change.

I'm sure this is one of the reasons I write today.

You Can't Be Too Careful

December 31, 1958 was a hallmark night for my family, but not in a cheery, greeting card way.
It was the night my parents were in a car accident and my mom went to the hospital with a broken hip.

The story went this way, although I'm open for corrections since it's been so long ago that I heard the first-hand version of it:

They had gone to a New Year's Eve party, but, atypically for them, left early because the weather was getting bad. Sure enough, a freezing rain had already iced up the streets, but apparently Dad thought everything would be fine when he pulled in behind one of the city trucks spreading cinders.

Unfortunately, it was only an illusion of a safe passage home. I don't know if they hit a slick place on the pavement, or if Dad got impatient and tried to go around, but somehow they slammed into the truck, hard.

Mom might have not have been hurt so badly except for the fact that she tried to put on the brakes even though she wasn't driving at the time. Bracing herself on the floor, like she was slamming on the brakes, was too much for her, and the bone that broke in her right leg had to be operated on to insert a steel pin that she ended up taking to the grave with her.

I was 12 at the time and in junior high. My brothers were 8 (in 3rd grade) and 9 1/2 months old. I don't know, but I guess my dad's family got together and decided we were too much for him or my grandparents (who only lived blocks away from us) to handle on their own, because we were quickly parceled out to his siblings for the weeks while Mom was in the hospital and in the early stages of recuperation.

Dad's sister, Sue, her husband and three children lived near my school, so it was decided that I stay with them. My brothers went to his brother, Dave, with his wife and daughters. The boys loved the farm and my uncle's family loved them. I heard they would have liked to keep them forever.

I can't imagine a nicer family than my Aunt Sue and Uncle Lloyd's. Still it was not easy for me to live with a family so different from my own.

There were rules, of course, but they weren't tough or confusing. We did our homework after school every day, and didn't put Friday's off until Sunday night. All the kids, including me, had chores, but everyone helped each other. When homework and chores were done, we could and did play, and when it was too cold to go outside, we could even skate on the concrete floor in their basement.

Most odd to me, the adults didn't go out drinking, or stay at home to argue or fight. I kept waiting for them to drop their "company manners," but that was just the way they were, all the time, hard as it was for me to believe or understand.

I spent a lot of time trying to stay out of trouble and on the good side of adults when I was growing up. It's not that I was a bad kid or anything, but I was uncertain about what it took to keep adults from being angry, with me or each other. Without anyone ever telling me, I felt it was my job to keep things around my house as calm and peaceful as possible.

I didn't have much success in that area.

Neither did I learn to trust adults to be constant and consistent in doing their job of taking care of me. I grew up knowing that they had a lot of responsibilities and that it was up to me to take care of my own needs as much as possible and bother them as little as I could. It wasn't until I stayed with my aunt that I discovered there were some adults I could trust.

One day while I was staying there, I forgot to take either lunch or lunch money to school. When we were dismissed for lunch, I simply left school in the freezing cold and headed in the direction of her house. I got lost along the way, but somehow I finally got there.

Instead of having her get angry or upset with me for forgetting my lunch, leaving school without permission, and getting lost, all she did was fuss at me for not calling her. I was surprised that not only was I not in trouble, but that I even had the option of asking for help. She fed me and took me back to school, but she never once raised her voice nor teased me about it at all!

Living there, even for a short time, was a real eye opener for me. I didn't know people who lived in such a different way than my parents and their friends or who day in and day out treated each other with so much kindness and consideration as a matter of fact.

I don't mean this to be a criticism of my parents in any way, but life with them, though loving for the most part, was almost always volatile and full of drama. It was a jolt to come home and become my mother's right-hand helper again.

Not only was I back to watching the boys, I had to help Mom with nursing duties that I really didn't want to do. Wheelchair-bound, Mom wasn't her usual blur of activity, and I had to spend more time with her than I wanted to at the time. It was an opportunity that could have brought us closer, but didn't.

I wish I'd known then what I know now, but, of course, I didn't.

I think it's a lesson most of us learn too late--to appreciate, enjoy and get to know the people we love before we lose them. We take for granted that someone so important to us will always be there, whenever we need them, no matter what. Then the day comes that they're not, and we can only think of all the what-ifs with regret.

I do not blame myself for being thoughtless and selfish at times; I was young and immature. Like most kids, I did no more, no less than was expected of me--good grades, clean room, politeness and obedience.

We were a classic family of the times. Dad went to work; Mom stayed home and took care of everyone. It came as a shock to all of us when she suddenly needed us to take care of her, even a little bit, for a little while. I will always believe that the major reason she died so young was that no one took care of her enough to keep her healthy and hopeful.

Mom finally got back on her feet and back to her usual role, but somehow the world was a bit different for all of us after that. We didn't take our status quo as much for granted. We didn't take our family dynamics as much for the norm. We didn't think of our extended family as much as the familiar strangers they had been before we had lived with them as part of their family.

My mother had lived though the nightmare of having her children scattered, as she and her brothers had been after her mother's death. We had all been shaken with the brush of a new kind of uncertainty and change. Like mom's leg, our family had been broken apart, and knitted back together. We had been separated, and finally reunited, but our view of family had been forever altered because we had lived a new truth.

Sad to say that while I greatly enjoyed my stay at my aunt's, I was genuinely relieved to return to life as I understood it. I was used to being the odd duck at school--the kid who was home sick with asthma almost as much as I was in class, the awkward child in public who needed a joke book to make conversation, the imaginative recluse at home who found comfort in books while an emotional storm raged outside her room. I wasn't used to "normal."

Who can figure out why their life takes all the strange twists and turns along the way? Who defines what's normal for one family and what is right for another? Who knows how all the things we experience will eventually influence and form our characters, but it's surely true that we are a product of everything that touches us, our lives, and the people in it.

I think the lesson in all of this is that you can't be too careful when you find an opportunity to love, learn and be loved. Those are the opportunities you need to grab hold of. You can't be too frightened to live your life to the fullest and you can't take your life or the people you love for granted

I believe we would be better people, more real, honest and in the moment if we really did live as though we were dying, because the truth is that we are. Every day we live we are one day closer to our death, and how we live it is up to us.

None of us know how long the thread of our life is or when it will unravel or suddenly come to an end. While I have it, I want to live it. While I can, I will tell the people in it that I love them, because tomorrow they might not be able to hear it.

I want to relish all the moments I'm alive, whether I'm contently alone or spending time with the people who are important to me, even if it's only through a phone line. And when the day comes that the essence that makes me who I am is ever gone, please let my body go and remember me as who and what I am and was.

I would not change my life if I could.

There is no guarantee that a second chance would help me do a better job or make me a stronger, kinder, better person. It was hard enough to live through it the first time. I don't know if I'd want to attempt to change anything even if I could do it all over again.

There are moments I would like to revisit, faces I'd love to see, words I'd love to hear, and any number of things I wish I had noticed, paid more attentions to, and remembered more deeply and clearly

Perhaps, someway, somehow, someday, I will,
if I pass this way again.

Hot Time in the Old Town

Well, it's late July in the Mississippi River Valley and it's hotter than hammer hell!
I don't care what anyone says--
it's the Heat and the Humidity!

Naturally, on a day like this I'm just where you'd expect to find me at lunchtime (which is around 6 p.m. for me)--sitting in the shade on a bamboo mat on the grass at the back of the store where I work, eating a ham on rye sandwich and sipping a raspberry tea from our competitor down the road.

I had not planned on being here tonight, in fact I was looking forward to resuming my usual a.m. grocery shift. However, since we're down 4 people again--2 hard workers, 1 new recruit, and 1 horse's patoot--and training 2 newbies, plus 1 of our regulars taking night classes at the local junior college, I was the only available for this shift. So much for well-laid plans; mine had to go on hold.

Once again, on my trip down for my tea tonight, I was amazed by the number of people who are seemingly incapable or overwhelmingly inconsiderate in navigating the traffic circle (otherwise known as a roundabout) between here and there.

Come on, folks, this is NOT brain surgery!

A traffic circle is supposed to make driving easier; NOT be yet another way of making you want to strangle the people who don't understand how they are supposed to work!

The general rules go this way:
1) A traffic circle is just like a blinking yellow light. Yield and proceed.
2) If there is no one at any of the other entrances, you may proceed, with caution, around the circle to your desired exit.
3) If another car / or cars have arrived before you, you all must take turns entering and exiting the circle in the order of your arrival.
4) At no time are you to disregard the yield signs at the entrances just because you the most selfish person on the face of the Earth!
5) Nor are you allowed to follow a string of cars from your entrance through the circle--UNLESS you are in a funeral procession or plan to be the BODY in the box in the NEXT funeral. Get the drift?!, you $%*!#@ dodo!!!

Simple rules, I think,
not even close to rocket science,
so please
try to get a clue,
learn how to drive
or take another route.

Now before you jump to the erroneous conclusion that I have succombed to the effects of the heat, I would like to assure you that I feel exactly the same way about the same set of bozos in the winter!

They are going out of their way, to make this a whole lot harder than it has to be, and they are in the way of people, like me who actually know how to drive, and grew up with a double-sized roundabout where you have to know how and when to merge into the inner circle and how to get out of it in less than one complete circuit unless you want to admire the colored lights in the foundation at the hub!

Like I said in the beginning, it's pretty darn hot in the Mississippi Valley, and just in case the humidity wasn't already knocking you to your knees, the weatherman just announced that they're tracking a new set of thunderstorms headed our way.

You gotta love it around here, because if there's one thing we have plenty of, it's weather, and if you don't like what we're having, stick around because it's been known to change seasons in the blink of an eye!

I spent six and a half years near Phoenix, and the whole time I lived there I passionately missed the green, green hills and valleys of home. Mentally I tried to accept life in the desert, but emotionally my heart and soul were embedded in the deep, black soil of my birthplace. I never realized how many shades of green there were until I moved away from them.

And oh, how I do love it here, hot, cold, humid as all get out and everything in between.
;-D

Imagine That

Things have been crazy at work, again,
and we're shorthanded, again,
and I'm working too many hours, again,
without downtime between workdays, again,
to really rest up and recharge, again,
but I'll get through this week and next, again,
and things will change, again,
but I'm off today, and that's a very good thing.

I started a beef stew in the slow cooker around noon so I'm guessing I'll be able to dig into it sometime tonight in 6-8 hours or so. I filled the pot with beef tips, onions, garlic, carrots, celery, potatoes and beef stock. Once it cooks down and gets tender, I'll transfer it to a larger pot and add green beans, corn and maybe some peas. Yum. I'm making myself hungry.

I pulled the footstool that matches my faux-red leather, swivel recliner and the little, cherry-colored table off my faux-oriental, mostly red carpet and ran the Dyson over it, pulled the throw rugs out of the kitchen and steam mopped it, did a few dishes, chatted long-distance with two friends, washed my bed linens and other dirty clothes, and played Facebook games.
Now I'm ready for a nap.

I passed some of my neighbors in the common area when I went up to do my laundry. They wanted to know if I was joining them for their twice weekly exercise session.
I snorted, "Yeah, right!"

I didn't think it was necessary to tell them that after four straight nights of eight hours on my feet, waiting on 200-300 customers a night, washing windows, cleaning the deli area, mopping the entire store, throwing buckets of ice for fountain drinks, bagging even more ice, straightening up the shelves, putting out overstock, and training a new employee, plus a little bit of grocery shopping and cleaning my apartment, I was too tired to bend and stretch.
My friends already know that!

I think it's obvious to them that I'm stretched to the limit because they've seen so little of me lately. I go to work, come home, eat and sleep, and do it all over again the next day, and will have to do so until the rest of the new crew has been hired and trained, or transferred from other stores. I'm soooo ready to get back to my normal schedule of 2 1/2 days a week. I'm too tired to write, even though the dreams that fuel my blogs and book keep coming.

I was talking to my best friend last night about imaginations and how much fun we used to have when we were kids--without all the toys, computers, cell phones, Wii's and whatnots kids have now. I don't really think kids have time to play any more, unless it's in organized sports and I think those are more fun for the adults than they are for the kids.

We used to get one big gift for our birthday and Christmas and not the deluge of toys kids now expect as their due. One year it was a baby doll and a Howdy Doody, the next a dollhouse and a train set. (That was a big year; we spent days moving dollhouse furniture in the box cars.) Another year it was a fancy doll and a homemade barn (by Dad) and tractor set.

Yet another Christmas it was two-wheelers. One the typical, open-frame girl's bike in blue and the other was a boy's bike in red with the cross bar. I still remember that mine didn't get fully assembled until the day after Christmas, but I named it Cheyene and rode that bike for a long, long time so it turned out fine after all.

I remember playing farm under the big old oak tree in our front yard. We scraped rows in the dirt with sticks and then ran the tractor with its plow over the loose dust and stuck grass in to look like my uncle's crops.

We played in the creek with leaves and sticks and the waterwheel my dad made for us. We walked in the woods and did all kinds of things with few or no toys and without our parents watching our every move.

Mom wouldn't hear the words, "I'm bored" from us. We were expected to entertain ourselves until lunch, dinner and bedtime. "Go play," was all she had to say for us to take off on another adventure, or at least get out from underfoot until she wanted us back inside.

In cold or wet weather we had plenty to keep us busy. We had cards and board games. My brothers had cars and I had a box of different sets of paperdolls. I preferred the books that only had one or two dolls because those had more clothes.

Mom would take out her long, black handled scissors and snip out the curves and ruffles in a way that never ceased to amaze me. It never occurred to me that she didn't get to have paperdolls when she was my age. I guess she didn't mind playing with me that much after all.

Maybe she got to cut out the models in the Sears, Roebuck catalog, but those aren't as much fun because their arms never match the other clothes. I know because I tried it once after she said something about it and got in trouble because it was the new catalog.

Mom made lots of clothes for my real dolls, and my friends and I tried it a few times, but weren't very good at it. I got my last doll when I was 13, much too old for a doll, although 12 was just fine. I still have her. Mom's sorority ladies made clothes for her and held a raffle. We won.

I named her Teresa, I think after a singer my mom liked, and she was the most unusual doll I'd ever seen. To begin with, she wasn't a baby. She had pierced ears with little pearl earrings, high heel shoes, eye shadow, lipstick and breasts!

Keep in mind this was long before Barbie.

I think she originally came in a wedding dress, but the ladies made her a wardrobe of different kinds of dresses. The one Mom made was a beautiful, green, strapless evening gown. I wish I knew what happened to all those clothes.

All I have left is a tattered pair of green striped, cotton overalls, a mouse-chewed, flannel nightgown, and a stained, white, crocheted lace gown. The shoes are gone as are the earrings, but I thinking about correcting that situation. So far, thinking about it is as far as I've gotten.

I cannot say that I would want to be a kid again in today's world. They are usually so buried in heavy schedules of organized sports and school work, computerized games and communication systems, they don't have any free time left to just be a kid.

When I was growing up we had a lot of time to play, and we had to figure out what to do for fun with not a lot of resources.

Ewww! Echoes of old parent laments..and, we all know how those go, but I think this bears saying again--kids these days don't have as much fun as they did when I was growing up, and I think it is because their parents are doing too much for them.

Parents give their kids things they would have liked when they were young. They work hard to one up their parents, and often mistake the value of the material things they can buy for the value of things money can't buy. Kids today not only do not use their imaginations (much, if at all), they are encouraged to use someone else's in a game program or whatever. They are pushed and prodded from one activity to the next and never have time to lay in a wheat field and imagine that the ocean would sound just like that.

Our world was safe enough to take off for most of the day on foot or on our bikes to find tadpoles and beaver dams and the open road without our parents thinking we'd been kidnapped. Talk about the ransom of Red Chief!

It is true that all work and no play makes one dull, and, in my family, we were anything but dull! Still true today.

Another thunderstorm rolling in tonight, another workday tomorrow. Stew turned out great!

I'm snug in my cozy abode and tonight
Life in the Midwest is wonderful.

Eating in the Dark

I don't know what you do when your life gets complicated, jammed up or out of whack, but I go to the movies. There's something soothing about sitting in the dark with a soda, box of popcorn and a giant room full of strangers who are sharing your laughter, tears and utter amazement at the great events on the big screen.

Yesterday afternoon I went to the matinee at the oldest theatre in town. The Lincoln has been in the entertainment business since 1921 when it opened with four vaudeville acts and a silent movie. Some of the famous stars who were actually in the theatre were Ginger Rogers and the Marx Brothers. Wow! How could you top that!

I think it's sad that so few people are still going to the movies like we used to. I remember the excitement of going to Saturday matinees in the mid to late 50's with my friends or younger sibling. You could sit there for hours watching the same show and cartoons over and over again. Maybe that's why my idea of Heaven looks a lot like a musical comedy with kaleidoscope dance numbers and songs by the Gershwins, Rogers and Hammerstein or Cole Porter!

I got downtown with plenty of time to spare before showtime, bought my ticket, and used the rest of my wait time to wander over to the old Ben Franklin store (that for legal reasons, I guess, has dropped the Franklin from their name.) Inside it's the same, cozy, whatnot shop it's always been, with the addition of a lot more decorating and craft paraphernalia since they bought out and broke through the walls of an adjoining store.

Of course, I went into the store needing absolutely Nothing, and still bought something. This place is almost irresistible. My grand purchases were a 4th of July placemat, new Sudoku book, and some tiny packs of candy for the movies. It cost me a grand total of $3 and tax. What a bargain!

I have to tell you, the Junior Mints were the best I've ever had. They came in teeny, tiny boxes, sealed in plastic, and were so fresh and yummy and--what can I say--heavenly!

The remake of the Karate Kid was fantastic and the occasional, visual links to the original were funny and great! My best friend had just seen the movie and highly recommended it. She has yet to steer me wrong.

So here I was, sitting in the dark, eating my popcorn and candy, taking some chill time to recharge my reserves, and learning life lessons from another movie.

What a great way to enjoy Life!

Or in the words of my old porch rock*

Please turn me over.
Ah, that feels better!

(Translation for those of you who don't know me that well.)

*Porch rock: a fist sized rock that sat by my front door on the porch for nearly 20 or 30 years.

It didn't actually talk, but it did have those words written on the top and bottom of it. I still have it, somewhere.

For Better or Worse

Nope, today's topic is NOT marriage,
it's Family.

Although we think they shouldn't, and often we don't want them to, some relationships, including friendships, marriages and heart throbs, come and go.

On the other hand, for better or worse,
family is forever.

You can love them, like them, hate them or despise them. You can interact on a regular basis or ignore and avoid them for years, but family is always family, whether you want them to be or not.

You can pick your friends; you can choose the people you date and get serious about, but you are basically stuck with your family, and you can make the best of it, or not.

So what do we do when we aren't surrounded by family? Most of us create a circle of friends who become a new "family" for us, and in some ways they fill the spot even better than family, and in other ways we still know that it's not the same. We can't get away from that basic craving. We need that family connection in our lives.

Holidays are good excuses for families to get together. Thank goodness the holiday seasons and weekends are usually long enough for us to recover from an overdose of "family!!!!!"

You know what I mean. No matter how much you love your family, spending a lot of time with them can be exhausting.

There's usually lots of food involved at these get-togethers. Bad, candid photos are almost a given. And then there's the talk-talk-talk. Seriously, how long can you talk with your family without someone saying something that doesn't aggravate someone else.

Come on, who knows you better than your family or what buttons to push? Who knows better how to evoke laughter and tears in each other? Who knows those stories, that make us moan and groan, but we still long to hear, about 'what was' better than the people who were part of it all?

These are the people who share the memories of your lifetime, and sometimes remember them better than you do yourself.

But how well do we really know our family?

We get busy with the concerns and pressures of our own lives and put off spending time with our family. Oh, sure, we say, "call me," "we should get together for lunch," or "I'll see you at Christmas." And then somehow time gets away from us, years fly by and and we miss whole chunks of time and experiences we could have had with each other.

We assume we have all the time in the world to catch up, but we don't. Something happens; lives or feelings change. We get older, get sick, move away and apart, or die; the kids grow up; the babies are having babies, and all we're left with is a useless handful of "what-ifs".

What if I had done this or that. How much different everything would be--if only.

This holiday weekend is all about remembering, but there's no reason it can't be a time for new beginnings.

I'm sorry to say I don't know my family as well as I should.

I don't spend as much time with them as I could.

I am only now learning to make more time to be with them and seize opportunities to tell them how much I love them.

It has taken me a long, long time to discover how lucky I am to have the family I was dealt. They are funny, smart, beautiful, loving, wacky, and complicated, and I wouldn't want them any other way.

Happy Memorial Weekend!

Hope everyone's was half as good as mine.

I spent time with my family.

Dollars and Sense

Money...Like it, love it, hate it,
need it, need more of it.
Say what you will, it's a part of our lives.

Personally, I just like it, but don't get me wrong. I don't like it in a sick, miserly way, and I don't mean to imply in any way, shape or form that I sure as shootin' couldn't use more of it than I have. It's simply not the end-all, be-all of my life.

It's a like and not the love of my life, and certainly not my main motivation for getting out of bed every day.

I've often heard, but do not completely believe, that "money is the root of all evil."
Actually I think the "lack of money" fills that bill better, but don't take that sentiment to a will reading where you can see how battles over money can tear families apart.

I also know that there isn't enough money in the world to satisfy some people's overwhelming need to accumulate as much of it as they possibly can, and that they don't care what they have to do to make it happen.
To me, that's the real evil.

In the past, I was accused of being a poor money manager. Yeah, whatever. I'd like my accuser, just once, try to make the little bit of money I got stretch as far as I did, or to do so much with so little. I guess when you come down to it, it's all a matter of perspective, and that one was particularly skewed, but not in my favor!

I've been financially comfortable a few times in my life. It was terrific, and I'd love to regain that status. What I'm not willing to do, however; is to sell my soul to make it happen.

I like the things I can buy with money--
a comfortable place to live, good food to eat, and a reasonable amount of entertainment. There, too, I'm lucky. it doesn't take a huge pile of cash to keep me amused or to satisfy my wants and needs so I don't rule out the possibility of prosperity in my future.

In cold weather, I put together a lot of jigsaw puzzles, read, watch TV and play on the computer.

In hot weather, I solve crossword puzzles and Sudoku, read, watch TV and play on the computer.

No matter what the weather, I also like to go out to lunch or dinner, watch movies, sew, do crafts, and hang out with friends and family.

I'm careful, but not overly frugal with my money. I enjoy shopping and love bargains, but that's not all I look for when I'm out supporting the Economy.

I willing pay more for a great set of high count, 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, and opt for Crocs or Addis over bargain variety footwear.
I know I get more bang for my bucks when I don't buy junk, and I'd rather have a few of something comfortable than a lot of cheap stuff that wears out faster or just isn't all that great at doing what it's supposed to do.
More is not necessarily better.

I like good tools and toys. I have replaced my O'Cedar sponge mop with a Sharp steam mop. I'm going to miss those buckets of Pinesol, but my floors have never been cleaner. I've given away my Ace bargain bin screwdrivers and pared down to my Craftsman ones. I've long ago given up my Venture bookcases and replaced them with IKEA's. I have craft tool/toys to twist jewelry wire, mold and bake beads, locate constellations, make and cut paper, and on and on goes the list.

I like either side of the sales counter, as the customer or the clerk, and finding foreign coins among our everyday ones or the rare treasure of a wheat back, buffalo head, Liberty dime and Kennedy half that I can trade my pocket money for, but being the customer is usually a lot more fun.

I like paying with exact change and resisted getting a debit card for a long time. Now I don't know how I'd get along without one.

I like getting paid with exact change and the occasional opportunity to teach young customers how to figure it out for themselves.

I don't like sweat, floorboard, or foot money. That's too gross, even for me!

Last weekend some kids came into the store, and naturally I kept an eye on them. Sometimes they need help, and sometimes they help themselves, if you know what I mean and I know you do!

These turned out to be good guys, but after long deliberation about what they wanted, they came up front, put their selections on the counter, and one kid sat down in front of my register and proceeded to pull off his shoe. Out came a bunch of coins, rolling across the floor, and he started to pick them up.

I knew what was coming next so before he could present them to me, I told him, "You don't think you're going to put that foot money in my hand, do you? Take it over to the bathroom and wash it off. There's soap in there!"

Lo and behold, he did as I asked, but I can't tell you how many so-called adults have dragged nasty money out of their soggy pockets or bras, or from ashtrays and filthy floorboards and have been insulted when I put it in a paper towel with hand sanitizer before I put it in my drawer.
Come on, folks! Ewwww!

I like the sight, sound and feel of money, and although I know I should prefer currency to coins, I just don't.

Some of my fondest memories are about tying my Sunday school offering in the corner of one of my dad's handkerchiefs and dropping bus fare in a coin changer and hearing it ring. I remember the k-ching of an old cash register the same way I do the ding at the end of a line on an old Remington typewriter. Back then money and words had more value and a voice of their own.

I like money; I really do.
Maybe if I liked it more, it would like me enough to stick around a little longer.
Maybe not!

Don't Hold Back!

Way back when, long before most of you knew me, I was a quiet, shy, polite, little girl. Yeah, I know. That was a long time ago, and things have changed a lot since then.

If you could hitch a ride in Peabody's "Wayback Machine" to the mid 1950s, you would find a pale, wheezing girl with tangled hair who frequently curled up between the speakers of a Wurlitzer jukebox in a smoke-filled tavern rather than hang out with her peers in the damp, night air that would certainly send her into a full-blown asthma attack. Quite a choice, huh?

Dial forward a few years later and you'll see that same girl bravely swimming in snake-infested creeks, singing for all she was worth in the school and church choirs, and yelling back at a classmate who popped open the door of the bathroom stall and embarrassed her terribly in the 8th grade.

This metamorphosis was abrupt and painful, but I've not regretted it for a moment.

There were very few things I liked about my family's move to Southern Missouri, but the one thing I give it credit for was my being forced to learn how to speak up for myself and emerge as an independent, free-thinking individual. I was an odd duck in a small pool down there, and it became a matter of necessity for me to step up and shine, or sit back and get tromped, literally!

From that point on my smart mouth has gotten me into a peck of trouble, especially when I don't bother to engage my brain before opening it. Being honest is one thing, but telling people something they really don't want to know is quite another. I don't set out to be rude, but sometimes I'm outspoken to the point of being way over the top. Shame on me! Seriously.

I can't say I don't enjoy the surprise on people's faces when I come right out and say something they were thinking, but are too polite, timid or prudent to say. I blurt out with these brash, and sometimes harsh, observations, and that's when I get that all too familiar response.

"Don't hold back, Judy. Tell us what you really think!"

Even so, there are some things I keep to myself, or only say when I'm alone in my car. Here's a few choice ones:

Yep, that's quite an outfit you got on today. Obviously you don't have any mirrors in your house.

Did you put on enough makeup this morning or would you like a new trowel?

Nope, I don't think that's your natural color. I don't think that color can be found anywhere in nature!

Phewie, you know a close encounter with some soap and water would keep us from smelling you coming!

Nice perfume/cologne! Did you take a bath in it and does it come in a 50 gallon drum?

Thank you for sharing, but I don't think the rest of us came to this restaurant/movie to hear your kid scream!

All righty then. Nothing I like better than hearing you yell at your snot-nose kids while they're running around creating havoc. If you think they're a mess now, just wait till they're teenagers!

No, I don't think it's alright for you to cut in line ahead of me! I see you majored in being inconsiderate and got high marks in the class!

What makes you think it's okay to throw your trash out your car window? Do you think the whole world is your personal trashcan!

You wanna drive a little slower? Traffic's still moving here!

Car too big for you? Try the one in front of K-Mart and bring your quarters!

Hello-o, I'm revving up my engine to put it in gear and back up, and you think that's a signal for you to walk behind my car? Are you really that dumb or do you just have a death wish?

Sorry, that light only comes in one shade of green!

You can only have one lane to drive in and this one's mine!

Who taught you how to drive? I'd ask for a refund!

And finally,

Okay, $#!% for brains! Get off the road; you're too stupid to even walk!

Here are some I've overused:

You have serious delusions of adequacy.

I'd love to have a battle of wits with you, but unfortunately you're unarmed.

If I thought you had a brain, I'd advise you to stay up all night to feed the gerbils that make it work.

I'd like to think there's a chance I'll get more patient and tolerant over time, but let's face it, when people encourage you by laughing when you make outrageous remarks, you're not inclined to stop. I'm glad I do most of my venting in private.

Oh well, all I can say is that while people are a never-ending source of amazement and entertainment to me, I guess I'm occasionally one to them as well.
I think it's a fair exchange.

Rewriting History

Throughout the years, I've told my children many stories about my life. They nod and smile, or frown, and often tell me in that slow, dry, not-quite-patient tone reserved for the elderly,
"Yes, Mom, I've already heard this story."

I'm sure as I get older and continue to tell them stories, I will hear that line more and more often.

Occasionally, I get a nice surprise when I tell them something they haven't heard a thousand times. It comes as a shock to both of us that once in awhile I’ve left something out!

Now that I'm putting my memories into print, I’m happy that I’ll finally have visible reminders of the tales I have, or have not, told them.

Years ago, when I wrote the first "Reflections." it was mostly about the current happenings in my world. Nowadays it seems I'm doing more writing about my early life and memories. I actually started writing a family biography ages ago, but didn't stick with it. Unless I'm writing fiction, short stories are about as much as I can handle when it comes to family matters.

I love writing and most of the people I've let read my work seem to enjoy it very much. What they seldom see is how hard I work at honing my craft. They don't understand that when I turn off the phone, don't answer the door, and stay up all night on the computer, that I really am working!

They'll read a bit and say, "That's good;" I look it over and think,"It can be better." Writing, after all, can be a never-ending work-in-progress and this author, for one, is never completely satisfied with the final edition.

It was a challenge for me to take literary criticism when I was in college and nearly twice the age of most of my classmates. While they were learning to find their writing voices, mine was already well-developed. I was lucky enough to have great teachers who appreciated where I was as a writer, and yet kept showing me ways to improve.

I’ve frequently been asked about the how of my writing, how I pick the topic or how I plan the structure of it. I have no satisfactory answer for that. Although I freely admit that I write from personal experiences, I rarely know exactly what I'm going to write about or how it's going to come out.

What I do is begin with the germ of a thought or an incident I found interesting, or a memory or a gripe I want to explore, but once I get started, the writing takes off on its own and I'm as surprised as anyone else about the course it takes, where it ends up, or how it touches me and my readers.

I once wrote something I thought was an unique experience and when I showed it to my mom she said, "Yes, I've felt that way myself." At the time I was somewhat dismayed and insulted that she could see herself in something so personally mine. It took ages before I understood I've been given a talent to put the thoughts and feelings many of us share into words.

I lack a certain discipline about my writing. I don't have a specific time or place to do it. I don't keep to any schedule. I write wherever I am, sometimes in long hand, but more often on the computer because I love how easy it is to move things around and make changes. I don't take a predictable path by starting at the beginning and writing straight to the end. In fact, I more often start with a few lines that eventually land in somewhere towards the middle or the end.

Discipline does factor into my work in my attitude toward it. I take it very seriously and will work on each piece until it feels right. It usually takes me at least an hour or two to write two pages and another 4-6 plus hours per page of editing and rewriting to get them fit to print.

I weigh each word and phrase. I take my ideas to bed at night and dream solutions to get the words just right. I try not to get hung up on the spatial construction, where the paragraphs and lines end, how it looks on the page, but I make changes for that, too.

I continue to polish, prune, and rearrange until I am ready to release the final version, and then I'll edit again if I think it needs more work--which it usually does. I'll read it aloud, to myself but preferably to someone else; find something to correct or tweak, make my final, final changes and then force myself to leave it alone, maybe.

I prefer writing when I'm alone, and would write while driving if I were better at transcribing from a tape recorder.

On the other hand, I have written in break rooms, at restaurant bars, and in other public places, but I've found it's hard to write around other people. For some reason, they find the temptation to interrupt your train of thought to ask what you're writing almost irresistible. For me, writing is a private process, and I really have to focus to get through the first draft.

Crisis and chaos in my life can either shut down my creative juices or send them into high gear. It's a toss-up either way.

I don't question the why of my writing. It has been my creative and emotional outlet for as long as I can remember. The answer to why I blog is perhaps as simple.

Maybe I'm setting down stories for my friends and family to entertain them; maybe I’m reaching out to tell them something about me and let them see who I am; maybe I’m letting them know how they’ve touched my life and how I feel about them. Maybe I'm just venting an opinion or irk.

Maybe I'm looking back to see how what was has affected what is now. Maybe I'm telling the stories of my life because I wish I'd asked my parents more about their lives while they were still here to tell them. Maybe I set down these stories because there are so many memories that I've either lost or blocked out.

What I do know is that eventually I end up with an imperfect, one-sided, slightly biased snapshot of my own history and those who have been part of it, and that I do it, for the most part, with no malice intended. Even so, I wonder how much of what I remember is what really happened and what is just my interpretation of what I remember or was told. Hmmmmm.

As the result of one of my blogs, I received a not-so gentle poke from one of my siblings to inform me that my view of the past and theirs was quite different.

Instead of them hearing the praise, love, and admiration for them that I intended to express, I think my words were taken as intrusive, inaccurate, and a harsh reminder of the "bad old" days. That was never my intention and I am sorry they were taken that way.

What I've recognized from this comment is that no two children, living in the same household with the same parents, have the same memories of events in their childhood--at least not in my experience.

When you factor in the number of different places and homes we lived in, the economic changes we went through, the different relationships we had, our strengths and weaknesses, and the varied circumstances accompanying the addition of each sibling, it's fairly easy to see how all of us would have a different experience and viewpoint.

Despite all the ups and downs, I grew up with the belief that I had a happy childhood and, like typical teenagers, I blamed my parents as much as possible for the core of my adolescent angst. I also neglected to recognize, that even before the glaring B-M-D (Before Mom Died) demarcation line, how different my siblings' lives were from mine.

I don't think my family is particularly unique. I think most people have it rough growing up, for one reason or another. I think talking and writing about those times can be either painful or liberating, and sometimes both. I never intended for my memories to inflict more pain, sorrow or misunderstanding.

I hope my family will bear with me as I explore the past and sometimes make erroneous assumptions and other inadvertent mistakes along the way. The problem with writing about memories is that, for better or worse, you are essentially rewriting history as you alone see it.

Painting Park Benches

I just came inside from the patio area of my apartment building. The air was cool, but not chilly; the breeze was gentle and refreshing; my task was satisfying and soothing.
It was time well spent.

A few weeks ago I offered to help one of the men in the building repaint the benches out back. A few days ago he told me he didn't think he was up to the job anymore, and he offered the job and materials to me.
I took him up on his offer.

Two days ago, I ran my wire brush over both benches to remove the old, cracked paint. I turned the benches face down on the patio and put the first coat on the bottom side of the slats.

Today I applied a second coat to the bottom and a first coat to the top of the benches. In another day or so, I'll put a second coat on the top, work on the slat edges and think about painting the metal supports. I'll probably get the phone number of the man from housing and see if he can get me some replacement screws for the ones that are missing.

I enjoy building, painting and repairing things around the house.
I learned that from my dad.

I learned there is great satisfaction from a job well done.

I learned that a large part of performing a job successfully lies in the prep work.

Pick the when and where.
Dress properly for the occasion.
Organize your equipment.
Prepare to enjoy the experience; and you will.

I volunteered to help paint, but I was glad when the job became all mine.

I like opening a paint can for the first time since the paint was mixed at the store. I take out my Craftsman screwdriver and make my way carefully around the rim, gently prying until it opens. Like Dad, I hate mangled paint lids when there's no reason for them to be that way.

I take the fresh brush out of its packaging and clean the top of the lid for my first stroke. I dip the brush no more than a half inch or so into the can, dab and stroke the paint along its way.

Dip and stroke. The brush glides down the wood and the paint fills the crevices. Dip and pull. It's important to load the brush properly, not too much so that the the paint runs and drips away from where you want it.

Cutting is important when you paint; I'm good at it and rarely need tape to avoid the areas I don't want to coat.

There's something so rewarding and comforting about transforming things with paint. Although some woods should stay natural under varnish, stain or oil, others cry out for protection from the elements. Some nearly sigh with relief when they have been rescued from untimely decay.

I finished what I set out to do for the day.

I made sure my "Wet Paint" sign was still in place, put my stool and tools in my cart, set the lid on the can and carried the wet brush in hand back to my apartment. I sealed the brush in plastic wrap, tapped the lid back on the can with my hammer and left the stool in the cart by the door until I make my next trip outside.
Dad also taught me that cleaning up is just as important as the prep work.

I worked in solitude, and I like it that way.
I can smell the freshly mowed grass. I can hear the sounds of people passing by. I can listen to the birds and trees. I can think about anything or nothing at all save the task at hand.

Sometimes it's good to step out of the chaos and noise of everyday life and listen to the sound of your own heart.

Sometimes it's good to walk away from everyday duties and do something that may not be of any benefit to you beyond the simple pleasure of just doing it.

Sometimes it's good to meld pleasant memories of the past with the ones you create each day.

Today was a good day for brown bagging with the Breakfast Club, napping in the afternoon, and painting before dusk.

Today was a good day for making new memories.