Bit O' Beauty

Yesterday was a kind of crappy day. Had to reprimand an employee. Pay bills. Run 4011 errands. But through it all, I searched for beauty. Saw some ice melting in the sun and yanked Paula to the side of the road to take its picture. Trotted across the street to get a close look at the grass in my neighbor's yard. Stared at the rime of ice on the pond.

Beauty sure is a day brightener.

Pampas grass at sunset.

Egged On

Prema over at River's Grace has been encouraging me to post projects. This might make an interesting start. We'll have to do it in stages, though. It takes a long-term outlook, as they say on Wall Street.

In February and March, I save egg shells when I cook. By the time Easter rolls around, I've got a stash of shells to make little pastel, egg-shaped candles for the dinner table. (Stop rolling your eyes back there. They're really cute!) I also dye some of them to hang from branches in a big vase. Maybe later I'll show you how to use silk fabric to marble eggs.

Oh, dear, Prema. See what you've started?

Back to the shells. Maybe you've blown eggs before. (You in the back. Pipe down.) Well, blowing eggs...blows. It's much easier to cut holes and shake out the contents. For most projects, a bigger hole doesn't matter.

Use kitchen shears to snip a hole in the top (small end) of the egg.


Gently push in the point of the shears to poke the hole. If you have trouble, use something smaller—maybe an ice pick or one of those turkey clips. Once you've got it started, snip the edges until the hole is about the diameter of a pencil. Shake out the contents for your recipe and set the shell aside.



While whatever you're making cooks, wash out the shells. First, rinse them with warm water. Make sure you get rid of all the egg slime. Most years, I soak the shells in bleach water, but I'm trying to use fewer chemicals around the house. Last night I poured boiling water in each shell and let them all sit in the carton until the water cooled down. I think it will work fine. The point is, you've got to kill any salmonella germs lurking inside and you've got to get the shells clean so they don't smell later.

Get to baking! We're gonna need lots of shells pretty soon.



Today's Bit O' Beauty: Antique crystal in my china cabinet.

Powers of Observation

Wandering the blogosphere, one sees so many gorgeous photos. The skill of the photographers often impresses me, but even more than their skill, I am intrigued by their powers of observation. Even commonplace things become extraordinary when you pay attention.

All too often, I zoom through life without noticing the glory that surrounds me. And so I've decided to carry my camera with me over the next month and try to find one bit of beauty every day. And no fair photographing the pond. I've already got a lock on appreciation when it comes to the pond.

I'm not a skilled photographer, but that's not the point. Like making a list of the things for which I'm grateful every night, I expect this project to open my heart as well as my eyes.

An angel wing begonia in the sunlight.

Hearts Afire

My daughter sent me a valentine.

My daughter. Sent me. A valentine.

Years ago, when we went through the Home Studies, we were asked why we wanted children. Even then, long before Rafiki lifted Simba to the skies, before Elton wrote the song, before I fully understood what it meant, I wanted to be part of the Circle of Life.

I wanted to nurture an infant, see the world through the eyes of a toddler, and learn to read with a young child. God help me, I even wanted to ride the roller coaster of adolescence. I imagined myself in middle age with young adults coming home for holidays, bringing the ones they loved. I stepped into the comfy shoes of an old lady baking cookies with grandchildren. I didn't just want babies, I wanted to share my life with the people those babies would become.

The reality is much more complicated than I realized. The challenges greater, the dark moments scarier. But the rewards. Ah...the rewards are sweet.

My daughter sent me a valentine.

Believing Is Seeing

We see things not as they are, but as we are.

I've loved that quote for a long time. First saw it attributed to Anais Nin, but based on something I read recently, I'm pretty sure Anais got it from the Torah. Either way, It's spot on.

We've had drama at the salon lately, new episodes playing daily. And every single person sees themselves as blameless and others as the entire problem. (When I say every single person, I mean except for me, of course. [snort! choke! laugh!])

The thing is, few people see what's playing out in front of them. They see the story they believe. So...events occur. When two or more people later recount those events, the stories are entirely...entirely...different. And each person is telling the truth as they see it.

New information rarely changes people's minds. They see what they believe. I'm pretty sure that's how Americans elected George Bush. Twice.

That's what I believe. That's what I see. And it scares me.

Only Love

And Happy Birthday, Carrie. I heart you, Girl.

Me in the Middle

Yesterday was a glimpse into the future: fetching, carrying, providing three meals, being Dad's crutch as he slowly made his way from the car to his bed.

From the moment I opened my eyes before dawn until I fell into an exhausted heap last night, I was engaged in meeting the needs of either my children or my parents.

I am one of millions being called the "sandwich generation." It takes children much longer to become independent these days. Our parents lose independence as they age. We turn into the meat in the middle of a generational sandwich.

Like parenting, caring for elderly parents is a privilege, a responsibility, and a joy. It is also damn hard. Learning to do it with grace, learning to support others without losing ourselves, is quickly becoming the central issue of millions of personal dramas. Including mine.

Fasten your seatbelts. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

WoooHooooo!!

Dad's out of surgery. Came through with flying colors, and the doctor expects this repair to be permanent.

Thank you all for your prayers and loving thoughts. They helped. Don't *you* worry. They helped.

love.

Daddy-isms

A Guide to the Personal Patois of
Charles (Chuck) Campbell Farris

I cahn do dat.
Used in response to any question that begins with "Daddy, will you. . . ." or "Daddy, can you. . . ." (Always spoken like an electronic robot).

Let me study on that a spell. I can probally figure that out.
Reply to the most complicated electrical, plumbing, or engineering questions under the sun.

Quittin' time at Tara. Quittin' time at Tara.
Call and response. Hollered down the stairs when he wants us to come up from the sewing room.

You don't need to fuss with that. You've got Charles in Charge.
Standard comment upon noticing one of us doing something he intends to handle.

Don't YOU worry. I'll take care of it. Don't YOU worry.
Used to shoo us out of the kitchen after a meal so we can get back to whatever fun we're having. Always spoken in a sing-song, with particular emphasis on the Yous and the I'll.

Why, you're just as welcome as the flowers in spring!
Reply to any thank you. Includes a slight pause after the word Why.

Hey. Where's my kiss?
Uttered when hapless family members neglect to kiss him immediately upon arrival or prior to departure.

I love you.
Spoken or assumed with every hello, every good-bye, every good morning and every good night.

Take care of your mother.
Whispered as he's wheeled away for surgery. Every. Time.


Daddy's going in for yet another surgery today, a 4th attempt at hernia repair. He's 76, has COPD, high blood pressure and glaucoma. He's missing his appendix, prostate, one lung, several large sections of intestine, and big chunks of his forehead and back. He's also, to hear him tell it, a "tough old bird."

He'll go into surgery about 10:30 am, CST. I'd sure appreciate it if you'd call him to God's attention about that time.

Pink Boot Dreams

Opened my eyes from a dream so real I expected to see Pink Boots Guy standing in front of me.

(Dream) PBG called out of the blue. Asked a question about something he could only know by reading the blog.

"So you do read my blog," I said. "Sitemeter shows someone from Minnesota over and over, and I wondered."

"Wondered? You knew, Jerri. You knew it was me. Of course it was me." His voice, kind and loving, was still ringing in my ears when I opened my eyes.

I do wonder. And, mostly, I hope not. I hope he has closed that door and gone on to great happiness in other ways, with other people. He deserves that.

Crazy Quilt Life

Finished a quilt yesterday, the first official product of Mom's new machine. Happy. Happy.


Quilts are so much more than blankets to me. They're threads of connection to the past and to the indomitable spirit of women everywhere. In pioneer times, most women didn't have the resources (time OR money) for anything extra, anything frivolous. But they had this spirit this drive for beauty and community and expression.


And so they quilted. They used out-grown, worn-out clothing. They traded scraps with one another. They shared patterns and ideas and worked together. And what they had together was greater and more beautiful than any one of them could have managed on her own. By sharing, they created practical objects of great beauty as well as opportunities for community.

I quilt to honor those women, to continue the tradition, and to share with women I love. Plus, I adore playing with fabric and color.
*****

Saturday morning, something on Yahoo's front page got me thinking. E-mailed the curriculum publisher. He called later and we talked for an hour, each so excited about one another's ideas that we had trouble getting words out at times.

One of my ideas felt so right, so on track and in tune, that it had to come from beyond my little brain. I was thinking about the project, and suddenly there it was--a box in the middle of the hallway. All I had to do was open it. Really, when I recognized what I'd stumbled across, I felt like a puppy that the Universe had just handed a stick of Pupperoni.

When things work that easily, slip into place like well-made keys into well-oiled locks, I take it as a sign that I'm on the right path. For reasons that escape me, I feel that this particular journey might be quite a ride.

*********

In answer to your comment, Carrie: Yes, Mom has an iPod. AND a Mac G5, a sewing machine driven by a PC, a digital camera, and a camcorder. Knows how to use them, too! She downloads music, makes movies and burns DVDs. Even Photoshops images like a pro. 74 and learning new tricks all the time. Gotta love her.

They're All Our Song

Quilting yesterday afternoon with my mom. Dad sitting in a nearby chair, reading. Mom's iPod playing Nat King Cole. "Too Young" comes on.

Dad: There's our song, Honey. (singing) They try to tell us we're too young....

Mom: You say that for every song. According to you, they're all our songs.

Dad: Guess it takes a lot of music to say how much I love you.


(sigh)


Here's a shot of Mom waiting in line at the Clinton event a week or so ago.


And Dad. (We took a camp chair so he could sit while we waited.)


And another of Mom inside. She shook Clinton's hand. Now refers to that as her "affair with Bill." Says she's relieved to know she's not going to die the only woman in America he has not flirted with.

Backwards and Forwards

Carrie e-mailed yesterday to ask about Mom's big Christmas surprise--the quilting machine. It was wonderful. Here's Mom with Mike, the guy who delivered the machine. Doesn't Mom's face just say it all?


Mom was on the sofa in her jammies, drinking coffee when the doorbell rang. She sent Dad to the door. I slipped into their closet to get her a robe. When Mike asked for her, Dad called her to the door. There he was, in a red jacket and a fuzzy Santa hat, giant truck in the driveway. He explained he was from the Gammill Company and that he had something for her. When she realized what it was, she burst into tears.

It took Mike about almost two hours to set up the machine and several more to show her how to run it. Her eyes never stopped leaking. At one point, she had to go lie down because she was shaking all over, just so excited. My favorite moment came after everything was put together and Mike was gone. Standing beside the machine, Mom ran her hand down the work table and said, "I never in my life imagined I'd have such a thing. Never in my life."

Mike used a plain piece of cotton to show us how to pin the quilt to the machine. We all sewed our names and quilted hearts and flowers and squiggly lines all over it, just experimenting. The next day, Mom turned that piece of fabric into a small quilt she could keep forever, a reminder of the morning Daddy surprised her with a dream. Here they are, moments after Mike arrived.




Next: Jess asked for a picture of the geese. Can't show you how they look right now, because Assholes with Air Horns seem to have won this round. Hasn't been a single goose on the pond for days. But here's a shot of the flock before the boys let loose with their toys.




That's the backwards. Now the forwards.

Had a long conversation yesterday with the guy I've been writing curriculum for lately. He asked me to become Editor-in-Chief for the project. I am ridiculously excited about this. We'll have to see how it plays out, but here's the flat truth of it: from the first e-mail last July through our 90-minute conversation yesterday, I've had the strong feeling he plays a major role in my future somehow. Don't exactly think this, just feel it, and I'm willing for it to be true. Or not. Either way, it's an interesting adventure and I love writing curriculum again. LOVE it.

Embracing Life

In a comment on yesterday's post, the marvelous Nancy from Easy Bake Mom used the phrase "life embracing things," which shined a little light into the corners of my mind. (Thanks, Nancy.)

The thing I've been missing isn't really doing stuff like driving a dog sled through the woods of Northern Minnesota on a cold February afternoon or even drinking champagne in a hot air balloon floating down the St. Croix Valley on a crisp autumn evening. It's feeling so engaged. It's embracing life.

I have been so lucky, so blessed. I really have lived not just a novel, but a whole series of Harlequin romances. Everything from making love on a little point while the sunset splashed glorious color over the Florida Keys to lying naked in the morning sun on the parapet around a fire watch tower in western Montana. From crawling through a sea cave in New Brunswick to hiking the highest trail in the Canadian Rockies. 15 marriage proposals. Three official engagements. Two actual marriages.

Ups and downs a plenty. And through it all, I've embraced life...clung to it, in fact. But now I feel like a spectator, someone in the foothills, watching all the fun through binoculars. Not good ones, either--the kind you get in a box of CrackerJacks.

Changing this is up to me. And today, that feels possible.

Wild Gone Girl

Yesterday's post got me thinking about some of the crazy stuff I've done. My life has been kind of backwards. I clung to the straight and narrow when I was young, then discovered my wild side in my 40s.

A guy I was dating went out of town on business. He asked me to pick him up at the airport when he got back and I said I'd
"be there with bells on." That night, I met him at the gate covered in dozens of little jingle bells safety-pinned to a trench coat. (And a completely decent outfit. I hadn't gone over the to Dark Side. Yet.)

4th of July. The Counselor and I had been dating for about 4 months. We packed an elaborate picnic and hauled my canoe to the St. Croix River, one of the most popular and well-traveled rivers in Minnesota. An hour or so down river, it began pouring rain. We pulled over onto a sandbar and sat under some trees. After a bit, I told him we could let the situation ruin our day or turn it into an adventure. We voted for adventure. I'd never skinny dipped in my life and had not taken off so much as my scarf in front of The Counselor or any man other than my (former) husband for 17 years. We ditched our soaking clothes, swam to the far end of the sandbar, and drifted downstream to the other end. We did that over and over in the pouring rain, laughing and splashing like little kids. Then the rain let up and we heard someone shouting, "stroke, stroke, stroke." We scrambled up the sandbar and behind the trees, where we clutched our clothes and tried not to draw attention to ourselves as a rowing crew glided past.

Hiked and biked my way across Alaska for 10 days or so. Made it to Valdez and then kayaked around Shoop Bay and the glacier there. The glacier calves 13 million ton of ice a day. Every once in a while we heard sounds like gun shots and saw spectacular explosions of ice and water. In the morning, the bay contained hundreds of icebergs. By evening, we were surrounded by thousands and thousands, from the size of dinner plates to the size of houses. The tide was beginning to carry them out and we had to run rapids to get out of the bay. A water taxi met our group to ferry us back to Valdez. We loaded the kayaks and hauled our tired butts onto the boat. As we were getting ready to leave, I suddenly could not stand it that I'd spent the entire day trying not to find out how cold that water was. I talked to the captain and he agreed. They lowered a plywood platform over the side of the boat, I shimmied out of my layers down to my long underwear and leaped--LEAPED--into that water. Coldest thing I ever felt. Heart-stopping, mind-numbing cold. I bobbed to the surface and threw myself onto the platform, which they hauled back up to the boat. The guides and a couple other intrepid souls decided they had to do it, too. When we were all back in the boat, the dry folks stood in a circle around the wet folks to "break wind" for us. No one there will ever forget a moment of that afternoon.

Pink Boots Guy invited me to a "Gala Red Tie Affair" and sent a package containing "appropriate attire for the evening," which turned out to be a red scarf and a bottle of perfume. On the appointed night, I drove to his neighborhood, slugged down some chardonnay, and slithered out of the sweats I was wearing. More chardonnay. Changed from tennies to killer heels. More chardonnay. Drove the remaining 100 yards to his house and presented myself at his door, wearing a full-length faux fur coat over the "outfit" he sent. Found out much later that I was parked in front of his mother's house while swilling wine straight from the bottle and contorting myself to pull my bra through my coatsleeve.

Good times. And not that long ago. How and why have I let go of that part of myself? ahhhh. Mysteries.

Going Big

Occasionally I shed my disguise as a polite mid-western woman and show my true colors. And they are bright colors, girl. Yes they are.

Big gestures. Dramatic ideas. Over the top romance. I'm a sucker for people who take delight in all things, great and small. When I'm around them, I feel free to be my truest self, and she's a wild one, I tell you.

Even people who know me well are sometimes surprised to discover I have a wicked, somewhat raunchy sense of humor. In polite company, I rarely say aloud the awful things I think, but get me around the right (or maybe wrong) people and I turn into a fountain of silliness, each thought more outrageous than the last.

Stepping out of my polite, well-mannered self into the wild woman I am inside feels like taking off a girdle, or to be more au courant, a pair of Spankx. I love to crank up the music and "shimmy like my sister Kate." (Except that my sister's name isn't Kate and she has probably never shimmied in her life. If she knew half the things I've done, she'd disown me.)

Lately I've been longing for the chance to go big with my bad self. It's been far too long since I've done anything that would shock my mom....or my daughter...or myself.

(sigh)

The Allure of Books

Tripped over the trail of a new memoir last night, and nothing would do until I popped over to the bookstore to pick up a copy.

I tried to resist. Really I did. But I couldn't settle down to write anything, couldn't make myself clean the house or even work on the quilt I'm making for Katie's 21st birthday (which is coming up all too soon). Robert Leleux called to me from the pages of The Memoirs of a Beautiful Boy, whispering so loudly I couldn't hear or think of anything else.

You know what happened next, don't you? Yes. Another memoir added itself to the pile. Kelly Corrigan's The Middle Place simply insisted on coming home with me, too.

From the moment in 1964 when I turned the first page of a biography of Madame Curie until today, real people preserved in books like specimens in jars have completely captivated me. Amelia Earhart. Booker T. Washington. Sojourner Truth. Clara Barton. Eleanor Roosevelt. These people (and others) illuminated a path out of the woods for me. Not just the woods where I lived, but the isolation of feeling so different....so other from the people around me. I read every single biography and autobiography in the elementary school library, then the junior high library, and finally the high school library.

One of elementary school librarians was assigned to take me to the bigger libraries once a week. We walked together down the sidewalk behind the football field, loping during cold weather, doing a slow waltz in warm. It was a voyage to unknown territories, this trek from the safety of our one-story building with its child-sized chairs and water fountains to the land of giants, where the staircases were huge and the hallways twisted in inexplicable circles. Books were the spices I brought back from this New World. No one cared. No one but me, and I knew that books were the things that would lead me home.

Read about half of each new book before calling it a night. More about that later. For now--if you're in a state that participates in Super (Duper) Tuesday--don't forget to vote!

Credit?

Anyone out there remember the seagulls in Finding Nemo? The ones who squawked "Mine. Mine. Mine." They still make me laugh.

Most of you know that the books I write are done as "work for hire." Among other things, this means the text becomes the property of the publisher and they hold the copyright to it. The author's name may or may not be on the cover (at the publisher's discretion), but most include a credits page, listing the folks whose work brought the book into being.

Proofs for my latest book arrived from England on Friday.

The book's credits do not include me, the writer of it. The publisher for the packaging company that commissioned me? Yes. The Production person? Yes. Hell, even the person who created the index is listed. But neither my name nor the name of the man who designed the book and chased down the (literally) 1001 photographs is included. (Although I think he owns the company that's credited for "Design and editorial.")

The package that brought the proofs also contained a really nice letter from the project editor. She mentioned they were "very pleased" with the book and that much of its success is due to my "considerable writing skills."

Isn't that nice? But how about including my damn name so I can use the book in my portfolio?

Strange. I'm feeling hungry for fish. Maybe salmon for dinner.


Monday, 5:58 am. Edited to add:

Just received confirmation that my name now appears on the cover. It was not on the only mock-up I'd seen, but it's there now.

I'm still amazed at how gull-ish I felt about the whole thing. Gotta go pick the sand out of my gullet....errrr....brush my teeth...and get on with my day now.




.

Turf Wars

The neighbors are trying to fight Mother Nature again.

Two hundred miserable geese are huddled on the ice in the center of the pond. Most stand on one leg with the other tucked up under a wing. Periodically, they switch. Their long, graceful necks are curled and foreshortened. They walk like timid old men.

The neighborhood goose haters have added weapons to their arsenal. Every few minutes, someone shatters the quiet of this frosty morning with the blast of an air horn.

The geese scurry and scatter across the ice, each time, but so far I haven't seen a single one leave. They do, however, sqwak for several minutes after each blast.

Boys, boys. boys. Isn't one unwinnable war enough?

More Bits. More Pieces

In no particular order:

**Haven't heard a word from the UK editor since I sent the "happy to do the work, but you have to pay me message." Not feeling the love, but...hey...them's the breaks when you're a grown-up.

**Dad does need surgery again, another attempt at hernia repair. It's scheduled for Feb. 12. He's scared. Mom's scared. All God's children are scared. All Dad's children are, too.

**Evan called today. He was lucid and polite, which is the most I hope for on any given day.

**Yesterday Katie told me she realizes the day will come when she needs to "do the Mom thing" for Evan. I am proud to know she's looking into the future and planning to step up to the responsibility. I am broken-hearted to think she will one day stand in the center of this storm. Mostly, I am trying....trying SO hard...to remain in the NOW.

**The pond is frozen and the geese are gone. The silence is unnerving.

Tomorrow is another day. See you then.

Bits and Pieces

First, this. What happened for Patry Francis yesterday was simply amazing. When I went to bed last night, The Liar's Diary was #300 on Amazon, #1 in Mysteries and Thrillers. One of the organizers of yesterday's blog-in said it was a "powerful example of the mysteries of kindness and compassion."

Next: Remember the thousand geese on the pond? Well, they're gorgeous and picturesque and all that. They're also messy and noisy beyond belief. They honk all night long. They settle down a bit, something gets them started, and the whole flock squawks like someone's trying to make comforters out of them. I don't love the noise, but everything costs something, right?

Well, as the flock grew and got louder, I pretty much knew my neighbors weren't going to tolerate it forever. Last night, about 10:30, I noticed two lights bobbing around the edge of the pond. When they drew near my house, I stepped out on the deck and asked what was going on. Two neighbor men identified themselves and said they were using the lights to drive the geese away.

The pond was very quiet last night. I wonder where the flock slept. "Not in my back yard." Makes me sad. Well rested, but sad.

Finally, I'm taking Daddy to the doctor today. More accurately, Mom's taking him and I'm going along for moral support and to keep a clear head when we talk to the surgeon. Sounds like Daddy's going to need another operation. They've already tried to repair this hernia three times, but trouble is still bubbling down there. Please say a prayer for him this morning.

Yesterday, Mom made a rocky road cake. Cake is not on my menu right now. "Thanks for putting on the marshmallows, Mom," I said. She smiled, "Makes it easier to resist, doesn't it?"

As I nodded, Daddy walked past me. "She doesn't like 'em, either. They're there because I like 'em." Then he took my hand and twirled me in a quick two-step motion. "Ain't love grand?" he asked.

Yes, Daddy. Love is grand.

Patry Francis

Today I'm joining bloggers across the country--maybe even around the world--who are speaking on behalf of Patry Francis and her book, The Liar's Diary.

After many years of hard work and determination, Patry's writing dreams came true. She found an agent, the agent sold her book, and the hardcover came out in February of 2007. Then came news there would be a paperback. Meantime, Patry was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, and her writing dreams were forced to take a back seat to the reality of surgeries and treatments and hospitals.

Today is the pub date for the paperback edition of The Liar's Diary. The book is out, but Patry is not able to be out and about on its behalf. And so her blogging friends decided to (as Prema says) work on the levels they can. They put out the word, asking bloggers and writers to mention Patry and her book.

I haven't read The Liar's Diary yet, but I plan to pick up a copy today. The synopsis on Patry's website sounds fascinating. I have read her blog, Simply Wait. In it, Patry reveals herself to be a woman and mother who worked as a waitress while she wrote and dreamed. Her warm heart and keen eye shine from her words. Since Katie is a server and talks a lot about what you can tell about people, I particularly liked a post Patry wrote about how she and her colleagues observe and categorize groups of people.

So, please join me in supporting Patry. Check out her book...mention it to others...read the blog...whatever works for you.

Oh, and Patry's publisher, Penguin, is offering a 15% discount on books ordered before February 15. Go here to order it. (On the shopping cart page, enter PATRY in the ‘coupon code’ field and click ‘update cart’ to activate the discount.)

No, Again

This morning started with an e-mail from an editor who works with the British publisher of my most recent book. She asked me to be prepared to do a boatload of research for the UK edition of the book, and pronto.

Thing is, my contract was for the US edition only, and I've already done way, way more than I contracted for these folks. The only professional thing to do, the grown-up thing to do was say no. Or, rather, I'd be happy to do this work if you pay me for it.

I sweated this for two and a half hours without doing anything. I mean I physically sweated. Perspired enough to need another shower and fresh deodorant before going to the salon for my morning duties.

Then I talked about it with a friend who is head honcho of a publishing house. He totally agreed with my "yes, but you have to pay me" approach.

Finally, more than three hours after the whole thing started, I dashed off a reply.

My stomach has been in knots since I hit "send." To tell you the truth, I felt better in the bathroom at the Clinton event on Saturday than I do right now.

And that's not good.

No Bill

Bill Clinton came to Independence last night, a local high school. My family, Democrats all, made plans to rendezvous for the event. My niece and I would go early to stake out a place in line. My sister, brother-in-law, and nephew would pick up Mom and Dad and arrive closer to time for the doors to open. We'd connect via cell phone.

Meg and I got there shortly after 5:00 pm. Stood outside in line until the doors opened shortly before 6:30. We scooted into the gym and found seats on the top row of bleachers, where Mom and Dad would be able to rest their backs on the wall. Debbie helped Dad up the stairs, and he made it without any problem. Mom practically bounced up the steps.

There was a family in front of us, a youngish Hispanic man and woman with a babe in arms and a little girl who looked to be 5 or 6. The little girl wanted a Hilary sign so badly. Someone finally got hold of one and handed it back to her. She stood with that sign over her head, dancing with joy, until her father made her sit down. When I realized he didn't want to block my view, I leaned over and told him not to worry. "She's from the first generation of little girls to see a woman run for president. Let her hold up her sign."

The little girl stood on the seat, holding her sign over her head. I'm undecided about my vote so far, but I have to say it was thrilling to see the possibility.

A few minutes to 7:00. Suddenly, I knew I was going to be sick. I grabbed my stuff, told my niece not to worry about me, and ran to find a bathroom.

The Secret Service was clearing the hallway when I got back there. A serious looking guy with an earpiece and a bulge under his shoulder that had to have been a gun told me I could use the bathroom, and then took a position outside the door.

There I was, gut convulsing from diarrhea, desperately trying not to barf, eyeing the little Kotex container in case I couldn't prevent it. All the while, I could hear the Secret Service guy pacing outside the bathroom door. Yeah. Good times.

Finally got myself together enough to get out of there and flee--and I mean flee home. Didn't hear a word of Bill's speech. Didn't even catch sight of the man.

I feel fine this morning. Talked to Mom a little while ago. She got to shake Bill's hand. All's well that ends well, but I sure wish I'd gotten to hear Bill speak.

Dreaming Light

My eyes open to darkness. Confused, I blink to clear my head. Ahhh. A dream. The light was a dream. Moments before, in exactly the same place and time, the room was filled with dazzling, warm, golden light.

As my brain makes peace with the unexpected darkness, I see it. Even in the darkness, there is light. The light of love is always there if only I can see it.

Things continue to be difficult with Evan. He called, shouting at me about how awful it was that I said F U to him, how awful I am. With you all at my back, I told him I had apologized and meant it. I told him we could talk, but he could not shout at me. When he started shouting in response, I said good-bye and hung up.

In the last few days, your comments and e-mails have shined light and warmth onto my path. Suzy forwarded me a piece from Abraham-Hicks that really, really helped. Deb suggested an Ann LaMott story. It really, really helped, too.

The pond has done its part. It's been out there glowing like crazy in the moonlight these past few nights. In the midst of deep sadness, incredible beauty.

Maybe that's what peace is. Not the absence of crap and trouble, but choosing to look past the crap and trouble to see the beauty and feel the love that surrounds us.

Hmmmm. No matter what the smart folk think, that's going to be my definition from now on.

From my heart to yours, I send love and peace. Oh, and a great big beam of that golden light.

Surpassing Beauty

The pond is breathtaking tonight. I mean, it literally took my breath away when I walked in a few minutes ago.

The night sky is the color of india ink, a blue so deep it would catch you if you fell. White clouds lost from a summer afternoon roil by, luminous in the moonlight. A thousand geese paddle, black shadows on black water. Every movement produces shimmering silver trails.

Glory streams from heaven afar.

God's presence here is as real as my own. Yesterday I asked for peace. This, then, is the answer.

In the words of Juliana of Norwich,
All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be exceedingly well.

The Power of Words

I yelled ugly words at my son on Sunday. The ugliest: F*&% You.

At. My. Son.

I've only said those words a small handful of times in my entire life, and now I've yelled them at my son. Truth is, I had plenty of reason to be angry. I had plenty of reason to speak up about my anger. I had no excuse for saying that. No excuse.

I apologized moments later. Despite my apology, the words hung between us.

His response was ugly and intended to hurt and humiliate me. It worked. I was hurt and humiliated when my 25-year-old son stood in my yard, shouting his indignation that his mother would say F*&% You to him. The entire neighborhood now knows I lost my temper and said unforgivable things to my son.

Perhaps worst of all, by saying those words, I shifted the focus from the problem to my poor handling of it. He's now angry and outraged and I am wrong.

It's cold and dark down here on the low road.

Incredible Writing Advice

from the movie, The Mighty.

"Every word is part of a picture. Every sentence is a picture. All you do, is let your imagination connect them together."

Pay Attention

As a kid, I wanted to be able to draw more than I wanted anything in the world (almost). And I tried, I really did. No go. It seemed I lacked the eye-hand coordination necessary to create art.

Eventually, I learned it was not a failure of eye-hand coordination, it was a failure of observation. I draw now. Slowly. Imperfectly. But I draw. I compare textures, see how lines intersect, watch where shadows fall. And I draw.

Once upon a time, I thought writing was about organizing words. It turns out that writing is about listening.

Yesterday I received a batch of Bible stories to edit. As written, the stories were stiff and boring, and I was worried about whether I could do anything to really fix them. The stories ran through my head all night. Just before dawn, I heard the first story, heard it in words that would draw in a 4th grader. When I opened my laptop later, all I had to do was type.

The key to drawing, the key to writing turns out to be the same: pay attention. I'm pretty sure it's one of the keys to life, too.

The more I observe my life, the more grateful I become. The more I recognize other people, the more compassionate I become. The more I absorb the natural world, the more passionate I become about it.

Life, our lives, all life. Such miracles. When I stop noticing those miracles, I slide into the darkness. As long as I pay attention, I'm pretty much forced to see the light all around me.

Adaptation

Still back at the curriculum lessons. Sleep, to be specific.

Ever wondered why we sleep? Me, too.

As you'd imagine, sleep is a recovery period for our bodies. Among other things, while they're on lighter duty (they still have to control our breathing and make our hearts beat and so forth), our brains create our memories. Yep. The stuff we've learned and the stuff that has happened in our lives doesn't really become part of our memories until we sleep on it. Sleeping is kind of like pressing "save." Information moves from our desktop to our hard drive when we sleep.

That makes perfect sense, but the other speculation about sleep surprised me. Some scientists believe humans (and other animals) developed sleep patterns as a response to danger. Ancient humans were more vulnerable to attack in the dark, and so they learned to stay in the cave and rest at night. Sleep is literally a mode of self protection.

And get this--not all animals follow that same day/night sleep pattern. Brown bats sleep 20 hours out of 24. They fly around in the dark, eating insects. Doesn't take that long to gather enough to meet their caloric requirements, and back to sleep they go.

Giraffes, on the other hand, sleep less than 2 hours--sometimes as little as 10 minutes--a day. Think about it: Giraffes eat leaves and twigs. It takes a hell of a lot of leaves and twigs to keep a body that size going. They adapted to sleep less, which leaves them more time to eat.

Adaptation. The ability to change in response to existing circumstances. What a concept. What an enormous gift. I'm going to spend this day being grateful for the ability to adapt. And trying to do it.

Awe

I've been writing a curriculum product over the last couple of months. Finished this afternoon. If the 4th graders it's written for enjoy reading this stuff one tenth as much as I've enjoyed writing it, they're going to get them some l-e-a-r-n-i-n-g. Yes, indeedy.

The unit I've worked on relates to health and nutrition. The things I've learned have strengthened my faith. Really. Over and over, I found myself in awe of how our bodies are made, how wondrous they are. Here are a few things I've discovered about human bodies.

Not a single cell present in your skin today will be there 7 years from now.

When you break a bone, cells that normally divide every 2 to 3 days almost immediately begin dividing every 3 minutes.

Scabs are an engineering marvel made of blood cells and tiny fibers stronger, pound for pound, than steel.

The fingernails on your dominant hand grow faster than the nails on the other hand.

When you hiccup, your epiglottis opens and then slams shut. The "hic" is the sound of your epiglottis slamming shut.

Your nose runs when you cry because tears drain through the tear ducts at the inside corner of your eyes and into your nose, a little moisture recycling system.

Snot traps germs trying to invade your body.

Here are a few things I learned about food:

The very first collection of recipes included a recipe for jelly.

After peanut plants flower, the flower stems turn downward and force themselves underground, where the peanuts develop.

Vegetable is not a botanical distinction.

The average American eats 135 pounds of sugar every year.

Christopher Columbus took pickles with him when he sailed off to explore the New World.



Oh, and horses can't throw up. Neither can rats.

I'm definitely not smarter than a 5th grader, but I'm working on it.

More More

My folks left for Ava within hours of learning of Uncle Jim's death. Shortly after they got there, they called to let us know when and where the service would be, and so forth. From the get go, it was clear they expected me to make the trip but not my sister. (She's too busy, they said.)

They called every day, all week. Every time they called, they asked me to do something else before I came. Then they checked on whether I'd done the other things they asked. All while repeating that they couldn't ask Deb to do anything because she's too busy.

By the last couple of calls, I could barely hold my tongue. The words, "What about ME!! Don't you realize I have other things to do, too?" tried to leap from my lips. I fought them back.

Then came Saturday. Deb ended up going down, too. We met our folks at the church. My father, normally a pretty snappy dresser, was wearing white, ankle-length gym socks with his dress shoes. The bottom half of his tie hung almost to his belt; the top half flapped mid-way down his chest. He, quite literally, had come undone.

Within moments, I understood and felt terrible about my reactions. In his pain, he trusted me to help. He called not to demand things of me, but to hear my voice and anchor himself to the earth. He couldn't express that. May not even have known it. But there it is, just the same.

They're coming home today. I'm going over this morning to put fresh sheets on their bed and milk in the frig. Probably leave a pot of soup simmering on the stove so they have lunch ready when they get in.

When the world spins out of control, we are one another's touchstones. We can't change what is, but we can show up for it.

And that makes all the difference.

More

Prema asked for more about my trip home. I'll try.

Our cousin Melvin drove up from Arkansas for the services on Saturday. Once he was a hellion with mischievous brown eyes and a shy grin that could charm a woman at 50 paces. Now he's a portly man with thinning, ginger colored hair and thick glasses between his eyes and the world. The grin still draws women like a sweater draws cat hair, though.

Melvin's from one of the more well-to-do branches of our family tree, but you'd never know it. He wears dark denim, boot cut jeans and a plaid shirt. The embroidered design on the back of his dark blue wool jacket declares him to be the National Chuckwagon Racing Champion, Big Mule Division.

Melvin's wife, Barbara, talks about what a wonderful stepfather he's been to her children, what a grace he's been to her life. Love shines from her eyes. She pats his thigh and he turns from another conversation to see whether she needs anything. Satisfied that she's fine, he puts his hand on her arm and returns to his conversation. They remain linked through these casual touches until we move from the tables in the basement to the pews in the chapel.

Afterward, Melvin and Barbara invite me to come see Melvin race. He doesn't compete a lot anymore. He pretty much retired after winning the championship for the 7th time. Seemed like he should let someone else have a chance, you know. But he is going to race a couple of times this summer.

Back home, I google chuckwagon racing. Turns out it's a big deal. Upper Deck makes trading cards, just like for baseball players and such. Please God, please let cousin Melvin have a trading card. Please.

The pictures I found online make the races look like rowdy, dangerous fun. How? How do you make a mule race, I ask you? Come hell or high water, I'm going to Arkansas this summer to find out.

Home Again, Home Again, Clippety Clop

Saturday morning my sister and I drove down to our hometown, about 5 hours south of KC. It's been 18 years since I've been to Ava. Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.

The highways now bypass most of the little towns. Cars no longer pause at the one stoplight in the one-stoplight towns that dot the map. Travelers miss Peggy's Cafe and her great grilled cheese sandwiches. They sail along, two miles from The Exotic Animal Paradise, without a glimpse of the water buffalo or the gnu. The hills that first drew tourists have been blasted away to make room for roads to handle the traffic.

But the spindly blue play fort still stands beside the train tracks in Seymour. The Tastee Freeze still serves swirly cones in Mansfield. Water still trickles through the bedrock of the creek bed at the Roadside Park.

Our first little house still sits in the corner of a pie-shaped lot. The old oak that held my tree house is gone, though. So is the wood treating plant my father owned for decades and the timber yard he ran. The police department fills the front portion of the old Rawlings plant, where patient women once sewed baseball gloves while their husbands chewed 'baccy and spit on the sidewalks of the town square.

Our family gathered in the basement of Uncle Jim's church. Good Christian women served ham and green beans, chicken and mashed potatoes. There was pie and coffee. Sweet tea and lemonade. There were tears and laughter and shock at how much and how little had changed since last we gathered.

Aunt Agnes showed off photographs of the 3 x 4 ft. rendition of the Last Supper she crocheted for her church. It's her second one. She did the first sitting in parking lots in front of bars, waiting for her first husband, my grandfather's brother. Cedric died. Agnes remarried. Her new husband is a kind, loving man who treats her like a queen. She swore she'd never crochet another Supper, but Bob's church wanted one so badly. At least she got to do this one sitting in a comfortable chair in her own living room.

Aunt Jenny just got back from volunteering on a float for the Rose Parade. For two and a half days she stood on a 6-ft. ladder, gluing iris petals to a horn held by an animated frog. She's 78. Her husband, Keith, died a couple years ago after living with Alzheimers for almost a decade. Nothing will ever be that hard again.

Uncle Bill, my father's next older brother, came from California. At the grave side, he wore a tan golf jacket over his suit. Been so long since he lived in Missouri that he forgot he'd need a coat this time of year. Doesn't actually own a coat, but he would have bought one if he'd thought of it.

Uncle Jim left very specific directives for his service. Wrote most of it himself. He grabbed us from the opening line: "Jim did not earn his Salvation through good works." Nothing left but enough ashes and dust to fill a 6 x 8-inch faux-stone box, but he was still "leading souls to Christ."

This place. These people. They're in my blood, in my bones. They are part of me and I of them. We witness one another's rites of passage: births, weddings, deaths. We hold hands in hospital rooms. We stand together beside open graves.

We stand together.

Home Town Honey

Plan to be up at dawn tomorrow and headed to my home town for my uncles memorial service. Haven't been down there for 18 years. Should be interesting. Details to follow.

Search Stories

One of the great things about Site Meter is that you can see the search phrases that lead people to your blog. Every once in a while, I scan through the "Referrals" page, just for kicks.

The all-time winner is " emotionally unavailable men." You just wouldn't believe how many women out there are trying to understand why they keep falling for emotionally unavailable men. If any of them figure it out, I hope they explain it to me.

The next most popular is some combination of the words "Amish, celery, and recipes." More than a year ago, I did a Sunday Scribble, a character sketch about a young girl at the Farmer's Market. It still draws people to my blog several times a week. Who'd a thunk?

"Person helicopter" is a biggie, too. Somehow, I doubt that this post helps them much.

One day last week, people in two different locations googled the phrase "how a pond smells" and got this post in their results. I'd forgotten this one, and it was fun to read again. But really, the question of why people would google to find out how a pond smells....well....that question just won't leave me alone.

Were they writers looking for ideas? Kids writing papers for school? Why in the world would anyone who wants to, not know how a pond smells?

Just in case you're still out there, let me take a stab at it for you.

In autumn, the trees on the bank shed their leaves and their identities. The sumacs rage against the dying of their light. The pond smells like wood smoke and mushrooms, wet leaves and dying dreams.

In winter, a thousand geese gather out there, thankful to find open water and a safe haven so near a cornfield. The pond smells like the wet lining of an insulated boot. Like week-old bathwater mixed with goose feathers and gratitude.

In spring, babies are born on its banks and plants emerge. The pond smells like a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit. Like warm rain and new grass and hope.

In summer, thunderstorms race across our Midwestern skies. The pond smells like ozone and dust carried in a harsh wind. It smells like hay and horses and, sometimes, like something rotting in the heat. For the heron and the gaggle of geese, for the pin duck and for me, it smells like home.

On a Roll

Took another big step yesterday.

We make rules for employees at the salon but don't stick to them. Not lots of rules. Not unreasonable rules. The kind you need to make a business work. For example, an employee has to work an average of 32 hours a week to receive full time benefits. (Yep. A mere 32 hours week.)

When it got time to do the payroll after the holidays, I reviewed the schedules and hours worked for the people we think of as full time. Turned out that two of them are averaging about 20 hours a week. I did not pay them for the holidays. As always, I discussed it with my sister first.

When the checks were issued, both employees questioned me. I explained and offered to review the books with the first one. A day or so later, I got a note from the second one and talked to my sister about it again before responding.

Immediately, she wanted me to back down and pay the holidays. "What would it cost us to pay her two holidays?" she asked. My answer was that we wouldn't be just deciding to pay those two days. We'd be deciding to pay holidays for anyone who demands them without earning them. And sick days. And vacation days. And subsidized health insurance. Doing those things for employees who work 32 hours is generous. Doing them for employees who work 20 hours is business suicide.

Rather unbelievably, she persisted. Said she wasn't absolutely sure I'd made the rules clear enough and that I might be penalizing this young woman for my failure to communicate.

I took a deep breath and tried to feel you all standing with me. Then I told her (politely) I had no doubt whatsoever that every employee knows and understands the 32 hour rule. Took another deep breath, imagined Prema's hand on my back, and (politely) said I was not going to pay the holidays.

Then I went back to the salon and vaguely asked a couple of employees about the full time rule. Every one of them knew it down to the dots on the is and the crosses on the ts. Turns out there have been many discussions of this rule and how to work it.

So...I held my ground with the employee. She didn't even flinch. Clearly, she wanted paid holidays if she could make it happen, but it was just as clear that she knew she wasn't actually eligible. (It's mostly our fault, really. We established the precedent.) The conversation was amicable.

I've written a lot of detail here, but it's not the details that matter. This is just one more situation where I see that my sister will take any, any, side rather than support my opinions or decisions.

But guess what?

I can (politely) do what I know to be right, even when she disagrees. And the roof doesn't cave in. No blood is shed. I do not disappear in a puff of her disapproval.

The other day I said there might be hope. In a comment, Go Mama said there's always hope. She's right. There's always hope.

For us all.

Seeing Myself

By now you know, my friends. You know that when things get tough I go invisible. You may not know that it's more than a matter of not posting. More than a matter of staying home too much. More than not reaching out to friends. I actually lose sight of myself.

To add to my general invisibility of late, I've been letting my air go gray. Gray-haired women are pretty invisible here in America, even if they don't intend to be.

When I told him about the hair, Bryan asked me to send a picture. Until yesterday I hadn't been brave enough. After I said no to my sister, I decided to celebrate by taking a picture to send to Bryan. Here it is.



It's not like I think I'm a vampire. Not even that I actually believe I can't be seen. But I can't tell you how surprised I was to see this photo. I look so present. Gray. Wrinkled and crinkled. But present.

I kept the photo open on my desktop yesterday and again today as I worked. Throughout the day, I'd forget it was there. Once in a while, I closed or moved windows, and it jumped out at me. Every time, I wondered who she was for a fraction of a second. In the flash before I recognized myself, I wanted to be her.

I'm gonna leave it open on the desktop for a while. Maybe I'll learn to see myself more clearly.

No. Simply no.

I told my sister no yesterday. It wasn't easy. It took a while to work up to it, but in the end, I did it.

I'm proud that I didn't get upset or yell. I just took a deep breath, centered myself, and said no. Not a lot of explanation. No apologies. Just no.

It was a big moment. Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Keeping Time

Geese honking on the pond.

Bass booming from the car beside me at a stoplight.

My little dog scratching herself.

My world is filled with rhythm this morning, a metronome keeping time. Except that you can't really keep time. It streams past us, leaving only a whirl of sights and sounds and smells.

Dad's oldest brother died yesterday, the first of that generation to go. One of my mother's brothers and one of her sisters are very sick right now, too.

At one point yesterday afternoon, amidst the flurry of phone calls, I pictured my cousins making decisions about arrangements and services and facilities, making endless phone calls, dealing with the details of their father's death. I know that my folks will not live forever, but do not understand in any real way that they will die and we will go on.

This morning, every sound is a tick of the clock.

Fine Lines

Where is the line between dedication and obsession? It may be a fine one, but it's so very easy to trip over.

Four years ago my sister and I gave our folks a puppy for Christmas. They love that little dog, and she loves them right back. Her presence forces them to walk at least a little every day, to play with her and be active. But they no longer travel because it makes her nervous, and they refuse to go anywhere she’s not welcome. They stay home a lot now.

Reading is one of the best things a writer can do to improve her craft. But if, like me, she reads when she should be sleeping, reads when she should be writing, damn it, reading is no longer a positive factor.

A loving mother guides her children. But if an adult child is determined to ignore everything a mother tries to impart, trying harder and harder does nothing but break her heart and drive the child further away.

I can’t give up on my son. Will never give up on him. But my being more concerned about him than he is about himself was slowly killing us both. In this new year, I’m determined to get the log out of my own eye before worrying about the splinter is someone else’s. Even his.

Back Again

Watched the movie "Waitress" yesterday. Loved it. From the opening scenes where she's baking pies to the end where she dances off into the sunset, I loved the whole darn thing. Sweet. Funny (in the way life is funny not the way sitcoms are supposed to be funny). Smart.

The final credit dedicated the movie to the memory of Adrienne Shelly, one of its stars. !!!???!!!

Google to the rescue: Adrienne Shelly wrote, directed, and starred in the movie. Even wrote and performed the adorable song at the end. She was murdered as she put the finishing touches on the final cut of the movie. Heartbreaking.

The thing that hooked me was the obvious love Keri Russell's character was baking into her pies, the way she put her soul into that simple task. According to several articles, Adrienne wrote the movie as a love letter to her daughter. She originally planned to star in it, but decided Keri was a better choice for the lead character. She (Adrienne) played an important but decidedly less central character. There's some generosity of spirit. Some passion for a project.

Adrienne Shelly died tragically. But first, she lived. She made this movie in the same way the lead character bakes pies: with intention. With passion. With a heart in the middle.

I've been so far out of the loop, for all I know, I may be the last person in North America to see "Waitress." But in case there are others, here's my advice: Rent it. Buy it. Share it.

and LIVE. Live full out. Live with joy.

Putting Some Happy in my New Year

Good morning. And welcome to the first day of the New Year. Last night I realized that the darkness that has been surrounding me is not going away on its own. If I want light--and I do--I've got to step out into it.

So, here's a happy thought.

When Katie was here for Christmas, she lost the lovely platinum and diamond necklace her boyfriend gave her for Christmas. The last place she remembered seeing it was the bathroom counter. We conducted a thorough (and somewhat panicked search) before I mentioned that it might have fallen down the drain of the bathroom sink.

Her reaction was the-screech-heard-round-the-world. You all heard it, didn't you? About 1:30pm on December 27? She settled down a bit when I explained we had a very good chance of finding the necklace in the trap beneath the sink. We got a bucket and rags and set about taking off the trap.

As she held the flashlight, I explained what a trap is and how it works. When I got it off and dumped the contents into the bucket, out slipped her beautiful bauble. She was waaaaay beyond relieved.

After she stopped jumping around, I had Katie replace the trap herself. We tested for leaks. She got it right on the first try, I'm proud to say. It was a moment. I couldn't help remembering when I learned about traps and how they work. I was 40. She's not quite 21.

Katie's is SO damn prepared for the world. When she and her roommates lost power in one room of their apartment, she got a flashlight and went to the basement to find the breaker box. No breaker was tripped, so she went looking for a tripped GFCI. When she found out there were none in the entire apartment, she called the caretaker and told him a) they had problem and b) he needed to get some GFCIs installed pronto, as this was not safe.

When the heater in her car quit working, she drove to a car parts store, pulled out her owner's manual, and figured out which fuse had blown. She bought a new fuse, installed it, and went on her merry way.

She and her roommates pay for one outlet for their internet. Katie connected routers and cable to carry it to each of their rooms.

After the necklace was clean and safely back on her neck, I told her how proud I am of her for being so capable. Her response was, "Well, yeah. Who taught me all that, Mom?"

And there it is. A happy thought. One I'm going to hang onto all day long.

Scraping Up an Attitude of Gratitude

Putting up my Christmas tree last night, composing a blog post in my head: There's nothing as sad as putting up a Christmas tree alone, I imagined writing.

And then I started to hear the melodramatic music playing at the pity party I was throwing for myself. Of course there are sadder things than putting up a Christmas tree alone. Like not having a tree at all, or not having a home to put one in.

So today I'm working on my attitude, reminding myself of the things for which I am grateful. It's a long, long list.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

It was snowing the other day when Dad was dancing in the living room. And like every single time it snows, he sang "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" all day long. Mom never, ever sings out loud when anyone's around. Still, let two snowflakes fall and before the second one hits the ground, she'll be humming, "in the meadow we can build a snowman."

Dad and Mom met when they were 14 and 16. Dad's family moved to the tiny Iowa town where Mom had lived all her life. "Winter Wonderland" came out that winter and they heard it on the radio a lot. The other day, Dad said, "We spent that whole winter walking around together in the snow, holding hands. Falling in love." As he talked, he blushed. Furiously. Even his ears turned bright red. 60 winters have come and gone since that one, but he still blushes at the memories.

Must have been hot out there in the cold.

Good News

Remember last month when I wrote and submitted a piece for a column in a food magazine? Well, I hadn't heard anything and figured that was that. Have to admit I moped about it a bit. Part of the black cloud of self doubt I've been struggling with lately.

Received an e-mail late yesterday afternoon. The selection process took a while because they received many, many entries. BUT my piece was one of the twelve chosen (one a month for a year). It will appear in the June issue. From the hooping and hollering that ensued, my neighbors probably think I won the Powerball. Truth is, the pay is almost ridiculous. But it was the first personal essay I'd ever written and the first time I'd submitted anything to any magazine.

I'm beyond thrilled. And incredibly grateful for your support and encouragement. Thank you to each one of you who have held faith for me through this dark and quiet time. When I sit in meditation, I can feel your love surround me and it means the world to me.

Christmas Cheer

When Dad called this morning, I had to keep asking him to repeat himself. He was whispering so Mom wouldn't hear. (Fat chance! She was in the basement with her little portable heater AND her sewing machine running.)

Anyway, Dad asked me to go buy a Santa hat and send it to the man who will be delivering the quilting machine he's giving Mom for Christmas. He had already called the company to elicit a promise that the guy would wear the hat if we sent it.

Later, I stopped in to tell Dad I'd accomplished my mission. There he was, shuffling around the living room. 76 years old, two inches shorter than he once was, wearing support socks under his perfectly pressed blue jeans. He was dancing and singing "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" to himself. Counting down the days til Christmas like a kid waiting for a pony.

Longing for Balance

During this long absence, I've been pondering the state of the Universe, among other things. Today I've been thinking about balance, something I've never achieved. I'm not sure I could find balance if it were hanging from my hand like a Scale of Justice.

Enough becomes too much so easily.

Vulnerability/Victimhood
Strength/Dominance
Confidence/Arrogance
Trust/Gullibility

I thought I'd outgrown the need for certainty, but guess not. Today I want some hard and fast rules. One damn thing I can know for sure. Just a place to start climbing out of this hole.

Ahhh. One thing IS for sure. This, too, shall pass. The sun will set on this day and rise on another, full of possibilities and wonder. Just hold on.

Not Dead Yet

Hello, All. Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I am, as the title says, Not Dead Yet, just in a strange, dark lull lately.

Thanks to those of you who've e-mailed and commented. I'll write something meaningful in the next day or so.

Whew!

Finished the book not long after midnight last night. I'm thrilled to have my decks cleared for Thanksgiving week because MY GIRL IS COMING HOME! Three more days.

After that, I need a new project. It's been a long, long time since I finished a book without another waiting in the wings, but here I am. No new book contracts in sight, and it's making me nervous.

I'll deal with that on Monday. I've worked 40 of the last 48 hours. It's time to rest. And clean my house. And shave my legs. And tweeze the hairs on my chin. Trust me, that's gonna take some time.

Five Good Things on a Friday

1. I was up in time to see the sun rise over the pond.



2. Pink reflects beautifully on its surface.


3. I ended yesterday laughing with Deb and Carrie over white hairs and toilet brushes.

4. I started today laughing with Michelle and Jenny.

5. By the end of today, I'll be FINISHED writing 1001 Bathrooms.

And a Bonus Good Thing: Katie arrives for Thanksgiving in FOUR MORE DAYS.

Have You Ever Noticed...

when it really bugs you, a little bit of something feels like a whole lot of that thing?

I've been writing like crazy the last few days and have neglected my hair removal responsibilities. In return, my neck and chin have sprouted 7 (yes, I counted) stiff hairs that MAKE ME CRAZY, make me feel like I have a full beard, make me want to buy stock in Gilette.

I find myself stroking my neck when I stop to think, a little like I imagine Rasputin may have done. And every single time, I am shocked and disgusted with myself for allowing something so ugly to grow on my face.

Why didn't I tweeze them instead of taking time to write about how awful they are? Can't. Find. The. Damn. Tweezers.

Stuck. In. Whisker. Hell.

Mom says dogs have stiff whiskers that they use to understand the world.

If only.

No Cute Stories Here

I love the stories you guys post about the adorable things your children do and say. I love your stories about funny things that happen as you go through life.

My kids are grown and unless a clown car pulls into my driveway and unloads a laugh or two, there's nothing funny to report here. Just me, typing until my fingers hurt, trying to finish 1001 Bathrooms before tomorrow night.

Back to work with me.

Patience Is a Virtue

Have I mentioned the downside of submiting stuff?

You write like crazy, edit til your eyes are crossed, and proofread til you can't spell your own name. Finally, you put everything together and hit "send."

Then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The reading period for my first ever submission--the one I posted about a week or so ago--starts the tomorrow, the 15th. I am filled with excitement and dread and hope and resignation. I am not filled with patience.

Seasoned writers tell me the secret is to send it and forget it until you receive a rejection. . .or acceptance. Good idea. But isn't that another way to say, Be patient?

Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

I don't feel good, and have been up most of the night. I've whiled away some of the time exchanging e-mails with the European manager of the book project I'm working on right now. (The middle of my night is the start of his workday.) He sent a couple of rather stern e-mails, one of which chided me for missing a deadline and demanded an update and an ETA on the materials.

He correctly identified the deadline as the 16th of November, which is this Friday. Somehow, though, he thought that was LAST Friday. When I gently pointed out that today is the 14th, he responded with: "Of course. I had my calendar wrong."

Half an hour later, his colleague, who had been copied on the e-mails, sent me an apology. She had not contributed to the snafu, yet she apologized.

Truth to tell, it wasn't a big deal once I knew for sure I had not missed the deadline. I'm no champion at calendar tracking mine own self, and I know how easy it is to get off track. Still, a simple "I'm sorry," would have been appropriate. And clearly, I'm not the only one who thought so. His colleague had no reason to apologize, and yet she did, on his behalf. Hmmmm.

Last week my sister got very short with me over a situation in which she did not have her facts straight. Eventually she acknowledged that she did not have a full grasp on the situation but did not apologize for her rudeness. Hmmmm.

Methinks perhaps the Universe is trying to tell me how important it is to watch my mouth, especially when I'm angry or stressed, how necessary it is to acknowledge my mistakes and offer a simple, heartfelt apology when I've let myself run amok.

I'm gonna work on that. Right after I get some sleep.

Cleaning by Candlelight

Last night I lit a fire and some candles and invited Paul Potts to sing to me in the twilight (via iPod, of course). Then I cleaned house.

I turn on the lights in whatever room I'm working on, but each time I pass through the glowing living room to the trash or laundry room, beauty presses in on me. Paul's voice fills the house with joy.

Cleaning is not usually my favorite activity. Candles and music transform it into a celebration, a demonstration of gratitude.

Sounds crazy, I know. But try it some time. You might be surprised.

My Own Personal Helicopter

Something miraculous happened Thursday and Friday.

In the middle of my fretting about money and PIN numbers and my check hung up in the banking system, I heard a news report about unclaimed property and how easy it is to search for your name on data bases set up by individual states.

On a whim, I searched. Lo and behold, there was my name. I called the moment the Dept. of Commerce opened on Friday, and they verified it: they're holding a substantial amount of money in my name. I have all the necessary records to show ownership, I just can not understand how this happened.

The Winged One and I talked at length about the morality of claiming the money if I can't be 100 percent sure it's owed to me. It's the legacy of a complicated insurance claim when my house was damaged by hail at the time my insurance carrier was being bought out by another company. Yada. Yada. Yada.

The Dept. of Commerce explained that the money had been turned over to them by the insurance company. The only things that can happen to it now are: I can claim it, my heirs can claim it after I die, or it can stay in the state's coffers, drawing interest.

Insurance companies are not known for their generosity nor for their willingness to turn loose of money when not absolutely necessary. I have much greater faith in their accounting abilities than in my own. If they turned this money over to the State, they did it because they had to. I may not understand how all this worked, but you can bet your sweet patootie they do.

As we talked, Mystic Wing asked why I feared the bad karma of claiming something I don't recognize as mine without even wondering if this turn of events might simply be good karma. We laughed about the old joke where a guy is on a roof top in a flood, praying to be delivered. He turns down help from a bunch of sources, including a rowboat and a helicopter, always saying he's a believer and that God will save him. When he meets God, he asks why God didn't save him. God replies, "What did you want from me? I sent you a rowboat and a XXX and a XXX and a helicopter."

Is this unclaimed property a rowboat? Am I too stubborn to get into the damn helicopter?

I filled out the claim forms. Later, I was driving through the countryside. The sky was a brilliant, clear blue. The only marks, horizon to horizon, were two vapor trails that crossed in such a way they created a perfect heart.

I'd never seen anything like it. Vapor trails, being the paths of planes and all, are almost always fairly straight. Not these. They curved into a beautiful, expressive heart, the sight of which stopped mine for a second.

Is it pure arrogance to imagine the Universe was sending me a sign?

I believe in signs, in omens and portent. I believe we can steer by the signals the Universe sends us if we pay attention. Or, I think I believe that. It's easy in the abstract. But face-to-face with what could be a sighting of the Great Unknown, it's hard to be certain.

I mailed the claim an hour later. What's that? You can't hear me? Pay no attention to that noise. It's just my helicopter, getting ready to land.

And Then. . .

My bank cancelled my debit card the other day. There I was, in a quilt store, paying for a few additions to my fabric stash. The clerk frowned and looked at me over the top of her reading glasses.

"It didn't go through. Your card has been reported lost or stolen."

"That can't be. Run it again," I suggested naively.

10 minutes and two phone calls to my bank later, I was told my card had been suspended for "misuse" and my account marked for fraud. The person I was referred to in the Fraud Department told me I had deposited an empty envelope in an ATM, which I knew I had not. God knows I can be absent minded, but I specifically remembered putting the check from my British publisher in that ATM because it didn't fit the deposit envelope. I folded the flap up and over it, sealed it carefully, and wondered if that check size is standard in England.

Panic ensued. Where could the check have gone? It was the middle of the night in England, so I couldn't call and have the publisher stop payment on it. My mind reeled as I made my way to the branch where I'd made the deposit.

It took a few tellings of my story, but I ended up in the Branch Manager's office. She explained that they had the check. It was never lost. She sent it to their Collections Department because it was written by an British company, in British pounds she claimed, and she had to "protect you and the bank."

I'm pretty sure it was marked USD, and it was the third check I've deposited from that company. All at the same branch. All through the same ATM. AND I have had that bank account for 29 years. TWENTY-NINE YEARS and they couldn't give me the benefit of the doubt? Or a phone call? But truly, I was so relieved it wasn't lost that I simply thanked her for her help and left after she had called to remove the fraud marker and order a new debit card. She "graciously" waived the fee for the new card and paid for it to be overnighted.

The check will have to make its way through the collections system, which may take as long as six weeks. They can hold my money up to SIX WEEKS before they have to credit it to my account.

WTF???

The new card arrived yesterday, as scheduled. When I tried to activate it, the system told me my PIN number was invalid. I called the Customer Service number printed on the back of the card, only to hit dead ends over and over because my PIN number did not match the new card number. I was ready to sharpen my teeth on someone's neck bones by the time I got through to a human who explained that my PIN had been reset for the new card and the preset number would be mailed to me separately. By snail mail. Within 10 days.

WTF????

I need cash to get through the PINless days, so I drove to the bank and went in to the teller's window. The teller gamely tried to help me sort out the mess. In looking through my account records, he noticed that my "account type" was obsolete and I was being charged service charges and fees that could be avoided if I changed to an updated type. He clicked his mouse a couple of times to fix it and mentioned this would save $15 every month and as much as $25 in certain situations.

This is how they reward long-time customers? By charging them up the wazoo for things that are now offered free? Seriously--no one thought to tell me about the high price of being obsolete?

And, typing this just now, I realized they replaced my card that racked up frequent flier miles with a standard one that doesn't do anything besides give me access to my money. Damn! I'm going to have to go back there today.

WTF???

I am not feeling kindly toward ATMs, computerized phone systems, or banks at the moment.

Even my little dog is sick of this whole mess. I woke in the night to the sound of her retching. In. My. Bed.

Apparently

Dad stretched the truth a little the other day when he told me he was fine. To review: He was talking about the arrangements he'd made for Mom after his death. I asked if he had any reason to be concerned. He said no. He said he was in better health now than 10 years ago. He said he was merely facing statistical realities.

He left out a few things.

Yesterday I walked into Mom and Dad's house and found Dad in bed, his head wrapped in huge bandages. He looked like he'd wandered out of one of the hospital scenes in Gone with the Wind. Scary. Hilarious. Confusing.

It turns out Dad has skin cancer. A few weeks ago, a doctor removed a couple small growths from his forehead. The pathology reports indicated cancer so he returned yesterday for a fairly extensive excision. They think they got it all. According to the doctor, the type of cancer Dad has is common and treatable.

Dad drove himself to and from the surgery. He didn't want anyone to worry.

It was about lunch time when I stopped in over there. Mom asked me to stay for lunch and of course I did. She made one of Dad's favorite lunches. In the early afternoon she called and asked me to come over for dinner. She was making salmon, another of Dad's favorite foods. I couldn't resist, and I'm so glad I went. I'll remember this exchange the rest of my life.

Dad: Thank you, Honey. That was a wonderful dinner. You should have planned to come for dinner all along, Jerri. I have an owie. You knew Mom would make something special.

Me: She does baby you when you're sick or hurt.

Dad: Not too much. You see I didn't get any dessert. I'm going to make me a chocolate sundae. Anyone else want one?

Mom: Oh, Honey. I'm sorry. Would you like me to make you some of the World's Best Hot Fudge Sauce?

Dad: No, that's okay. You can do it later. I'll still have cancer tomorrow.

Hard Habit to Break

My dad broke my heart yesterday. He stopped in at the salon to talk to me about presents for Mom. Her birthday and their anniversary are in November and Christmas is right around the corner.

"I've got Christmas covered because I'm buying her a quilting machine." He heard my gasp and stopped. "You don't think she'll like it?"

"She'd love it, Dad. But it's SO expensive."

"Well, yes. But I'm realistic. She could have many many years to fill after I'm gone. I want her to have something interesting and fun to do, something she looks forward to every day. It could be a long time until we see each other again. I want her to be happy."

Dad then talked for 10 minutes about all the things he had set up to take care of Mom after he's gone. He's not sick or worried about dying particularly, he just wants to make sure their finances are in order and everything is organized to smooth the transition as much as possible.

They've been taking care of each other for 58 years now. It's a hard habit to break.

Standard Time

I love this time of year—crisp, clean air. Beautiful mornings. Repeating an hour when we "fall back" to Standard Time.


This year I spent that golden hour pinning together the layers of the project you see here. I pieced the top several years ago, and now I'm going to quilt it. I am trying so hard to become a woman who finishes things.

Old people tell you how fast time flies. I used to brush that off, thinking I had plenty left. I don't. No one does. Not even on Standard Time.

Don't Worry Spiders. . .

I keep house casually.

Found this little fantasy at the top of one of the pendant lights that hang over my breakfast bar. Hated to do it, but Halloween's over. I crawled up on the bar and wiped it away.

I couldn't help noticing its beauty and and its strength. And something else: I'll bet the spider doesn't waste a single moment, not a nano second, complaining or plotting revenge. It will just get on with the business of building a new web.

Spiders are smart that way.