Boomer Gran

I am a Caregiver

2011-10-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

I am a caregiver. I care for my husband, Jim, who will be 67 years old on October 6.

Last Spring, Jim had three strokes and a heart attack. The same week that I broke my hip and had a full hip replacement. By mid-June, we were both at home and life was looking up. Jim had mild word-finding problems and wasn't able to effectively use his right hand, but we could still have conversations, still enjoy each other's company, still argue, tease, laugh together.

After a few days, maybe as much as two weeks, I began noticing that Jim wasn't getting better; in fact things were getting worse. His language skills were improving, but his awareness of his safety, his location in both time and place was fuzzy (and often completely absent), and his level of cooperation with his medications was declining. He was becoming more and more resentful of me and of the fact that I was always the bearer of bad news. He couldn't drive. He couldn't drink. I wouldn't take him to buy bourbon. He couldn't take aspirin for pain. Finally, he began refusing his pain medication altogether and would sit on the sofa writhing and moaning, but stubbornly refusing any aid.

In mid-July, I proposed a trip to the Coast for our first anniversary. It would be the first time since our first trip to the Coast - way back in early 2001 - that we would stay at a hotel, but there was no way I could drive the truck and pull the 5th wheel. Although we both tried to make it a celebration, it was clear that Jim was struggling. Our anniversary dinner was hamburgers and fries eaten in our room, which I had bought from the bar across the street. While there, Jim's blood glucose fluctuated wildly, at one point reaching almost 500. He had thought his glucose levels were low and bought candy bars; in fact it was high, and I came very close to calling 911. Fortunately, he responded quickly to the insulin.

Upon our return, I put in a call to Jim's doctor, explaining what had happened, and asking for a clear diagnosis. When I heard the words "vascular dementia," I was stunned. At last I had an answer for why we were having the problems I'd been trying to handle, but "dementia" is such a horrible thing to face. I was able to find a support group online, where I've gotten the most incredible amount of information and validation of all that we've faced, as well as what we can expect. It's not pretty.

For the remainder of July and all of August, I continued to struggle. Jim became more and more unsteady on his feet, yet he would insist on walking downstairs with his shoes untied. We bought shoes with Velcro closures, but he wouldn't wear them. I found him in the garage attempting to open a bottle of wine with his vise. He talked about getting his ladder out to climb up on the roof to clean the chimney. He threatened to walk to the liquor store - 2-1/2 miles away and down a steep incline - when I refused to buy alcohol for him. The day I came home from a therapist appointment and found him outside, shoes untied, carrying pruning shears, I knew I could no longer leave him alone. When he refused to have someone in to help, and then refused to ride in the car with me, because he wasn't going to go anywhere until he could drive again, I became a prisoner in our home.

Again, I called the doctor and was told that if there were any way to get him to the hospital for psychological testing, it desperately needed to be done. Failing that, if he posed a danger to me or to himself - for example, if he actually did try to walk to the store - to call 911 and have him put on a "transfer hold" to be admitted through the ER to the mental ward. When I found him drinking mouthwash, I thought perhaps that was the key. It was not. I was told to get all mouthwash, all ethanol of any kind, out of the house, along with any guns and/or ammunition. With the help of his son, I was able to accomplish this.

On September 3rd, at a party at his son's house, Jim's behavior became even more erratic and verbally abusive. When he cut his hand and we couldn't stop the bleeding, I made the decision to take him to the ER. When we were approaching the VA Hospital, driving up a steep, curvy hill, Jim realized where we were going and became even angrier and resumed the verbal abuse. Then he put my car in neutral. Twice. When I put it back in drive and kept going, he reached over and turned it off. After I started it, he did it again. It was getting dark, we were in a dangerous place to be stopped, but I started it again and drove as quickly as I could to the ER.

After much difficulty, Jim was admitted against his will and spent the next twelve days in the mental ward. At various times, he believed he was in Mexico, he persistently believed that I had spent all of "his" money to build the hospital as a home and that the VA had taken it from me. He believed that I had no place to live. He believed that the year was 2076, and he couldn't recall how many children he has. He also believed he still lived in his childhood neighborhood, and would ask when his mother was coming home. She died in 1964.

On September 15, on the advice of medical staff and with the help of an attorney to gain guardianship, I was able to have Jim transferred to a memory care home, where he lives for now. It's not a good setting for him, although the staff is wonderful and they all love him. He is the most highly-functioning person there (most residents have Alzheimer's Disease, cannot speak, many are incontinent), but because of his continuing threats to "walk away," he requires a locked unit. We are looking for a better placement for him, but all he wants is to come home.

In addition to "brittle" (uncontrolled) diabetes, and the dementia, Jim has congestive heart failure, atrial fibrillation, high blood pressure, and peripheral neuropathy. But Jim insists that his health has never been better, that I am at fault for his uncontrolled diabetes, and that as soon as the nurses teach him how to used the "new" insulin - the one he's used for as long as I've known him - he will be fine and able to come home. Of course, even if this were true, dementia means that Jim cannot learn new things. His short-term memory is largely gone, although he can - as is common with dementia - pull himself together long enough to participate in a conversation, leaving many to believe he's just fine. Unless, of course, you know that we haven't been to Mexico in three years, have never been to China, and the trip we took to the doctor last week wasn't close by, but was across the river, and many miles away.

Well-meaning friends want to "Jim-proof" our house so Jim can come home. They don't realize that if they take away the ladders, he will climb on chairs. If they take away the chairs, he will climb on tables. If they take away the tables, it will be four walls and no longer "home." If they replace the dishes and glasses with plastic ware, he will still be in danger from photograph glass, window glass - whatever he can drop and break or attempt to use as a tool.

They don't realize the stress of managing brittle diabetes - of having to call 911 in the middle of the night because his glucose levels have dropped so low that he's almost comatose and in danger of dying. They don't realize how hard it is for me to exist on four hours of sleep each and every night because I lie awake, touching him to be sure he's breathing. They don't realize that answering the same question 10 times in five minutes - Do I have a doctor's appointment today? What am I seeing the doctor for today? Do you know when my mom will be home? Do you know where my wife is? - is exhausting. They don't realize that Jim can't reason; that there is no cause and effect for him, only what he wants to do in the moment. They don't realize that caring for Jim is NOT like caring for a small child; that child will learn and progress. Jim cannot learn and is regressing.

But mostly they don't realize that after they have done their good deed, Jim-proofing the house, bringing Jim home, leaving us with their good wishes and love, that they will return to normalcy, leaving us here to once again reach a point of crisis.

Do you know a caregiver? I'll bet you do. Give them the gift of your time. Give him or her an afternoon off while you visit with your friend or family member. Provide a meal. Mow the lawn. Rake the leaves. Or, if their loved one has been placed in a home, accept that it was done lovingly and with much guilt and regret and do not criticize or try to fix it. It can't be fixed. Dementia is forever, changing only in a downward spiral. Acknowledge that the one living with it is the one who knows how it really is. Accept that your family member or friend isn't going to get better, and that the caregiver's stress may be slowly impairing his or her own health. Understand that you only add to that stress when you criticize or argue that your solution is better than the one s/he chose.

Understand that nothing is harder than loving someone who has begun a journey known as "The Long Goodbye." Every day is grief. Every day is loss. Every day is pain.

Then and Now

2011-06-21T08:42:00.000-07:00

One day
We were making plans to go to the Coast
To go clamming with friends.

One day
We were making plans to go to Yosemite,
So you could see El Capitan.

One day
We were making plans for another trip
To far away places.

One day
We were making plans to paint the house,
And tile the floors
And maybe find a new home to love as we do this one.

One day
You had a stroke.

Today
I'm learning how to test your blood glucose
And give insulin shots.

Today
I'm learning how to cook the foods you like
In a way that is healthier.

Today
I cut up tiny pills and put them in tiny boxes
And smile when I bring them to you four times a day
And call them "appetizers."

Today
I'm learning, still learning, still learning
Not to respond in anger when you take out your frustrations
On me.

Tonight
Each night
I wake three or four or five or six times
To touch you, to test your blood,
To watch you breathe
To give thanks
That you are beside me.

Tomorrow?

Memory

2011-06-19T09:03:00.000-07:00

When they ask you where you worked
You can tell them
And give them details.

When they ask if you have children
You can name them
And give them details

And so they say,
"Your long-term memory is good!"
And they smile and you smile and I smile.

When we go to bed
You can't remember which side you have slept on
For twenty years.

When you sit in my chair
In the family room
You don't understand when I ask,
"Do you want to sit there - or here?"
Where you have sat
For eleven years.

When you make coffee
You remember to use four scoops of coffee
But not how much water.
You can't find the teabags
Where they have been
For twenty years.

You marvel at how well I navigate
The route home from the doctor,
Through curves and roads with oddly-shaped turns.
A route you taught me,
On roads you have traveled
A thousand times,
But claim you have never seen.

What are long-term memories made of?

Milestones

2011-06-08T21:32:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, my Sweetheart comes home for good! I am so excited to have him here with me that I can hardly stand it. We will begin reordering our lives to match our "new normal." Some things we both hope we can resume: reading the paper together in the mornings while we drink our coffee; discussing events of the day; watching our favorite t.v. shows; enjoying our deck in the afternoons - the warm weather is arriving just in time!

Some things will be different for us. There will be new regimens of medications, learning to navigate safely around each other and the house, piecing together the events of the past several weeks so they begin to make some sense for Jim, more doctor's appointments (for both of us), physical therapy, learning to shop with wheelchair and cane - the list goes on!

One of our biggest challenges will be Jim's level of awareness regarding his - and my -limitations. I'm trusting that coming home will provide the comfort and security he needs to not only settle his mind (he still has occasional hallucinations), but also to help him regain his mobility and use of his right hand. I told him that I don't care how long he plays Solitaire on his computer, since I firmly believe using the mouse will be positive in healing it. Fortunately, his therapist agrees with me!

It will be seven weeks on Friday since our lives changed so drastically. We've had the love and support of so many people, that it humbles me and makes me even more aware of how blessed we are. We've both come a long way, but Jim's journey has been longer and more arduous. Given the fears that I had in the early days following his strokes, I'm just so very thankful to know that he'll be home in fewer than 12 hours! I do ask that you, my family, friends, and casual readers, keep us both in your good thoughts and prayers as we begin this new chapter.

My Sweetheart is coming home!

One woman show

2011-05-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, I confess that I'm feeling a little sorry for myself tonight, and I'm doing a bit of grieving as well. All normal, I suppose, given the events of the past three weeks, but a bit unusual and uncomfortable for me. I'm also a little uncertain about putting this out in a public forum like this, but I really feel that if I don't get it out I'll explode. That could get messy and someone could get hurt by flying titanium!

Part of the problem, of course, is that my rock, the man who would ordinarily be providing the emotional support for me, is in no condition to do so. He's struggling with his own issues and doesn't understand that, in addition to being worried about him I'm worried about myself. This afternoon when I went to visit him, he stood up from his wheelchair (which he is absolutely NOT supposed to do without someone on staff there with him), so he could sit on his bed and change his clothes. I won't kid you; I freaked out. He's not real stable on his feet, and I was terrified that he would fall and knock me down. The absolute last thing I want to do is fall, believe me. He got upset with me, because he's quite certain, of course, that he won't fall. And he didn't, but I was still very frightened and found myself backing away from him instead of going toward him to help him. That felt very odd to me, but the instinct for self-preservation is strong, and if I fall and dislocate this new hip I'll be of no help to anyone for a long time.

I didn't like leaving when he was so angry, but it was better for me to leave. He was going to bed, the nurse came in when he got up (it sets off alarms), and it only upsets him (and me) when I can't communicate to him the fear that I have. I wouldn't trade his strong will for anything, but he's not currently able to really understand that he's impaired and that I am, too.

I'm also still digesting the information that I got from the Physician's Assistant on Monday. My healing is going extremely well, so that's not the problem. The problem is that I have an artificial hip. It will always be in greater danger of dislocation than the OEM version. The only cure for a dislocation is - you guessed it - another hip replacement surgery!

It may mean that I can't crawl around on the floor with the grandkids or play trains and cars on the floor with Addison. That has always brought such great joy to me that it's upsetting to think I may have to give it up. Perhaps my physical therapist will be able to allay some of these concerns - s/he'll be here tomorrow - but for tonight they're tumbling around in my poor brain.

I have flowers that I bought just a week before this all happened, and they're sitting on my deck, waiting to be planted. I had gathered some of the stuff together that I needed and was only waiting for some sunny weather to put them in their pots. Well, the sunny weather is here, but I'm not able. My fuschias need to be fertilized, but the mechanics of doing that are frustrating me. I think I can do it, but gathering together the things that I need presents a challenge.

It's mostly just dumb stuff like that driving me to this melancholy. I really don't have any insurmountable problems. Thankfully, we both have good insurance and the money to cover what insurance doesn't, so it really does feel like a one-woman pity party. I've managed to make it this far with only one real crying session - though I've teared up a few times - so I'm really not doing so bad. But the tears are always right there, waiting, and I guess I just needed to get it in writing. Somehow that seems to make it more manageable. I've always been someone who feels that nothing is insurmountable if I can see it in words.

I should be back and ready to conquer the world tomorrow. As long as no one bumps into me.

Updating

2011-05-14T22:12:00.000-07:00

Well, I've survived my first 24+ hours home by myself, although I confess to being a bit lonely in this big house without the daily presence of my Jim. It's funny how much I always have looked forward to the times when he's away hunting or fishing or pursuing some other such pleasure. It's always been a time for me to embrace my alone time and not have to think about anyone else. This time, though, all I think about is Jim.

My youngest son, Ben, ran all over Portland yesterday, gathering up all of the medical accouterments I thought I'd need for my convalescence - bath chair, cane, "grabbers," a new shower head, prescriptions - then picked me up from The Old Folks' Home and brought me back to my much-loved, but now quite lonely, home. He spent a couple of hours getting everything set up, and then kissed me goodbye to return to his wife and children. My sister stopped by last night and brought me some wine (yay!). I drank half a glass and then off to bed for me.

Although I'm technically not cleared to drive, the rehab center where Jim is currently staying is less than two miles away, and I was able to visit him twice today. It takes me almost as long to get into and out of the car as it does to drive there! And since I'm so close, wild horses couldn't keep me away. And it's become abundantly clear over these past two weeks that my presence is vital to Jim's recovery. He's surrounded and loved by our children, grandchildren, other family members, and many, many friends, but our connection to each other is strong. There is nothing that gives me quite the thrill as the joy I see in his face and hear in his voice when he sees me.

He's doing very well, though he has a way to go in rehab. For an impatient man, he's actually coping quite well. He wants very much to come home and would walk out tonight if I were to give him any indication that it would be okay. But we both know that he needs the physical therapy to regain control of his hand and his balance, and that we still have time to be together and to resume the life that we love and enjoy. Every day I realize anew just how blessed I am to have found this deep and abiding love at this stage of my life. Each day brings us closer to once again enjoying our morning ritual of coffee, newspaper, and local news; our afternoon ritual of wine on the deck, admiring our yard and the company of our neighbors; and just the simple pleasure of being together, taking care of things around the house, sharing mealtimes, and arguing politics.

Last July, when we were married, my middle son, Jason, read from I Corinthians. The final words of that reading keep coming to my mind:

But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.

Bittersweet

2011-05-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

It seems that so many of life’s blessings are mixed, filled with both joy and sorrow, gain and loss. Tonight feels that way to me.

I’m excited that early tomorrow afternoon, Ben will arrive at the door of the rehab center, ready to take me home to return to a life briefly interrupted by the events of the past two weeks. I’m elated that I’ve improved enough to be considered able to be home, taking care of my own needs. I’m also a little nervous about not having the safety net of a team of dedicated professionals who are as close as a small grey button, should I need assistance.

I walk quite well with both walker and cane, and although the walker feels more secure, I’m gradually transitioning to the cane except when I’m out among people. The walker gives me more protection and provides a greater visibility in crowded places. I can take a shower by myself, as long as I use a shower chair, I can manage all of my personal care, and I’ll have a tray attachment on my walker for carrying coffee and food from kitchen to dining area. It all sounds so mundane, but it feels so enormous to be able to do these things after hip replacement surgery less than two weeks ago.

Why, then, is there sorrow? Well, I will leave behind a group of wonderful people here at Marquis Care at Vermont Hills. They have helped and encouraged me, they’ve cheered my achievements, listened to my fears and worries, provided shoulders to cry on – quite literally on a couple of occasions – asked always about Jim, provided comic relief, and have, in just a few short days, become like another family. Julie, Lynette, Nicole, LaShaunda, JoAnna, Angela, Cheryl, Angelica, Debbie, Lisa – all names that recall faces and kindnesses I will never forget. Although I have jokingly referred to this place as “The Old Folks’ Home,” it truly has been a place of rest and refreshment for me, as well as a place of rehabilitation. It fits none of the stereotypes of nursing homes, being instead a place where people care – and it shows.

And the greater sorrow for me will be returning home without Jim. He has been discharged from hospital and is undertaking his own rehabilitation at a place much closer to our home. A place where I will be able to visit more often, and a place that will help him recover and return to our interrupted life.

I’m optimistic that he won’t be there long, but each day apart is its own kind of sorrow. I miss him and I know he misses me. He has come from a far place to where he is today, and there is still much work to be done. He has some trouble with words and he’s undertaking the job of retraining his right hand. But my Jim is a man who has never shirked hard work, and there’s no reason to think this time will be different. I’m so thankful that the man I married last summer knows who I am, who our children, grandchildren and friends are; I’m thankful that he can carry on a conversation; and that the weakness in his right side isn’t major or permanent. Things could have been so much worse.

But when I sit on the deck tomorrow afternoon – and that’s in my definite plans – I will feel incomplete. My joy at being home will be tainted by longing for my Jim to be with me. But soon, very soon, he will join me on the deck, we’ll admire our glorious red rhododendrons, our azaleas, fuschias, vine maples – all the beauty that our beloved home offers us. And we will resume our interrupted life together.

What really happened!

2011-05-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

On Monday, April 25, I fell out of the back of Jim's truck. Although that may not sound like a big deal, let me rush to assure you that falling from a height of about four feet onto an asphalt parking lot and landing full force on my left hock, with only minimal fall interference from the left hand and arm, can be a very big deal indeed.

Jim hovered over me for several minutes, asking if I needed an ambulance, while I struggled to assess just how badly I was damaged, and whether I did need an ambulance or not. After a few minutes, with a light Oregon rain falling on me, I told him that I thought I was okay, and that I just needed some help to get into the truck. I didn't feel able to actually get up onto my feet, so I crawled the length of the truck to the front door, where I used the door to pull myself up, and Jim helped me haul myself up into the seat. As he climbed into the driver's seat, he continued to worry that we should call 9-1-1, while I reassured him that I thought a broken bone would hurt a lot worse than I seemed to be hurting. We drove home, I dragged myself up the stairs to our bedroom, climbed painfully into bed, took some heavy-duty drugs, and slipped into an uncomfortable sleep.

From then until Friday morning, I managed - with lots of rest and drugs - to get around the house, eat the occasional meal, watch some t.v. in the family room with Jim, and even do my laundry. Although I was in pain, it seemed better each day, and I was a little more mobile each day. Briana even brought Addison and Drew over for a visit on Thursday, and we had quite a nice time. I was pretty sure that things were healing and I was lucky to be doing so well after a nasty fall.

Friday morning around 7:00 a.m. I made my way downstairs to find my Jim apparently still groggy from sleep and not making much sense. After trying to get him to respond, I made the decision to call 9-1-1 - the best decision I've ever made. When the EMTs arrived, they told me that they thought he was having a stroke and should go immediately to the hospital. After arguing with Jim for a while, I called his son Mike, and Jim finally agreed to go. He left in the ambulance, and I followed about 30 minutes later in my car.

When I arrived at the ER at the VA Hospital, I parked and struggled to get out of the car. Finally, I grabbed my lower leg and bent it enough to get my foot past the doorsill. I heard a couple of popping sounds, and my whole field of vision went white as I experienced the worst pain I've ever felt. After several minutes, I attempted to put my foot on the ground and stand up. When I did, it felt as if there were nothing under my foot, and I almost passed out from the pain. After hanging by my arms between my car and the one parked next to me, I was able to flag down a very nice man who grabbed a wheelchair and wheeled me to the VA Emergency room. Mike and Christina were already there waiting for Jim to come back from an MRI. I saw him for just a few minutes, and Christina wheeled me across the Skybridge to the ER at Oregon Health & Science University. After waiting what seemed an interminable time, I was x-rayed and told that I had broken the neck of my left femur. Apparently it had been broken when I fell of the truck, but wasn't displaced until I bent my leg, at which time I completed the circuit. The treatment: a full hip replacement.

I saw Jim again briefly that afternoon, and early Saturday morning I was wheeled into the operating room for a four-hour surgery.

For the past few days, I've been recovering from surgery and visiting Jim each day, thanks to the cooperation of the two hospitals and the strong arms of Mike to push me in a wheelchair. Jim has been in and out of the neurology ward and ICU, and we've been told variously that he's had three strokes - or maybe two strokes - that he's had a heart attack and that there either is or isn't a blood clot in his heart that may or may not be feeding clots to his brain. He has traveled in and out of coherence, and has been happy to see us or unable to recognize us. It's all been very frustrating, but he's being cared for by lots of good, well-qualified people.

Tonight I am in a short-term care facility about 7 miles from Jim, where I will spend the next couple of weeks learning how to take care of myself without dislocating my new titanium hip. Jim is resting well and will be returned to the neuro ward from ICU as soon as a bed opens for him - hopefully tomorrow. I will be able to visit him each day, by utilizing medical transportation. Each time we are able to spend a few minutes together it's revitalizing for both of us. And each day I am thankful all over again that I told Jim I didn't need to go to the hospital when I fell; he would have been home all alone at a critical time on Friday.

We have been blessed with the love and care of so many of our family and friends who have visited, run errands, sat with us during difficult times, retrieved things from our house, bought clothes (mine had to be cut off of me), and who have just generally provided loving support during what has been a difficult 10 days. We hope that we're both on the road to full recovery, but recognize that there are still some unknown waters ahead. Together, and surrounded by love, we will face them!

To Addison and Drew, with love

2011-01-21T16:09:00.000-08:00

My days as Granny Nanny
Are drawing to a close;
I've fixed your lunch, I've wiped your bottoms,
I've even washed your clothes!

I've rocked you till you fell asleep,
I've held you when you cried;
I've tickled chubby tummies;
I've given a thousand horsie rides!

You've filled my days with untold joy,
You've made me very proud;
I've played with each and every toy,
We've giggled and laughed out loud!

I'll miss my days' beginnings
With joyful, lovely faces,
I'll miss our trips to parks and gyms
And other exciting places.

You've grown and learned so very much
And I treasure each memory;
But time moves on, as people say,
And, my sweethearts, so must we.

I know that I'll still see you
And we'll still have time together,
Not quite the same, but this won't change:
I'll love you both forever!

Words

2011-01-11T12:16:00.000-08:00

I dithered a bit about whether or not to post this to my personal or my political blog. You can see where it ended up! Even though it touches on the political, it really is personal to me and, I think, to many others. And it was inspired in part by another blog I read this morning.

You see, despite protests from certain political arenas, words really do matter. Although many of us were raised on the sing-song mantra of children everywhere, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me," those of us who have been wounded by words know the truth.

We may never have exhibited casts or bruises for the world to see, but our spirits - our psyches - have suffered damage. In some cases, it can be repaired; in other cases, the victims don't - can't - find their way out of the pain and so take their own life or the lives of others. But a CAT scan of our emotional selves would still find the lingering scars in the same way that an experienced eye can tell that a bone has at one time suffered a break, or lungs still bear the scars of pneumonia.

Words live on in our brains just as memories do, and words - as with memories - can be triggered by unexpected events or circumstances, often reopening those old wounds, even if just momentarily.

I have a younger sister whom I love with all my heart. She's enough younger (four years) and we grew up with interests different enough that there was no real reason for us to ever be compared to each other. We had different friends and never went to the same school at the same time. But within our extended family we were frequently referred to as "the pretty one," and "the smart one." The truth is, we were both attractive girls and young women, and both had - and have - above-average intelligence.

But I grew up thinking my only currency in life was my looks. This led, over the years, to some bad choices and to behaviors that can only be described as destructive. Imagine my surprise when I entered college as an adult and discovered how smart I really am! I'm prouder than a woman my age should be of my 4.0 GPA in college, and still get a thrill when someone acknowledges my intelligence in even the most oblique way.

My beloved sister, on the other hand, grew up feeling that she was playing second fiddle to the sister everyone described as "pretty." She made good grades, she pushed herself to excel in ways that still astound me, and - while I would hesitate to speak on her behalf - I suspect that she, too, found ways to validate herself that weren't particularly healthy. Frankly, I've always though she is beautiful - well, ever since I stopped thinking she was "cute" - and, although our looks have faded, as they are wont to do with the passage of years, neither of us could be described even today as unattractive. Okay, maybe when we first wake up in the morning...

The other wounding word was "fat." I am a large woman; there's no getting around it. I'm larger today than I've ever been, and the word "fat" can still cause me anxiety, but as a young girl and a teenager, I felt fat. What I didn't know then is that the people who referred to me that way were expressing their own insecurities and that it really had nothing to do with me. Until I was pregnant with my first child, I can't find even one photograph of myself where I would be considered fat. Tall, yes. Big-boned (my mom's favorite appellation), yes. But not fat.

(My mother's constant use of the phrase "big-boned" was finally validated when I was in my 40s and had my first bone density test. It turns out that I do have "big bones": my bone density is 125% of normal! With the history of osteoporosis in my family, "big boned" is my favorite thing to be!)

Moving away from the personal, how many news reports have we heard in the past few years about people killing themselves or others because of words? How many young people have lashed out violently after years of being bullied?

Four-eyes. Stupid. Ugly. Cripple. Fat. Queer. Crater face.

I'm not trying to use this forum to point a finger and say that the young man who committed the crimes in Tucson, AZ on Saturday was directed to do that by anyone. But I am saying that when we use inflammatory language there will be consequences. Sometimes the consequences are damaging only to the individual; it's internalized and a life is changed in some way. But sometimes the consequences are damaging to others. We can't know who hears our words and perceives them as a call to action. We need to appreciate that inflammatory words create a climate that elicits more inflammatory words, and that climate then can - and sometimes will - reach a state where words are no longer enough. Where some other kind of action feels necessary. Proverbs 15:1 tells us, "A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." (NIV)

We share our planet, our nation, our states, our cities, our communities with people who may not always be able to distinguish between rhetoric and a call to action. There are mentally and emotionally fragile people among us; people who cannot be counted on to know that we "didn't really mean it that way."

I am resolved to use kinder words. I may not always be successful, and I will not turn away from a good and enlightening discussion or argument. But I can be kinder. I have never suffered name-calling (you can ask my kids!), but now I will work to guard against words that can engender hatred and anger. I hope I can encourage others to do the same.

Booming into old age

2011-01-01T13:36:00.000-08:00

I can't say that I ever felt "special" in any way. Other than that each person is "special," that is. I didn't feel that I was privileged or that my childhood was better or worse than my parents' had been. Of course, they lived through the Great Depression and I didn't, but my mother's stories of those days were entertaining and she always cast them in a positive way, so it didn't really seem that awful.

And, of course, I was born after WWII, so I also didn't really understand what it meant to be so fully separated from husband/father/boyfriend during a time of war. And of course WWII wasn't divisive in the way our war was. People who were against the war or who didn't want to serve learned to keep their mouths shut. So the country may have been divided - but nobody knew about it.

I grew up in a working-class neighborhood and went to a working-class school. The vast majority of my friends had parents who were in the military (we lived just minutes from an Air Force Base), or who did some kind of manual labor or office work. I don't recall a doctor, lawyer, or other professional person among my peers' parents. Oh, there were some at our church (I was raised Episcopalian), but we really didn't socialize with them other than on Sundays. And we knew that where they lived was a far cry from where we lived! But I don't recall being particularly envious, nor do I remember feeling deprived.

That was largely - maybe even fully - thanks to my mother and her upbeat attitude. She was the original "be-thankful-for-what-you-have-there-are-starving-children-in-China" kind of mom. We had little enough; our polio-crippled mother was our only support - other than the occasional generous help from our church - but I never felt poor. Somehow, if that new Elvis record was really important to me, mom found a way to get it. Money for a high school football game? She'd make it happen. The only way I really felt different was not having a dad, and I did create elaborate lies to explain his absence from our home in those divorce-unfriendly 50s and 60s. But really, mom worked very hard to make our lives as much like our friends' lives as was possible. We often had little to eat, and it was frequently what we called "filling" rather than nutritious. But we not only survived; we thrived.

And we lived our lives pretty much as our friends and neighbors did.

So, although the term "baby boomer" wasn't applied to my generation until we were in our 20s (by some counts), I really don't recall thinking of myself that way until after my youngest was born when I was in my 30s. Since then, however, we've learned how "special" we all think we are; how we influenced television programming, advertising, consumerism of all kinds (most recently health care), and are generally accused of being a fully self-centered generation.

There are a lot of reasons put forth for our supposed feelings of entitlement: our parents wanted us to have better lives than they did (what parent doesn't feel this way?); we exerted a fiscal force to be reckoned with (with 76,000,000 of us, we'd all have to stay home to prevent some kind of impact!); we overwhelmed society with our music and values (as if Frank Sinatra and the bobby-soxers didn't shock the previous generations!).

Remember, though, my generation gave the world Bill Clinton AND George W. Bush. Many of us fought in a war that others of us protested against. We sang along with The Rolling Stones and Cat Stevens. We let it all hang out at Woodstock, and covered it all up with granny dresses. We smoked pot because our parents didn't want us to, and then lied about it to our kids to keep them from smoking pot. We left home, rejecting our parents' values and indulgences, and then we protected and indulged our children to a greater degree than any parents before us.

We are a generation like any other, in that we defy easy generalities. Some of us embrace our ageing with grace; others of us are kicking and screaming. Some have sought and enjoyed early retirement and its attendant woes and blessings; other vow that we would have no real purpose if we didn't have our jobs.

So today, January 1, 2011, as the baby boom generation begins to turn 65, don't be too hard on us as a generation - and let us not be too hard on ourselves. We didn't choose the world into which we were born; no one does. We didn't emerge from our mothers' bodies demanding special treatment, except in the way every infant does. We didn't walk in lockstep in the 50s (some loved Elvis, others loved Pat Boone), the 60s, or the 70s; and we don't walk in lockstep today.

We're your parents, your grandparents, your neighbors, your co-workers, your friends. We're as individual as you are and most of us - not all of us, by any means! - don't want to be lumped together as a bunch of navel-gazing, self-important old folks.

After all, most of us are still dealing with the fact that we're older than 30!

Before I forget...

2010-09-28T09:42:00.000-07:00

On July 17, 2010, Jim and I were married at our home, in our well-loved back yard, surrounded by family and friends. Although I've waited way too long to post this, there are so many things that I'm afraid I'll forget about the week leading up to our big day if I don't get them down!

Actually, the first thing is something I'd like to forget: Martin (my oldest son) calling to tell me he'd overslept and missed his flight to Portland! Thanks to a lot of help from his dad, he made it here that same day, but very late at night. Oh, well, at least he made it!

I love remembering going to the airport with Ben and Addison to pick up Jason, Lisa, and their boys. Addison was SO excited to meet his cousins - Aunt and Uncle were poor seconds, I'm afraid! - but especially Matthew with whom he shares a fixation on the movie "Cars." As soon as they met each other they began comparing notes. It was so fun to see two four-year-olds so deeply into their conversation!

I loved seeing my two oldest grandsons, Andrew and David, and how much they'd grown. They're such wonderful boys and gave their Gran big, happy hugs!

On Sunday, my sister, niece, and daughters-in-law threw a party for me which was supposed to be a surprise. Except no one could figure out how to get me to d-i-l Christina's house on a ruse; so my sister called and said, "We're having a surprise party for you, so come to Christina's!" I loved it! After eating and lots of talking, we watched "Annie Get Your Gun," which had arrived at Christina's with help from Jim. After almost 60 years of watching it with my sentimental eyes, I was treated to the funny, sarcastic, and spot-on comments about its corniness by the above-mentioned relatives. It gave me a whole new point of view and I'll never again watch it without thinking of our laughter and mimicry. Thanks, Ladies. Really!

Monday afternoon brought the fun of a full-family barbecue at Mike & Christina's (intrepid souls that they are), where everyone got together for the first time. Being family, there was lots of laughter, some tears, old memories resurrected, and new memories made. I loved seeing my boys all together - something that happens too seldom - and introducing Mike - an only son - to the horseplay of brothers. He didn't seem to mind - too much! It was also fun seeing the older cousins reacquainting themselves with each other, and the next generation of cousins meeting and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Having Jenn and David and their two kiddos was perfect!

I definitely don't want to forget that Tuesday morning brought a phone call from Ben that they thought Drew had come down with chickenpox! Oh, no! A quick trip to the doctor garnered a diagnosis of roseola, and Gran spent the day with Drew while the rest of the fam made it a day at Oaks Park Amusement Center, with rides and general hilarity all 'round.

On Wednesday the whole crew - sans Mike & Christina and their kids, as well as Jim and me - took off for the Coast. Martin also stayed in Portland, and he and I had a chance for some time together - an infrequent occurrence. We went to dinner, had good conversation, and excellent Margaritas.

Thursday afternoon, Peggy & Steve hosted a backyard barbecue and we had a chance to get a group photo of all of my mom's descendants - except my brother Martin, who couldn't be here - the first time ever that all of her kids (except Martin), grandkids, and great-grandkids have been together! Steve took the photos, which had to be retaken after we realized Addison was missing from the first set. He'd been in the house reading (big surprise - NOT!) and was brought outside to complete the picture.

Friday was rehearsal day - and final preparations for me, since I was spending the night at Ben & Briana's house. After rehearsal (and a brief appearance by Bridezilla!) the whole crew went out for pizza and general hilarity. One memorable minute was when Uncle Martin got a video game prize of earrings, and promptly put them on! His nephews, nieces, and cousins loved it - as did his mom!

Saturday dawned lovely - sunshine and comfortable temperatures. Since we'd had horrible heat the previous week, and rain the week before that, it was a glorious gift to know we'd have a perfect day. I put in an early appearance, and was charmed by Mike's reception of me in bride mode. I'm so lucky to claim him as a stepson.

Jim walked in with his family: son Mike, daughter Katy, d-i-l Christina, and grandchildren Gigi and Felix. When my turn came, I was preceded by d-i-ls Briana - carrying Drew - and Lisa, with Andrew and David. Then our ringbearers, Matthew and Addison; flower girl Ada; my sister and matron of honor, Peggy; and escorted by my three handsome sons, Martin, Jason, and Ben.

We had forgotten to warn Ada, Addison, and Matthew that there would be lots of people waiting when they made their entrance, so there was a bit of consternation on their part when they saw their reception! I treasure the picture of Mike when he saw Ada coming toward him with her basket of rose petals!

We had a lovely service, using the New Zealand prayer book, and lots of laughter and love. It was a joy to be surrounded by our families, neighbors and good friends, and to have them join in our celebration. It was a perfect day, and I am so proud to be Jim's wife and share our happy day with those we hold dear.

I know I've left things out, so hope those of you who were part of this wonderful event will share your memories in the comments!

Looking back

2010-08-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

Saturday evening, a phone message at my sister's house was the first hint I had that our return to Miami might be different this time.

Ben and I were wrapping up a week in Portland which my sister and I had spent going through our mom's personal items following her death the previous February. It had been a bittersweet time, filled with both sadness and hilarity, seasoned with nostalgia and hard decisions. Claudia's phone message was something about a hurricane that was headed for Miami - "a bad one" - due to arrive Sunday night just a few hours after our own scheduled arrival.

I wasn't particularly concerned; it had been many, many years since Miami had taken a direct hit - never in the 23 years I had lived there - and most hurricanes tended to wander off course and not be nearly as awful as they were predicted to be. Still, we turned on the weather and watched as the meteorologist briefly mentioned it. We got to bed way too late, but still managed to make our early morning flight with its plane change in Dallas/Ft. Worth.

To our surprise, the flight out of DFW was packed - mostly with news people from everywhere, along with their cameras and other equipment. We were told that it was the last scheduled flight to Miami until after the hurricane danger was over.

It was an uneventful flight. Ben and I talked about our just-completed vacation in Portland, and I worried about the boxes of my mother's memoirs and how they were faring in the baggage compartment. As we approached Miami International, it was a shock to see how empty the expressways were! It had been a long time since I'd seen them without bumper-to-bumper traffic.

My then-husband met our flight, gathered up our luggage, and drove us home through a ghost-town-like city. He stopped to get cash from an ATM, but it had no money in it! People had cleaned out ATMs, grocery stores - wherever they could get cash. Stores were closed and shuttered, and Ed told us that he had put the hurricane shutters on our house. It was becoming real.

After we got home, Ed took Ben with him to his office at the airport to check on his crews and be sure all of the planes were safe. I started laundry and took a much-needed nap.

By the time it struck that night, we were prepared. Jugs of fresh water, all outdoor furniture, hoses, sprinklers, etc., were put away, and we were watching nonstop weather reports on the television.

We went to bed at our usual time, Ben crawling in bed with us because the wind was so loud and scary - not just to him, but to Ed and me, as well. When the power went out, I remember turning over to finally go to sleep, hearing the wind rushing past the house, branches snapping, things flying through the air - and the double front doors blowing open and slamming against the interior walls!

In a flash, we were out of bed and in the entry. There Ed and I spent the next five hours holding the doors shut, bracing ourselves against wind that gave us no rest, while Ben kept our pets and himself safely out of danger's way and periodically brought his dad and me cold drinks. We didn't dare let up our force against the doors - each time we did, they blew open again, once knocking me back about ten feet before I recovered and forced it shut again.

When finally - finally! - the wind died down, we carefully ventured outside to view our neighborhood. Where, just the evening before, had stood lovely homes with mature trees and manicured lawns, we now saw what appeared to be a war-torn neighborhood. Roofs were gone, fences were flattened, trees were either blown completely over with roots exposed, or snapped off completely. Roof shingles were embedded in tree trunks, plywood sheathing lay scattered around the neighborhood, garage doors were unhinged; it truly was a disaster.

We were without power for two full weeks. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas living in a trailer in our front yard, and it was the end of January before we could move back into our house. It was a time to be thankful for so many things - mostly that we were all safe. We lost nothing that couldn't be replaced. We had good insurance, and they paid quickly. We discovered the value of real friends and community.

It was eighteen years ago today that Hurricane Andrew reminded the people of South Florida that nature will have its way, and that we are presumptuous to think we have all the answers. In the years since 1992, the southern US has felt the force of many hurricanes stronger and more costly than Hurricane Andrew. But he was the wake-up call.

In a way, Ben and I both still treasure the memories of that day and the ones that followed. It was hard, but we all pulled together, and there is a good feeling in recalling that. As I've often said, it wasn't the worst thing that happened to me that year - my mother's death was - but it was the event that taught me the most about myself. And that's not a bad thing!

Once upon a time...

2010-05-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

... a long time ago, there lived a young girl whose greatest dream was to be a mother. This little girl loved to play with her dolls and imagine they were her children, and she always stopped to peek at new babies and say, "hi," if their mommies didn't mind.

Over the years, she occasionally set her sights on other careers - always ones that were appropriate for girls, since she lived in a time and place where girls had fewer choices. Sometimes she wanted to be a nurse, like Cherry Ames, who also got to solve mysteries! Sometimes she wanted to be a teacher, like Mrs. Slough, or Miss Jones, or Mrs. Emery, who were her very most favorite teachers ever! Sometimes (though she knew she couldn't really do this), she wanted to be Annie Oakley or even Dale Evans, singing those old songs and riding horses and married to Frank Butler or Roy Rogers.

But always and forever, her dreams came back to being a mother.

As little girls will, this little girl grew up - too quickly for some, but hardly fast enough for her! - and met a handsome young man with whom she fell in love. There were obstacles to overcome, and there was a war going on, but over the years they stayed together, and eventually they were married.

Life wasn't easy, as it isn't for any young couple, but they managed. And still this former little girl - this new wife - wanted more and more to be a mother.

Then one day - an upset stomach that wouldn't go away... a trip to the doctor... and happy news, the news she'd waited to hear for almost her whole life: a baby was on the way! The time - as time always does - alternately dragged and sped by. Some days it seemed the baby would never arrive, and other days it seemed it was passing all too quickly.

Preparations were made; furniture, clothing, books - oh, so many books! - to read and learn from! And, finally, one Sunday morning, a trip to the hospital, a short (but painful!) labor. A baby boy! My child, my son, my dream realized.

Forty years ago today, my Marty-boy, you were placed in my arms, and I cried (as I do now) from the sheer joy of knowing you and loving you. Through the good and bad, the ups and downs, the tears, laughter, anxiety, fear, sorrow, and joy, I have loved you and always will love you.

Happy Birthday to my oldest son! May you be blessed - may I be blessed - with many, many more.

The winds of change

2010-05-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

In 2002, shortly after I moved into Jim's home, we heard (and felt) an enormous crash in the wee hours of the morning that signaled "Taps" for the 250-year-old oak tree around which our patio was built. In falling, it took our chimney, our fence, a cherry tree, our neighbors' second-story deck, and issued a reminder about impermanence.

This morning I looked at my youngest grandson, wearing a shirt that just a few short months ago hung below his bottom, with sleeves half-way down his arms. This morning, it fit him.

In 1998, I few to the Midwest to meet my first grandchild and to marvel at where the years had gone since his daddy - my middle son - was a sweet, sleepy baby in my arms. Next January, Andrew will be a teenager.

In 1970, I held my first baby in my arms, marveling at the perfection and beauty of this long-awaited child. This month, Martin will be 40 years old.

My younger sister and I spent our growing-up years alternately playing together and fighting with each other. We shared a room and taped a line down the middle over which we dared one another to step. She took all of my dolls under the dining table and pulled off their arms and legs. I either ignored her or treated her with disdain through most of my teenaged years. In a few months, my baby sister will be 60.

On Monday, Jim & I stood gape-mouthed, staring up at one of the three tall old fir trees that stand next to our deck. We were sick with the realization that the abundance of fir needles in our yard this Spring is due to the death of this beautiful old tree. A phone call will have to be made, the tree will have to be felled. We will benefit from it one more year as we burn the wood during the winter. And we'll still have the other two to enjoy for a few more years.

Change. Transition. Uncertainty. Of such is life made. But no matter how hard I try to remember this, no matter how many times I promise myself that I will appreciate each minute, each day, each event, as unique and transient, I continue to fail. I take things for granted, whether they be trees, seasons, relationships.

Perhaps that is the nature of humankind.

Blueberries are the best!

2010-04-21T15:55:00.001-07:00

IMG_0891
Originally uploaded by cher_ware

What else is there to say?

Spring, maybe

2010-04-20T14:48:00.000-07:00

Here we are again, sort of... almost... maybe... it's going to be Spring!

I think...

Mr. & Mrs. Duck have returned for their fourth year of enjoying the fine cuisine served in our back yard: cracked corn spiced up with a stray insect or two. They've become quite fearless, and will even venture up onto the deck if we aren't outside. They've taken to flying in at least twice a day in the afternoon - and once they arrived in the morning.

I guess even ducks know an easy mark when they find it!

Our Neighbor From Hell has erected an all-but-invisible fence to a height of 12', and into which Mr. Duck accidentally flew on Saturday. He toppled pinfeathers over bill into another neighbors' yard, but was able to fly away. We spent the next day worrying about him since Mrs. showed up by herself, but by the afternoon he, too, was at the trough. We have noticed, though, that they now give the neighbors' yard a wide berth when they leave!

Addison spent Friday and Friday night with us, and Ada came over for the day on Saturday. Jim and I had carefully strategized for the weekend, given that clear skies and sunshine were forecast. We figured that the two kiddos, being much closer to the ground than Gran and Grandpa, could be ~~bribed~~ hired to pick up the copious quantities of fir cones that bury themselves in the ground around here during the winter.

At 5¢ per cone, we figured the incentive to work hard would be darned near irresistible. And we were right; the little rascals lightened Grandpa's wallet to the tune of $12.00 EACH! We've since had people from all over the U.S. offer to come out and pick up fir cones!

But it was all worth it; we had some fun with the grandkids, moms and dads got a break, and the kids got some sunshine, exercise, and spending money! (I'm thinking we should make it an annual event; Grandpa is thinking it could get really expensive!)

Sunday was another lovely day and Jim & I both worked hard getting things ready for our garden wedding in July. We've reset the steps through the arbor, planted dahlias and ranunculus, and finished setting a redbrick mow strip around the deck.

Our rhodies are beginning to bloom, as are the azaleas, and spring is definitely arriving in our garden.

I'm certain spring-like temperatures can't be too far away!

Give peace a chance

2010-04-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

For the past several weeks, Jim and I have been watching HBO's series The Pacific, based on events in the Pacific Theater during WWII. I'm not really a fan of war movies (although Saving Private Ryan is one of my all-time favorites!), and I hadn't intended to watch this series. My plan was to read while Jim watched, but the story and the acting are both so good that I was pulled into it, almost against my will.

There's plenty of gore - after all, it was a war - but not gratuitous shots of viscera and body parts (although they both are shown as incidental to what's going on). Mostly there are young men who are uncertain, frightened, and - by turns - both brave and not-so-brave. I keep reminding myself that these characters are representing US Marines who are now in their 80s and 90s; the age my father would be if he were still alive. And, indeed, he did serve with the Navy Seabees in the Pacific Theater during WWII.

Lately, too, I've been thinking about my generation's war - Vietnam - and the young men who saw battle in other jungles and in other times. I remember how painfully young so many of those sailors, soldiers, airmen and marines were, although all of us certainly thought of ourselves as quite grown up at the time. I remember two years ago at the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial in our nation's capital. As Jim and I began our walk along the path adjacent to The Wall, unexpected and uncontrolled tears began streaming down my face. I don't recall that I was sobbing, but my eyes seemed to just be leaking copious tears. Jim asked, "Did you know anyone here?" and I replied, "I knew all of them." They were my classmates, my friends, young men I had dated, the fathers, brothers, husbands and lovers of my friends. Someday, there will be an HBO series about Vietnam, I'm certain.

Someday, too, there will be series covering the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. More young lives forever changed by the horror that is war. More minds damaged beyond repair - both physiologically and emotionally - coming home to a world that cannot comprehend how truly awful war is.

Following the attacks on the World Trade Center in 2001, I made it my daily practice to read the brief biographies of each of those who died as they were printed in my local newspaper. It was an act of respect for those lives lost, those who, in a sense, were stand-ins for me and my loved ones - for all of us in this country. And so, although it's somewhat outside my comfort level and I have to take frequent breaks because of the intensity, I watch The Pacific. I feel that, in some small way, I am honoring those who served in time of war, who fought for our freedoms, who came home changed - or who never came home. By extension, I am also honoring those who serve today - young women and men who probably never thought they'd really be on foreign soil facing deadly attacks by people who hated their way of life. The older I get, the younger they seem, until even those who are approaching great old age seem like children to me. Lives interrupted in the midst of becoming.

My only thought, my only prayer: No more, dear God. Please! No more!

Getting away from it all!

2010-04-07T15:49:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, Jim and I took a long-awaited trip in our 5th wheel just to get away from it all. Between holidays, family, and some legal issues, we hadn't made an out-of-town trip since last summer.

We left on Thursday night for the Oregon Coast - our refuge of choice is just north of Tillamook at the Barview Jetty County Park - and arrived, along with the wind and rain, late in the evening. We didn't take time to set up since it was cold and wet, but had a bite to eat and fell into bed, rocked (quite literally at times) by the lullaby of the wind and rain.

Next morning, we got fully set up and drove over to the jetty to watch the waves crashing as they entered Tillamook Bay from the Pacific Ocean. There is nothing peaceful about this great body of water, but I do love the powerful forces of water and wind as the waves break across the jetty and on the shoreline. It's a far cry from the truly peaceful Atlantic Ocean and Gulf of Mexico that were the experiences of my youth.

I could watch these forces of nature for hours, and some people do - we always find cars parked facing the ocean when we make our trek to the jetty, and many of them are still there when we leave.

We made the obligatory trip to the Blue Heron Cheese Company where we purchased delicious Brie and bleu cheeses, and then drove up the coast to Rockaway and Flamingo Jim's for a little early Christmas shopping!

On Saturday, we drove South to Munson Creek Falls, where a short hike provided us with some of the incredible scenery - including some old growth forest - for which the Northwest is known.

I do love this gorgeous state and feel so fortunate to live here!

We managed to visit a few local restaurants and enjoy the fresh halibut, clams, and other local delicacies (Oregon has some delicious wines!), but mostly we just relaxed and were thankful for some time away from the cares of the world!

But it's always good to come home.

Babies!

2010-03-30T15:34:00.000-07:00

Last week was Spring Break here in Oregon. Addison and Drew's mommy took a couple of days off and we planned for a week that was a bit different - one that involved Drew's first overnight with Gran and Grandpa!

Briana - my d-i-l - thought it would be nice for her to have a special day to devote to Addison - the first day just for him since Drew was born last June - and I thought it would also be nice to have a chance for Drew to spend the night. Funny how it all works out sometimes!

Jim and I were very excited to have a baby in the house again. It's been so long since Addison and Ada were all cuddly and needed holding, and we both have missed that. So, I dusted off the Pak-n-Play, picked Drew up, and off we went!

She's a very good baby, and enjoyed having new sights to see and new things to explore. She had a bit of a cold and woke up a couple of times during the night, but always went right back to sleep. Needless to say, Grandpa and I thoroughly enjoyed having her over, and hope we can do it again soon!

Oh, and Addison had a glorious time at Oaks Park with mommy and daddy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We then had the joy of having Ada with us on Friday and after dinner we all went to the hospital to welcome our latest addition to the grandchild team, Felix William!

Isn't he cute?

A mothering moment

2010-02-17T15:00:00.000-08:00

This morning, as is usual on Wednesdays, I arrived at Ben & Briana's house to spend the day being Granny Nanny to Drew. She and I have developed a routine to our days that satisfies both of us - most of the time! At almost eight months, she's very interactive and loves to laugh and play. She has a prodigious appetite, and makes noises the whole time she's eating. And when she smiles - well, as I described it to her mommy and daddy - it's as if her whole face breaks out in a grin! I love being with her and watching her grow, in the same way I've loved the time I've been with her big brother. I hope that Drew and I will share a closeness similar to what I have with Addison.

Watching these two grow frequently puts me in a nostalgic mood, and I sometimes recall the growing-up years of my own boys. Oh, there were lots of frustrations - anyone who's raised kids knows exactly what I'm talking about - but the frustrations were outweighed by the joys, and I'm always amazed at how quickly the years passed.

Ben, who is my youngest, fell victim to the lousy economy last Fall when he lost his job. He's a graphic designer, and incredibly talented. But we live in an area that is replete with talented men and women who are looking for work, so that makes it both more difficult and more likely that he will find a good job. In the meantime, he's had quite a few freelance jobs come his way, and coupled with Briana's resourcefulness, they're managing just fine.

This morning, though, well it was pretty special for me. Ben had an interview schedule for an actual employment position - hopefully with benefits - and he didn't have to leave as early as usual. When he was ready to go out the door, he kissed me goodbye and I wished him good luck. I looked at this wonderful young man - almost 30 years old now! - and my heart swelled with such pride it almost burst. He stood so tall and handsome in his suit - not the usual jeans and sports shirts graphic design-types usually wear, but a real suit with dress shirt and tie! As I watched him leave, I thought about how lucky I am to have had that moment with him.

Oh, I wish he hadn't lost his old job, of course. It was a good one and they tried very hard to keep him on, despite the economy. But I sometimes take his role as husband and father for granted, and - truthfully, now - I sometimes still think of the little boy who looked to his mom for comfort and reassurance, and I miss those days. Now he finds - as he should, and as I want him to - his main support and encouragement from his wife, and she's his rock. But this morning, just for that fleeting moment, when he said, "Wish me luck, Mom," I was very thankful to be there, to say all the things that you say to your kids when they're venturing out into a world that isn't always kind and welcoming. "Good luck, son," I said. "Try not to be nervous, and just be yourself. Who you are is the best advertisement for your work."

And it's true, whether he gets this job or another one. He is a genuine person, and I'm very proud of that.

Does this mean I'm OLD??!

2010-02-16T13:32:00.000-08:00

I wasn't going to do this. I. Was. Not. Going. To. Do. This. Period. I just wasn't. Not ever. Oh, c'mon, you know what I'm talking about: discussing my aches and pains. It's just too darned old-personey. But since I know you're wondering where I've been, I guess I'll just have to give in and tell you.

The day after I returned from a weekend with my sister, I started having pain in my left leg. First of all, you should probably know that, in our family, the left leg is always referred to as "the polio leg." A legacy from my mother's bout with polio in 1950. Her left leg bore the brunt of the disease and the ongoing affliction. So my mom had a "good" leg and a polio leg. After many years of hearing it referred to that way, it just sort of rubbed off. Yes, you're right: we are odd.

Anyway, this pain in my polio leg was harshly reminiscent of the sciatica that I had suffered in my right leg (also know as my "good leg") until I had back surgery in 1998. The main difference this time was that the sciatica wasn't accompanied by back pain, and - after 24 hours of nonstop pain - I was starting to consider amputation as a viable treatment. See, the pain of sciatica is similar to what it feels like when you hit your funny bone; you know there's nothing funny about it. It's kind of electric and painful, all at once. But the sciatic pain doesn't stop - or at least not long enough to notice. And this time - another difference - the pain was starting mid-hip, radiating all the way down my leg, and going out - I'm not making this up - at my ankle. It really, truly, felt as if I could still feel it about three inches into the air around my ankle.

It hurt. A lot.

So, being quite adept at self-diagnosis and self-medicating, I decided that it was probably inflamed and I needed an anti-inflammatory. The best (non-prescription) anti-inflammatory I could come up with was aspirin. To my generation, aspirin still qualifies as a miracle drug. This, despite the bad rep it's acquired over the years. Those childhood lessons die hard! Yes, I know the dangers of giving it to children, and I am militant about that. But I personally have never had a bad experience with aspirin.

Since I fill the role of Granny Nanny to my 7 month old granddaughter three days each week, and add her 4 year old brother to the mix on Thursdays, I knew I needed to be able to function. I also knew I probably ought to go to the doctor, but could probably put that off till Friday. By Wednesday, the only way to keep the pain abated was with three (yes, you read that correctly) aspirin, every three (that, too) hours. Around the clock. I know it was around the clock, because when it wore off at night, the pain woke me up. So I just took three before I went to sleep, put three more on my nightstand for when I woke in the night, and then took three more upon awakening. Around the clock, like I said. Wednesday and Thursday. It was the only way I could keep from crying with pain.

Thursday I noticed that I wasn't hearing very well. When people spoke, the letter "s" didn't sound sibilant; it was as if it was being swallowed. And the blinker signals in my car were muted. But Jim had a cold that had gone into his ears, so I thought maybe I was catching it, too. All I really cared about was the pain, and I continued treating it.

Friday morning, I called my doctor's office. I must have sounded pretty bad, because they got me in right away. Normally it takes a day or two, but the scheduling nurse sounded really sympathetic. When I arrived, the nurse practitioner (superior to a doctor in many ways, in my estimation!) listened to my tale of woe and pain, asked all the pertinent questions, and began to prescribe. She asked me what I'd been taking, and I told her. I learned a long time ago not to lie to my medical professionals! Almost offhandedly, I asked her to please check my ears, since my hearing wasn't so good. She looked at me and said, "NO MORE ASPIRIN!" My ears were clear, but my hearing was shot. There really are warning signs on the aspirin bottle about that. But I'd ignored them.

So she fixed me up with Flexeril, Vicodin, and prescription-strength Aleve, told me to go home, take the drugs, and go to bed. And she handed me a sheet of exercises to help with the sciatica. I spent the next four days in a drug-induced stupor, mostly in bed, waking only long enough for bathroom, food, more drugs, and back up the stairs to bed. By late Sunday, my hearing was almost normal and the pain was mostly gone.

I stayed on a modified regimen of the drugs all of last week - taking only enough to take the edge off so I could take care of the grandkids - and did my exercises. Over this past weekend, the pain was relieved enough that I was able to prune my roses and even do a little shopping. Today I feel great!

I'm still taking the Aleve, since it's only twice a day and I have to take it with meals. I think today will be my last day with it, though. Oh, and I got rid of all the aspirin.

There, I've done it. I've gone public with old-age behavior. I hope you still respect me.

The gift that keeps on giving

2010-02-02T16:01:00.000-08:00

Each year, my sister and I try to get away for a weekend at the Oregon Coast. It's just sister time - no boys allowed - and we always have fun. We do have the occasional opportunity to rub each other the wrong way, but it's always fleeting and a whole lot less damaging than some of what we inflicted on each other as children!

This year, we chose to go on the weekend that encompassed the 90th anniversary of our mother's birth. In one of my more blonde moments, I commented to Peggy, "Ninety years! I'll bet she never thought she'd live to see this day!" And, of course, she didn't, having died 18 years ago. But it's a tribute to her that not only could the thought pass through my brain and out my mouth, but that my sister and I had a good chuckle over it. Mom was never one to mince words. You didn't "pass" or "pass away," you didn't go to "eternal rest," either. You died. And we knew what she wanted to be buried in ever since we were quite young. As it turned out, she was cremated and didn't get the ecru nightgown, but that was her choice. Ecru was so 1960s by then.

We played on our computers, watched Harry Potter movies, ate junk food, drank a little wine, a little Bailey's, a little Kahlua in our coffee. We had hot chocolate, popcorn, and I took along homemade clam chowder and some delicious biscuits my son had made. We watched the waves break, and the people and dogs on the shore. We went in the pool and the hot tub, and just generally had a high old time.

Then, Saturday night late, we each got a message on Facebook that our half-brother - from our dad's other family - had posted some photos and had tagged us. So, of course, we had to look!

All of a sudden, a little cloud crept into our cozy getaway. There, on Facebook, were two photos of our very own mother that we had never before seen. Our half-brother had scanned and posted them as "Old Florida pictures," and they were from our dad's photographs that Rodney has been kind enough to go through since dad died last October.

Also among the many that he posted were pictures of Peggy, our older brother, and me. Pictures that dad had kept for all these years - the most recent were taken in 1972, 38 years ago.

After my first reaction of stunned silence, and a momentary flash of anger that this should intrude on what was otherwise a perfect weekend, I shed a few tears and went out onto the balcony to let it all sink in. This man, this biological contributor, had cared enough at some point to keep these photographs of his children. The same children he abandoned and left to be raised by a crippled woman who was old before her time because of the long, hard hours she worked at physically demanding jobs. This man who had allowed our home to be foreclosed on, who had moved from Florida to Alaska and thus out of the reach of any enforced child support, this very same man had kept these photographs of his children.

Peggy thinks the keeping was not deliberate, but simply the lack of any need to weed out those things that weren't important to him. Perhaps she's right; she often is about things like this. But for a fleeting moment, it passed through my mind that maybe he had loved us after all. That maybe - despite vast amounts of evidence to the contrary - he felt proud of us and kept those pictures as a reminder of us.

Had he not avoided us on occasions when we could have seen him, and had he not shown his disregard for us in so many other ways, maybe I could eventually convince myself that he cared. Once again, I have proved to myself that being old doesn't necessarily equate to being wise!

Anyway, Happy 90th Birthday, Mom. We (mostly) enjoyed the party.

Where did I come from?

2010-01-12T14:03:00.000-08:00

One of the blogs I read regularly is authored by my online friend (and follower of my blog) JD. Although we've never met, JD is from my home state of Florida and he writes fairly regularly about places I'm somewhat familiar with. He also writes from time to time about his genealogy research.

Now, I am a woman of many interests, and genealogy is one that has occupied me for many years. I love the connection I feel with my forebears, and when I'm lucky enough to find an old photograph, I might inspect it for a while to see if there is a family resemblance that has survived the generations. I have a membership at Ancestry.com, which isn't cheap, but it does allow me to "connect" with others who are researching common ancestors. There's a certain thrill when I find a distant ancestor's information in a census or in an old story, as well as the occasional famous person. (I recently discovered that I'm a descendant of Simon Bradstreet and Anne Dudley; quite exciting!)

One of the dangers, however, is that it's easy to be led astray by connecting with folks who aren't as diligent (read "compulsive") as I about keeping the family lines straight! That's where the family connection comes in.

I've recently been contacted by a fellow genealogist whose own family tree intersects with mine in an oblique manner: My great-aunt was married to a man named Jasper Black; my online friend's grandmother was half-sister to Jasper. So we share no blood, but do have an interest in where our family lines brush up against each other. In her research - which is more linear regarding the Blacks than is mine - she discovered that I had connected with incorrect ancestors. Now this may not seem like a big deal to those of you who live in the here and now, but what it means to me is that I now have a better chance of finding other connections for those family members who have remained elusive.

Via email, this friend and I exchanged phone numbers and she surprised me with a phone call a couple of days ago. It was pleasant to discuss Great-aunt Vesta with someone who shares an interest in the family, and since she still lives in Florida, it was nice to hear again the slight southern accent that she still carries. (My accent has all but disappeared until a few glasses of wine or an encounter with someone from the South revives it!)

By indulging in this kind of research, I know of the long family tradition of interest in things political, in our family's service at sea over the generations, and have a glimmer of where the family interest in writing has coursed its way across the centuries. I already knew that my grandfather was something of a genealogist (although he apparently had no qualms about revising the unpleasant!), and I know that it continues in my middle son as well as a few of my cousins.

My own personal religious beliefs lead me to embrace the idea of an afterlife, but regardless of what might eventually prove to be true, the Johns and Vestas and Fenns and Annes and Simons live on in my research and my desire to know who they were and where I came from. And, perhaps, so shall I in generations yet to be born!

Anticipation

2009-12-26T23:03:00.000-08:00

It's late on the day after Christmas, and I'm suffering (quite annoyingly, I might add) with another cold. Or something. Achey body, snotty nose, fatigue, etc. Given the random thoughts that have been tumbling in my brain today, I suppose I could be hallucinating, too. Or perhaps it was just the three cups of tea with rum that I've had tonight. Excellent cold medicine, I might add!

I've had a really good Christmas this year, one that will be hard to top, since Jim's gift to me was an engagement ring! But - while I always enjoy the gifts and decorations and family time - I am also happy that we can soon settle down to the business of regularity.

There is something about the way the holidays seem to interrupt the regular flow of life - added trips to go shopping; more time spent online at Amazon and less at my favorite blogs or my genealogy site; extra pots and pans and baking sheets to unearth, use, and then put away for another year; remembering to buy more eggs, more butter, more chocolate, more everything! And then it's over.

Now, there are gifts to be put away, and - perhaps - old possessions to be discarded to make room. There are address books to update for next year's Christmas cards, and - sadly - names to be removed from the old card list. And, of course, resolutions to write actual letters to some on my card list who don't have email (and some who do!). I really am going to do that this year. Really, I am!

My mother always said, "Each year has its own tree," and so we took our Christmas tree down on New Year's Eve. Of course, this was in Tampa, so she may have been more worried about fire than tradition, but we just didn't have our tree up into the new year. My Christian tradition says that Christmas doen't end until January 6th (thus the 12 days of Christmas), but if I were going to be rigid about that, we wouldn't even put our tree up until Christmas Eve - and that's not a happening thing! So probably sometime later in the week - perhaps Saturday, the 2nd (that seems like a nice compromise, don't you think?), I will de-decorate and put things away for another year. I always promise myself that I will weed out old and broken ornaments rather than packing them away for repair next year. Maybe this year I'll even do it. Or not.

You know by now that Christmas cookie baking is low on my list of favorite things to do. Yet this year I found myself really thinking about what I was doing, and how much my kids look forward to getting cookies from Mom. I think they're less important to Ben, since he's here in town and we see each other often, but I know for Jason and Martin they provide a tasty and anticipated memory of Christmases past. And so, my cookie-making was less of a chore this year, and more a gift to my sons and their families and others with whom they share them. There are others, of course, who get cookies from me - my sister, Jim's son and some of our extended family - but only for my sons does the memory thread reach to childhood, and for them I will continue to nurture that memory, that time that means so much to them - and to me. And I will be thankful that they care, and try harder to remember the "why" instead of the "how."

Is there anything more exciting than the face of a child who anticipates the magic of Christmas? Despite the cold, the work now to be done, the after-Christmas let down most of us feel, I still anticipate, I still feel stirring within myself the magical anticipation, the belief in a Santa who brings those special, long-desired, but barely hoped-for gifts. I feel within myself that little girl who believed, and, in believing, helped to create that magic, even unto new generations.

I hope your Christmas was as magical as mine, and that the magic will carry you through these post-Christmas days.

God and applesauce

2009-11-24T12:12:00.000-08:00

Cooking isn't something I enjoy, so I do it as seldom as I can get away with. Fortunately, Jim is understanding and we eat out a couple of times a week and each prepare our own meals most of the rest of the time; when the weather's good, we frequently barbecue and make a meal together. This singular behavior is something we both learned during our individual times of living alone, and it suits us well. Oh, he or I will cook for the other on the odd occasion, but truthfully we're both quite comfortable with our arrangment.

I do enjoy "event" cooking - holidays and other special occasions - and periodically I'll be consumed with the need to make a special meal. Jim likes my lasagna, and a freezer full of clams will occasionally call my name, turning into delicious clam chowder. I do bake Christmas cookies every year, a holdover from when my boys were small and something they still look forward to having. I don't really enjoy baking cookies, though, and anticipate that some day one of my daughters-in-law will take it over. But I'd probably miss doing it, even so.

In the fall, however, I find that I want to make applesauce! Now, applesauce doesn't really qualify as cooking; it's too easy. The prep is the difficult part for me - not hard, mind you, just stultifyingly boring. The coring, peeling, cubing - well, my mind wanders on to Deep Thoughts and before I know it (usually), the task is done and the easy part is upon me.

This morning I set upon about 10 pounds of apples with paring knife in hand. As I peeled each apple, I thought about how nice it would be to take the scraps home to put in our compost bin, and how soon - amazing, how soon! - they would mingle with tree and grass trimmings, coffee grounds, eggshells, leaves, and all the other biologic detritus of yard and kitchen, becoming a rich addition to the soil for next year's garden.

Since my mind tends to take strange and not always obvious turns at times like these, I was soon reminded of a book about space that my youngest grandson carries around and reads to anyone who will listen. It mentions in there that everything that exists today had its genesis in the instant our universe came into being. Science tells us that matter cannot be created or destroyed, only changed. And so, in some mysterious way, the apples that I peeled this morning are as old as the universe; in the process of composting their trimmings, I will be part of the process that will change them into something else!

As I continued along this seldom-traveled path in my mind, I thought about us - you, me, all the people we have ever known, all those who wish us well and those who wish us harm. We, too, were there in that instant of Creation, Big Bang - whatever you choose to call it. We are made of recycled parts, as are our children, grandchildren, people in other nations, people from other times. We don't even have to wait to die to become a part of this continuum; our bodies shed cells constantly, hair falls out, fingernails are clipped, and our own body waste returns to again be used through this mysterious (to me, anyway) process.

My final hairpin turn (the apples were in the pot and on the stove) was one of those moments that have just been waiting somewhere in my brain for decades! Why, given this natural process of which most of us are aware, and to which most of us subscribe, do some of us reject the concept of Evolution? Is it not just another example of how matter changes? If my apples in Oregon were once a pterodactyl on some other continent, then why could I not have once been an emerging single-celled sea creature? Oh, I know the analogy isn't exact, but the concept is valid.

I happen to believe in a Creator; not everyone does, of course, and others believe in a Creator to the exclusion of everything else. But I like the idea of a God who recycles and re-uses. In Psalm 139 (one of my favorite Bible passages) we read:

My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.
In your book were written all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.

How remarkable is that?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Feeling good while feeling bad

2009-11-14T10:39:00.000-08:00

I'm sick. Nothing serious, I think, but a sore throat, a cough, a mild headache, and sneezing and dripping. It doesn't feel like the flu - swine or otherwise - but just one of those illnesses that enervates and makes you glad you don't absolutely have to do anything!

I had the foresight yesterday to bring in enough firewood to keep the woodstove going until Jim gets home in the wee hours on Monday. I have a pot of homemade clam chowder to soothe both body and soul, I've got the remote in easy reach, a comfy sofa to doze on, my computer close at hand (obviously!), and with Jim out of town, I have the luxury of thinking of no one but me.

So, of course, being who I am, I'm thinking about my family - specifically, my middle and youngest sons and their wives.

Jason and Lisa were married on my birthday in 1996. They had been friends for several years before romance blossomed, and I first met Lisa when I was moving to Oregon in 1994. One of my fondest memories of that trip can still evoke strong emotions in me: Lisa had changed the startup sound on Jason's computer to say "I love you, Jason." Every time he turned on the computer, he was greeted with that affirming statement, and it resonated with the sentimental in me - and thrilled the mom part.

Jason and Lisa are the parents of three absolutely wonderful boys: smart, loving, handsome, funny, and all of those other superlatives that grandparents apply to their grandchildren. Of course, in this case, they're all true! They're a busy, happy, involved family. They play with the boys, they tease, they participate in scouting - generally doing all the things that good parents do.

But more importantly, they love each other - and it's obvious. Every couple of years I board an airplane and fly to the midwest to visit them. For several days, I'm right in the midst of their daily lives and get to experience their relationship up close and personal. They are such a perfect match and it warms my heart to be around them. I'm also privileged to be their "Friend" on Facebook, a medium where it's not uncommon to see see the comment

Jason > Lisa: I love you

Lisa > Jason: I love you, too

Jason and Lisa: I love you both. Thanks for being friends, lovers, excellent parents, and wonderful role models on how to make marriage work and make it fun at the same time. You make it look easy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ben and Briana celebrated their fifth anniversary this summer. I first met Briana when they were both in college, and was immediately drawn to her - not only because she's a warm, loving woman, but because she and Ben so obviously loved each other. And how can you not love someone who gives your youngest child that wonderful glow?

One memorable summer, they, along with my oldest son, shared my two-bedroom condo with me. It was a great opportunity to really get to know Briana and to observe their relationship. They are now the parents of two smart, loving, funny children: a boy and a girl. They, too, are good parents, and I love to watch them as they raise their children to take their places in this world. (Although Drew is still just a baby and her major focus is currently bubble-blowing and getting her teething ring into her mouth - she excels at both activities!)

Again, though, their biggest contribution to their children's well-being is the love they share and the time they make in their busy lives to reinforce that love. I am a more intimate part of their lives simply because I've been Granny Nanny since their oldest was only two-and-a-half months old. I'm in their home several days a week, and I see them at the most stressful times of the day - leaving for work in the morning, and coming home in the afternoon. We also have family events that we share, and I'm always thrilled to be a part of those. In times both stressful and relaxing, busy and laid back, their love and caring for each other shines through.

I'm also their Facebook "Friend," and love to see:

Ben: I'm making tea for my baby wife.

Briana: I'm curled up with my hubby watching old movies.

Ben and Briana: It has been and remains one of the great joys of my life to watch your love grow and to see the many ways you complement and care for each other. You reinforce my belief in marriage, and set an example for those who are privileged to be an intimate part of your life together.

Could I ask for more? I think my headache has even gone away!

Personal Best!

2009-11-06T23:39:00.000-08:00

Today I have set a new personal standard for sloth. Not something to brag (or blog) about, you might think, but I've had a day that I get to enjoy only once a year, and the kind of day I used to dream about when the kids were small, and throughout my working career.

First, I slept till after 7:00. It meant I missed my local morning news, but I did get to watch Good Morning, America, which I enjoy.

Next, I read the newspaper, front to back, at my own pace, intermittently watching news, checking email, reading blogs, and drinking coffee. The only difficulty at this point was that I had to walk the 15 or so feet to refill my coffee cup periodically, and the bathroom is upstairs. If I'd had the foresight to move the coffeepot to the family room and rent a potty chair, I'd have been in hog heaven!

I then ate breakfast, watched a few t.v. shows that I had recorded, and resumed surfing the 'net and stoking the fire in the woodstove.

In the early afternoon, I actually went outside and brought in firewood so that I could keep myself warm while I loafed (it gets chilly when you aren't moving around, you know!), and watched some more television.

I had frozen fish filets and peas for dinner (yes, I did cook them), and then made clam chowder from the razor clams Jim and I dug last summer. I'm having dinner with Ben, Briana, Addison, and Drew tomorrow night, and had offered to bring food. It looks (and tastes) really good, and I'm proud of having found a good use for the clams since Jim doesn't care for them as much as I do.

I then sat here and watched 90 minutes of videos on YouTube that my oldest son had sent for me. They were all Wanda Sykes' HBO special, and I laughed so hard my sides hurt. She's a very funny lady, and if you don't mind some heavy-duty language, I recommend them highly.

I've had a couple of cups of tea, a glass of wine, and as soon as I finish this, I'm going to watch Grey Gardens, which I recorded in September. (While Jim's off hunting, I take advantage of the time to watch all of the shows I've saved that he isn't interested in!) After that, I'll be off to bed, and maybe I'll sleep in tomorrow, too.

The truly slothful part of this day is about to be revealed: I am still in my nightgown! I did put on my bathrobe to get firewood, but the only neighbors who could have seen me are out of town, so even that concession wasn't absolutely necessary. I'll put clothes on tomorrow.

Several weeks ago, at a family gathering, d-i-l, jr. and I had a brief exchange:

ME: I have the best life of anybody! (I was enjoying the family and especially being with Addison, Ada, and Drew.)
D-I-L, Jr.: No you don't. I do!

I win! (But I'm glad she feels that way!)

Night, all.

Cronies

2009-11-04T12:36:00.000-08:00

I've never been one who sustains long-term friendships. Oh, I still have one friend from my high school years, but we were out of touch until about three years ago, so that probably doesn't count. And my sister is my friend, and we've known each other longer than either of us would like to think. And I count my daughters-in-law among my friends - and probably always will! - but, if not for my sons, I wouldn't even know them! There are a few others, female and male, who I've known for several years, but not in sustained relationships, just the kind that you call each other every year or so and catch up.

But let me tell you about Jim and Tom.

Last month, both of these "boys" celebrated their 65th birthday. Tom's wife was out of the country, but he attended Jim's bash, and on Tom's birthday, we had him over for dinner and conversation, along with a tiramisu with candles for dessert.

Tom and Jim met when they began attending Jesuit High School at the age of 14 (that was when Jim still had hair, I'm told!). Each of them has been heard exclaiming recently, "Fifty years! We've known each other for fifty years!" It's nearly as amazing to me as it is to them, even if for different reasons. I can't imagine knowing anyone I'm not related to for that long, and they (bless their hearts) can't really, deep down, imagine that they aren't still teenagers getting into some kind of mischief!

Their friendship has survived Jim's stint in the Navy back in the 60s, Tom's job move to Memphis in the 80s, marriages and divorces, raising children, travel, and most recently Tom and his wife living in Mexico for most of the year.

But every fall, without fail, finds Tom here in Portland for their annual elk-hunting expedition. After days and weeks of planning, organizing, discussing, reorganizing, packing, and double-checking their equipment and shopping lists, they're read for adventure. When Tom lived in Memphis, most of the packing up and preparation fell to Jim, but these days they work together.

This morning at about 6:45 the two of them, along with Tom's son Jeff, headed for parts east, reminding me a lot of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn! Jim's son Mike will join them tomorrow and, although I'm pretty sure it's less and less about the elk each year - at least for the two old guys - the friendship always benefits from the time they spend together at elk camp.

Happy hunting, Jim and Tom! May there be many years of it left for you to share!

Grief

2009-10-23T06:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Daddy,

Daddy. A child's name for her father. It was only in my childhood that I knew you, so I suppose it's natural that, in my deepest heart, that's how I think of you. I saw you only twice as an adult, that last time in 1985 at your mother's funeral.

I learned today in an email - an email! - that, at the age of 93, you have died. I once said that when you died at least you wouldn't be able to hurt me anymore. Because each day of my life I have borne the pain of your abandonment. I have tried to forget, but I never have.

Tonight, feeling the loss of you, I would choose to remember only the good. I would prefer to think of the tall, handsome Cowboy, the man who taught me to fish, taught me to shoot, the man whose love for the wild and the woods gives me such an appreciation for the places of trees and water and silence where I live today. I would choose, if I could, to remember only the pleasant times. The trips to the state fair, seeing Roy Rogers in person, the rides in the back of your truck down long, dark highways and the rides on the Ferris wheel when you kept me safe from my fears.

If I could, I would choose to remember only the man whose shoes I lovingly untied at night after you had worked long days. The man who always seemed larger than life, who was, when I was a child, my Hero. I would like to remember only how special I felt as a child that I - only I! - have the same dimple in my chin that you had. And how, secretly, I loved seeing that dimpled chin in my youngest son and youngest grandson, knowing that even unto the third generation there was a mark that connected me to you.

But into these thoughts and memories and secret treasures, reality will intrude. I'm compelled to remember the callous way you left us without food while you spent your time with your cronies. Your unconcern when we lost our home after you and mom divorced. Your refusal to see your daughters and your grandchildren when you last had the chance.

I can't escape the sorrow I have felt for my sons, for my niece and nephew, because they have never known a grandfather. When I told them you had died, none of them shed a tear; their only concern was for me and for my brother and sister. You, their grandfather, were only an abstraction. A man whom they knew I loved and missed having in my life, but who had no relationship to them.

Your loss was much greater than theirs. You have five wonderful grandchildren: four men and one woman who are the pride of their parents and were the joy of their granny's life - our mother, the woman you left to raise us alone. And from these five young people have sprung a new generation - your great-grandchildren. Beautiful, intelligent, loving young people who will only know you through the bitter screen of their mothers' vision. You could have been surrounded in your old age with love and joy and the knowledge that you live on. Your loss, but also theirs.

Your other sons, Rodney and Jimmie - your second family - will miss you, I am told. Perhaps your redemption was in being everything to them that you never were to us. I hope it was enough for you. I hope you found peace and solace in their world.

My heart is heavy tonight, but I am pondering how to mourn a man who left my life so many years ago. I certainly don't feel the raw, heart-rending grief I felt when mom died. I've had many, many years to absorb the sorrow of your loss. But this time, of course, is different. No longer can I hang onto even that very thin thread of hope for reconciliation. Oddly, I feel the loss of you afresh; it's almost as if a hole has been rent in the fabric of my life.

Daddy, I love you and I miss you. I pray that God will welcome you and hold you close. I pray that someday we will be reunited, and that all the pain and sorrow will be forgotten. I commend you to God. May you truly rest in peace.

Your daughter,

"Girl"

Isn't she lovely?

2009-10-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

I realized today that I really haven't written about my granddaughter since right after she was born! BAD Gran!

Since I resumed my role as Granny Nanny in mid-September, we've developed a comfortable routine .Briana and I crafted my schedule quite carefully, since I didn't want to completely give up my days with Addison. On Thursdays, when he's home from school, we enjoy putting puzzles together, playing games, and - when the weather allows - taking walks. One of our favorite pasttimes is for him to sit next to me while I feed Drew, and I read to him while he turns the pages. Once in a while we share the reading part, but it's all about being together!

Drew is a cutie, of course. I've never taken care of a girl-baby before, and was a bit apprehensive about diapering her girl parts, but I think I've got the hang of it now. Somewhat different from all my boys, but the mechanics of the operation are pretty much the same.

What I have found is that it's really hard to pass the sale racks in the baby department of our local store! I've bought things for all my grandsons, of course, but they were just never quite as cutes as onesies with ruffles on the butt. I do try to be judicious, though, since she has a ton of clothes that her mom got from friends with little girls. And when I say a "ton," please believe that it's not that far from the truth!

She's become very social and is getting more and more vocal, too. I love her cooing sounds, and she can blow and bubble quite well! Like her brother and several other family members, she's teething early and chews on anything she can get to her mouth. She's also mastered the art of thumbsucking, which is a good thing since she absolutely refused to take a pacifier!

She's sleeping now and I'm going to take advantage of the time to eat my lunch, but I knew you'd want to know all about her, right? I thought so!

Fall in the Northwest

2009-10-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

Among all seasons, Fall is my favorite.

Having lived in Florida almost exclusively until I was 47, I grew up feeling somewhat deprived of all the seasonal changes I read about in my "Dick and Jane" primers, and even yearned for the cold, blustery, bone-chilling winters of Laura Ingalls in "Little House on the Prairie." In Florida, there are really only two seasons: summer and not-quite-summer. Let the thermometer drop below 70, and I was pulling out sweaters, wool skirts, and whatever could serve as a coat. I wanted cold!

I did spend one fall in Portsmouth, VA when I was 17, but was really not aware of the beauty of the season. I'm sure it must be lovely there in the fall, but I have no memory of it. And I spent another fall in Indianapolis in 1991, where I reveled in the beauty of the season, the chill in the air, the smells of woodsmoke. But when I moved to Portland in 1994, I truly soaked in the marvelous colors that grace our landscape as the weather begins to change.

I especially love to be on a winding mountain road this time of year, when the oaks, maples, and birches show off their glorious colors against a backdrop of graceful fir and pine trees. I love to watch the birds coming to our feeders and birdbath in search of food and drink - and a quick bath in the late afternoon. I love to watch the squirrels frantically digging places to hide their treasured food, knowing that they will only find it again by sheer luck; but knowing, too, that I will replenish their feeders during the fall and winter months, so they won't suffer hardship.

I love the way the sunlight comes through the trees in the afternoon; that's usually the first sign for me that the season is changing, and I always feel a thrill of anticipation when I first notice it. I love my quiet evenings with Jim in the family room, basking in the warmth of our woodstove and the joy of each other's company. I even like to cook in the fall - a big concession for me! I love the smells of pots of vegetables and beef, or Great Northern beans, and I enjoy the fragrance and taste of freshly-made applesauce.

Right now, as I sit in Ben & Briana's living room, I can see the tall trees swaying in the wind, their leaves sailing across the sky like small boats being tossed to and fro. I can see birds battling the currents of air as they seek a place to land and shelter from the rain that will be arriving soon.

There's something satisfying to me about this beautiful place I live as all of its inhabitants prepare themselves for the fallow season.

I love Fall best of all!

Branching out!

2009-10-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

I started this blog last year because I like to write. I enjoy the creativity and increased brain activity that results from organizing my thoughts and from looking at the world around me as filled with stories - or blogs, in this case.

However, this expression that was initially intended to be devoted primarily to my children, grandchildren, travels, and life in general, has lately evolved into a political forum. And that's decidedly NOT what I want it to be!

On the other hand, I do have strong political opinions and I feel a need - perhaps even a responsibility - to express them. Therefore, I am branching out and invite those of you who are interested to participate in my new blog, From the Left Side of My Brain.

I will still post here, of course; after all, it's my first blog-love and the main focus of my life. But I will keep politics largely out of the picture here and indulge the other parts of my thinking processes.

I hope to see many of you in both places!

In Memoriam (thank you, Peggy!)

2009-10-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

I remember civility in public discourse. For all the mention made lately about the courtly references made by Members of Congress to those on the other side of the aisle, it's certainly preferable to name-calling and thinly-veiled threats.

I remember when religion and politics weren't discussed at social events - or even within families if there were strong feelings on both sides.

I remember when children's eyes didn't have to be sheltered from television ads and bumper stickers.

I even remember when the only bumper stickers on the road were from your high school or college - and they didn't tell me that your kid was an honor student or could beat someone else up.

I remember when the doctor came to the house, and if you couldn't pay him in full you could pay a little as you could - and he didn't send dunning notices.

I remember when our elected politicians were treated with respect, even if they didn't really deserve it; the respect was for the office, not the person.

I remember when a newsman, Walter Cronkite, was among the most trusted people in the nation, and when we believed what we heard on the news.

I remember when the only people who said "fuck" were "hoods," and they only said it quietly and to peers; certainly not out loud on the street in front of children.

I remember when a kid who misbehaved in class was sent to the office, and then got punished again when he got home.

I remember when only kids who lived in the country rode a school bus; the rest of us walked or rode our bikes. It was safe enough to do that.

BUT...

I also remember when all of my classmates were white, like me.

And when my Jewish classmates were part of a chorus that sang Christmas songs, and we never heard of a dreidl.

And when my mother was denied a job, because they gave it to a man who had a family to support. She did too, but that didn't enter into their reasoning.

And when girls who got "in trouble" were sent away to have their baby, often forfeiting their education.

And when bathrooms were separate for "whites" and "colored." Water fountains, too.

And when incestuous actions were covered up and the victim was blamed.

It was the best of time; it was the worst of times...

Charles Dickens

I'm pissed-Part II

2009-10-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

(Warning: This post may make you angry. If you agree with me, I hope it makes you angry enough to take some action. If you disagree, that's okay; this country is great because we can disagree publicly with each other and with our elected officials.)

So, Chicago lost their bid to bring the 2016 Olympics to the US. According to the voices on the far right, this is a GOOD thing. Why was it a good thing? Well, because in their mean-spirited world they perceive this loss to be an indictiment of the President's powers of persuasion, and they are gleefully chuckling and applauding this decision, despite the anticipated boost it would have given the US economy. Oh, and also despite the fact that, just last year, George W. Bush (you may recall he was the darling of the Right) strongly supported Chicago's bid, saying that the Olympics were "really...coming to America."

Rush Limbaugh, the head of the Republican Party, was gleeful over the loss. Michelle Malkin, the press secretary for the right, was her usual mean girl self. And Fox News actively campaigned against Chicago's bid.

Now all of this may be surprising, in light of the fact that the GOP loves to claim that they are the only true patriots. One would think that promoting one's country would be a normal outgrowth of such patriotism. Instead, the far right's so-called patriotism is far more interested in finding petty adolescent joy in anything that - in their eyes - diminishes the man who was elected by the majority of Americans to lead this country. But, perhaps, not so surprising when you remember that Limbaugh is the man who stated that he hopes this President fails.

So there you have it: Situational Patriotism. As defined (by me): Love of and/or devotion to one's country, as long as everything goes my way.

I'm pissed-Part I

2009-09-30T10:37:00.000-07:00

(Warning: This post may make you angry. If you agree with me, I hope it makes you angry enough to take some action. If you disagree, that's okay; this country is great because we can disagree publicly with each other and with our elected officials.)

Max Baucus-D, Montana
Tom Carper-D,Delaware
Kent Conrad-D, North Dakota
Blanche Lincoln-D, Arkansas
Bill Nelson-D, Florida

A note to the Senators listed above: Even though I don't live in any of your states, I am publicly pledging to contribute money during your next campaign to your opponent. It may not be much because I rely on Social Security for my income, but I will do it. Each of you is a disgrace to the party you purport to represent, and obviously care little for the will of the American people. Polls have consistently shown that the majority of citizens are in favor of a public option; these Senators, however, prefer to bow to the demands of the insurance companies.

Look around your cities and towns, my friends. Who has built and owns the largest, most spectacular buildings? Banks and insurance companies, in most cases. Guess who pays for them? You do. How can we continue on the path we're on without becoming partners in our own destruction? Why do we allow our elected officials to stay in the pockets of the very people who are sucking us dry?

I don't blame Republicans for this mess; they are staying true to their leader, Rush Limbaugh, and his stated desire to see this administration fail. But the Democrats were elected by the people to get things done. This travesty is, in every way, an inside job.

From a report issued today by The Robert Wood Johnson Foundation:

Researchers from the Urban Institute used their Health Insurance Policy Simulation Model to estimate how coverage and cost trends would change between now and 2019 if the health system is not reformed. The report shows that under the worst-case scenario, within 10 years:

The number of people without insurance would increase by more than 30 percent in 29 states.
In every state, the number of uninsured would increase by at least 10 percent.
Businesses would see their premiums increase—more than doubling in 27 states.

Even in the best case scenario, employers in 46 states would see premiums increase by more than 60 percent.

Every state would see a smaller share of its population getting health care through their job.
Half of the states would see the number of people with ESI fall by more than 10 percent.
Every state would see spending for Medicaid/Children's Health Insurance Program (CHIP) rise by more than 75 percent.
The amount of uncompensated care in the health system would more than double in 45 states.

"If you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always gotten."

Anthony Robbins

Back by popular demand! :-)

2009-09-22T09:41:00.000-07:00

It's been a long while, and I appreciate those of you who have asked when I will resume blogging. The answer to your question is, "now!"

When last you saw me, I was heading home from visiting my Illinois family, and you're excused if you thought my plane has been sitting on the tarmac in Minneapolis all month! Truth is, I arrived home safely - and nearly on time - and have just been really busy (with a little "lazy" thrown in for good measure).

I've thought about blogging, and have let several good opportunities pass me by. However, with the state of things in our country, I'm sure I'll have lots to say in the coming weeks and months! And, if the truth be told, I do enjoy writing this blog and staying in touch with the blogging community. Writing has always been a creative - and therapeutic - release for me, but I'll never make it in the Big Time because I simply let too many things get in the way of doing it.

Last week I began Phase II of my life as Granny Nanny. As you know, we had a new little addition to the family over the summer and Ben & Briana are once again honoring me with the joy and responsibility of taking care of Miss Drew during these formative (and fun!) months until she is old enough to broaden her horizons and spend her days with other children on a regular basis.

So on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Drew and I bond, laugh, play, take walks, and just generally have a good time getting to know each other. Our first week was a little bumpy since she was pretty p.o.'d at me for not being her mommy. The bottle of mother's milk was NOT an acceptable subsitute for the original packaging, and she spent two days carefully studying my face so she would know me when I showed up again! It did make all of us laugh because she was so intent and looked so angrily at me every time I tried to feed her. Even when we saw her over the weekend she was quite wary with me. I'm happy to announce that so far today we've had good success, and I am no longer cast in the role of Bad Gran!

At least that's the status this morning; we'll see what the rest of the day brings...

On Thursdays, Addison is home from school, so I watch both kiddos then. Last week was fun. Addison is very good with Drew, and she thinks he's just the best thing ever! She laughs and smiles for him and he's teaching her the States and their capitals. Oh, and that there's a Portland in Maine as well as in Oregon! It should be interesting when she's old enough to start talking!

We've had a camping trip, a couple of barbecues, and, although fall arrives in about 4 hours, we're expecting temperatures in excess of 90 degrees today. It's been just over a year since I started this blog, and it's been an interesting experience so far. I've made lots of friends and have enjoyed reading their blogs. Now that I'm back, I hope you'll all resume reading!

Going Home

2009-08-13T00:37:00.000-07:00

My week in Champaign is coming to a close. In just a few short hours I'll be on a plane heading west, and these days with my Illinois family will be just a memory.

We've had a great time: we've played, laughed, talked, reminisced, and have made lots of new memories. I never know just how long it will be till we're all together again, so leaving is always hard, even as I look forward to being back home with my dear ones in Oregon.

Jason and Lisa have made me feel at home - as they always do - and although I know they'll be glad to reclaim their sofa and their privacy, I know that they will miss our time together. I am so blessed.

My grandsons are all strong, intelligent, healthy - and gorgeous, I might add! - and I will miss their silliness and their hugs and kisses. The two older boys are back in school next week, so their days will soon be too full for missing me, but I know that all three boys have good memories of our time together.

Andrew (11-1/2), David (7-1/2), and Matthew (4) are boys that any grandparent would be proud to claim. I'm so thankful that I can call them mine.

And so, I am homeward bound. Leaving ones I love to return to ones I love. I'll see you on the West Coast!

A birthday party and AGYG, redux

2009-08-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

From Champaign, IL

I'm having a great time! Jason has been at performances each night, of course, but we've still managed to have lots of day time together since he took the week off from work.

Today we celebrated Matthew's 4th birthday with a party at home. His Godfather and Lisa's parents were here, making it a semi-quiet celebration. Matthew's actual birthday was last Tuesday, and he was quite upset when his daddy's special day arrived Thursday, complaining, "But what about MY birthday?!" We assured him that he was still four years old and that his party was coming up. He got lots of toy vehicles, with an emphasis on "Cars" (the movie) figures - still his all-time favorite.

After everyone left, I went with Jason to the theater, and Lisa and the boys followed after a stop at McDonald's for a quick bite of dinner.

The play was fun again, and I was lucky to enjoy it with Lisa and all three boys this time. Andrew, the oldest, sat mostly entranced throughout; David was good and seemed to enjoy it most of the time, although I think parts of it were boring for him. He was a trooper. Matthew was tired and not real interested, although popcorn at intermission helped Act 2 pass more quickly for him.

Jason and Lisa have gone out for a post-performance party, the boys are in bed, and I - well, I'm uploading pictures and writing!

I'm really enjoying being here, although the humidity is killer. I was never a fan of damp air, and fifteen years away from Miami haven't changed that. But I'll live through it and won't even remember how hot and humid it was once I'm back home.

In the meantime, this is a great vacation with my Midwest family!

A marvelous day!

2009-08-06T22:13:00.000-07:00

I'm in Champaign, Illinois, visiting my middle son, his wife, and my three oldest grandsons. I arrived Thursday morning, the 6th, and am enjoying being in the midst of my Midwest family.

I'm going to quickly note the horrendous flight here and get on to the good parts.

The very best part of my overnight flight from Portland was landing at the Atlanta airport. If you've ever had the misfortune to be routed through Atlanta, you'll know right away that the flight itself was truly awful. We were late leaving Portland because our plane was late arriving. That was the good news. We experienced turbulence for about 2,500 miles of the 2,700-mile flight. I don't mind turbulence, and ordinarly would have been able to sleep. Except for the 9-month-old baby who was flying with her grandma. She was cute as a button - when she wasn't crying. But she only stopped crying during the approximately 200 non-turbulent miles! We all felt so sorry for her and her grandma, but she would not be comforted. And every time she quieted for a few minutes, the turbulence would start up, and so would she. All of this was exacerbated by the noxious perfume the person in front of me was wearing, and which gave me a headache. Not to mention the fact that I had to fly all the way to Atlanta and then fly BACK to get to Peoria.

Not a lot of fun, but it's over and I'm here!

Today (the 6th) is Jason's birthday. I haven't spent his birthday with him for about 18 years, so that in itself is a special treat. To make it even more special, tonight was opening night for the community theatre production of "Annie Get Your Gun," in which Jason plays the part of Foster Wilson. Those who know me, or who have read this blog for a while, know that Annie Oakley is my all-time favorite historical woman.

Jason has gotten tickets for all of us for Saturday night's performance, but I decided that I wanted to attend tonight, as well. After all, it's his birthday, it's a musical I love, and my son has a role!

It was fantastic! I wish I could go to every performance, but will be content with tonight and Saturday night. I had my picture taken with the actors who played Buffalo Bill Cody, Annie Oakley, and Frank Butler. What fun it was, and how like a child I feel when soaking up the wonderful songs written by Irving Berlin. The acting is good, the pride I have in my son is even better, and the anticipation of a whole week with these loved ones is the best of all!

You'll be hearing more from Champaign, but for tonight I am enjoying the glow of the memories already made.

And the Flight From Hell is fast becoming a distant memory.

When you're hot, you're hot!

2009-07-29T22:30:00.000-07:00

There is nothing that means more to me than my family.

Today - our third day of 100+ degree temperatures (with another hot one promised for tomorrow) - I invited my daughter-in-law, jr. to bring the kids to our house to spend a few hours in the air-conditioned comfort of our 5th wheel. With a three-year-old and a one-month-old, I knew Briana would be facing one more uncomfortable afternoon, looking for ways to entertain two children without having to face the crowded "comfort" of a mall, a park, or some other form of entertainment. She graciously obliged, thinking, I'm sure, that she would find some respite and some company while we endured another day of our heat wave. And, since I know her pretty well, she was also thinking that Gran would enjoy some time with the kiddos!

She's such a smart woman!

After she called to say they would be coming over, I extended the invitation to my son Ben, and also to Jim's son and daughter-in-law, and our granddaughter, Ada. Unfortunately, they weren't able to join us, but we had a fun and impromptu gathering of Ben, Briana, Addison, and Drew. We were cozy in the 5th wheel as we enjoyed slot cars, movies (Elmo and Winnie-the-Pooh), a light - and cool - dinner of shrimp, cucumber salad, strawberries, cantelope, and a little beer and wine.

I'm basking now in the afterglow of a family afternoon, spent with people I love, doing things that were enjoyable across the generations, and knowing that I am, without question, among the most fortunate of people!

We can always weather the vagaries of life, of weather extremes, of misfortune, as long as we have people whom we love - and who love us right back!

It's been a great summer so far!

2009-07-13T15:31:00.000-07:00

Oh, gosh, where to begin?

I guess I should show you my beautiful granddaughter, Drew Alexandria, born just two days before my birthday. I haven't had much time with her yet, but am planning to remedy that tomorrow. I'll pick Addison up from school, take him home, and spend the rest of the afternoon with Briana and the kiddos. Then I'm invited to stay for dinner so I can have a little more time with Drew. After all, I have to learn to change those cloth diapers and she and I need to get to know each other a little better!

On Sunday, July 6th, Jim & I took off in our 5th wheel for a few days at the Oregon Coast, clamming with friends. Razor clams are quite the delicacy here and digging them is loads of fun. Cleaning them, not so much. Eating them is awesome!

So, the way to dig is with a "gun" (actually a tube about 3 feet long and 3-4" in diameter), in the wet sand, while the tide is going out. This entails getting to the beach at about 4:30 or 5:00 am (morning tides are best), rain or shine (mostly rain here in Oregon), and being willing to get very, very wet in the process! There is a per-person limit of 15 clams per day, and Jim and I both limited on each of three days, but only dug 15 between us on one day.

That's 105 razor clams in my freezer, folks!

But it was fun. We were with people we enjoy, we had mostly good weather, we managed to take late-morning naps (required when you get up at 3:30 and spend two hours in the surf!), we drank a couple of glasses of wine, had bonfires, roasted marshmallows, and just generally put the cares of the world aside for a few days.

As always, though, it was good to come back home!

What happened?

2009-06-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

I'm 62 years old. No getting around it. Social Security checks will start showing up in late August, gravity is winning, and my oldest grandchild is now into double-digits of age. (Of course, he's the smarty who first called me old, back when I was barely 57!)

I love my birthday. Hell, I love everybody's birthday! I think they're important milestones. Yes, I know age is just a number, but birthdays give us an opportunity to reflect on the year - or years - past. People do that on New Year's Eve, too, of course, but birthdays are more personal I think.

It's been an interesting week around here. Tuesday morning I got up early and met my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson at the hospital where Briana was scheduled to have labor induced. The plan was for me to spend Tuesday, and, if necessary, Tuesday night and Wednesday with Addison, making occasional trips to the hospital to visit mom, dad, and baby sister.

We had a pretty good time. Addison is pretty easy-going and I've spent enough time with him to know his patterns of behavior and he knows when Gran means business, so we seldom have more than the occasional 3-year-old (or 62-year-old) lapse in routine and manners.

After an abbreviated nap on Tuesday, we spent most of the afternoon with his best friend, Jascha, and were planning what to do next when we got the phone call that Drew Alexandria had arrived in the world! So off we went to the hospital to meet her. Addison was pretty excited (you always have to wonder what kinds of images their minds conjure up; I think that mostly they think life will be exactly the same and may even think that the new baby is a passing incident - surely not someone who will take up permanent residence!), and, yes, so was I!

Drew is a cutie, all 5 lbs. 15 oz. and 19" of her! She has lots of black hair and makes sweet cooing sounds nearly all the time. She's my granddaughter!

After dinner, off to home and to bed for Addison and me (and everyone else, I think!). Wednesday, we went to the hospital for a visit and Addison got to hold his baby sister for the first time. He was very gentle and very sweet, but did not want to leave his mom when it was time to go! He clung and cried and had to be carried to the car. It made me feel so bad for him. I knew it would happen, of course, but I still felt bad.

At home, after lunch, he did not want to take a nap and fought it with all that is in him, becoming quite put out with me:

Addison: "It's almost 2 o'clock Gran. Mommy says I only have to sleep till 2 o'clock."

Me: "But you haven't slept, Addison; you need to sleep till at least 3 o'clock. You need to rest for when mommy, daddy, and Drew come home tonight. And tomorrow's my birthday party; you don't want to be tired for that, do you?"

Addison: "I'm going to be sick tomorrow. I can't come to your party."

Me: "What? You're going to miss my birthday? I'm sorry; I don't like it when you're sick."

Addison: "I'll be well again when your party's over. Then when it's over I can have some cake."

He eventually settled down and did actually sleep for about an hour, but not without making me aware that I was just not playing fair!

So, an eventful week in many ways, but especially with the birth of my first and only granddaughter. As I told her on her birth day, I'd been expecting her for 39 years! She and I are going to have a lot of fun, and I look forward to getting to know her in the ways that I know her Big Brother, Addison.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In 1996, my middle son, Jason, called and told me that he and Lisa were planning to get married, and would it be okay if they got married on my birthday. Okay? It was more than okay!

Happy 13th Wedding Anniversary, Jason and Lisa. You two make it look easy! I love you both.

Fathers' Day

2009-06-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

(The following article appeared in The Miami Herald's "Tropic Magazine" on Sunday, May 23, 1993 as an original and true composition.)

He was a poor choice for a first love, but I was too young and taken with his rugged good looks and the casual way he called me "Girl" to know that. In our early years I would run to meet him at the door on the rare occasions that he came home, and would sit adoringly at his feet, unlacing his shoes, peeling off his socks and rubbing his feet. If he bothered to come home on the weekends, he'd cook a big breakfast on Saturdays and maybe we'd go for a ride to the river, where we'd ride horses, or target shoot, or fish.

I remember Sunday mornings spent lying in bed reading the Sunday papers. I try to forget Sunday mornings when his side of the bed was a big cold emptiness. Oh, there was no shortage of unkept promises, and nights I spent crying, not knowing where he was or when he would come back. But I was young and I loved him, and I was sure that if I were better to him he would want to spend more time with me. So I tried harder to be his "Girl." Sometimes he responded and sometimes he didn't; I never really figured out the right formula. He moved in and out of my life, a dream-like man.

In 1964, when our relationship was unusually stable, I started making plans for a wedding and tried to include him in every detail. But one day he called and said, "Well, girl, I can't stick around for the wedding. I'm moving to Alaska." I was crushed. I cried. I tried to figure out what I did wrong. My mother told me some people just couldn't be figured out.

The years went by; I settled down and had children, moved from Tampa to Miami. One day he called again. "Hey, Girl. I'm back in Florida and I'd like to come see you and your young'uns and meet your husband." Even after all the pain he'd caused me, I basked in his presence, hanging on every word. I knew our relationship was different. My love for him was still strong, but was tempered by the wisdom of age. Besides, he was no longer the No. 1 man in my life.

Then he went back to Alaska as suddenly as he'd arrived. This time he didn't call to say goodbye; I heard from his family that he had left. Once again I searched my mind for clues to where I'd gone wrong, what I'd done to make him leave without a word to me. I really had tried to be better, to be the kind of person I thought he would want me to be. Despite the fact that I was married, I still wanted to know that I meant something to him. After all, he was my first love.

I saw him again in 1985. He was back in Central Florida for his mother's funeral, which I attended. He acted as if he didn't recognize me and avoided me as much as possible. That wasn't difficult since there was a large gathering and we were always surrounded by dozens of others. I confess, too, that after our initial greeting I didn't seek him out.

Two years of therapy helped me put his memory behind me and I vowed not to ever impose myself on him again. It just wasn't worth the pain. When my mother died last year, my sister called to tell him, but I never heard from him. That was hard to take, since he had been close to my mother. But I hadn't really expected him to contact me; it would have been out of character.

This spring, my sister and her children came from Oregon for a visit and we drove up to Central Florida to visit our old haunts, our grandparents' graves, and some of our living family, too. We were
visiting Mary, a long-time friend who had been especially close to our mother, when he came to her door. I had heard he was back in town, but didn't really expect to see him. My heart beat faster when I heard his voice asking after a mutual friend, and heard her responding, "Come on in for a minute. Your daughters are here with their kids."

But my father refused. He turned his back and walked away. As Mary followed him out in the yard trying to persuade him to stay, my sister and I tried to pretend we hadn't heard any of it, making small talk, avoiding our children's eyes. We heard the car door slam, heard him drive away from us.

Mary came back in the house. She looked at us. "I don't understand," she said. "I've never understood him, Mary," I replied. "I used to think it was something I did or didn't do; but it's just him."

A few nights later as we sat on my back porch, Jennifer, my niece, began to cry. "What's wrong, Jenny?" my sister asked.

"Why didn't my grandfather want to see us?" she replied. "Is there something wrong with us? Do you think that maybe someday, if I try harder, if I'm a better person, he'll want to see me?"

I got up and came inside to write.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A happy Fathers' Day to my beloved sons, Jason and Ben. You have embraced fatherhood with grace and love. Your children are blessed by the love you show to them, and I, too, am blessed to know that I am the mother of such wonderful men, husbands, and fathers.

To Ed, my ex-husband, the father of my three sons: Thank you for the gift of these fine children. Thank you for the camping trips, the Boy Scout packs you led, the love you gave and still give to our boys.

To Jim, my partner, a man who loves his children and grandchildren. Who is never too busy or too distracted to show love to all of our children and grandchildren, yours and mine.

To Mike, my son of the heart, who gives of himself as a father and who accepts and loves me, my sons, my grandchildren.

I love all of you. You each have played a part in erasing the bitter memories of my own father and demonstrating what a father should be.

On being a mother-in-law

2009-06-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

I've had two mothers-in-law, neither of whom was particularly happy to have me as part of the family. In fact my first mother-in-law actually threatened to kill me if I "ever hurt her Joey." I did hurt him - badly, I'm afraid - but lived to remarry and have another mother-in-law! Lucky me.

With apologies to my sons, who loved their grandma (my second mother-in-law), we never quite hit it off. I did provide her with her first grandson, and she liked that, but if it could have been done via another method (someone other than me, for example) I think she would have been happier. I'm sure our lack of rapport and our failure to bond was as much my fault as hers. We came from vastly different backgrounds, had diametrically opposed ideas about child-rearing, where her son's loyalties should lie, and whether or not I actually qualified as family.

But bad experiences can have good outcomes if we pay attention. I vowed, when my sons married, that I would be the best mother-in-law I could be. I accepted - mostly gracefully, I think - that I would no longer hold the role of the most important woman in their lives, and that any attempts on my part to hang on to them would only cause bad feelings and could damage their primary relationship: the one each son has with his wife.

I know I haven't been perfect, but for the most part I think I've done pretty well. It helps a lot that I truly love my daughters-in-law, and am thankful for the partnerships they have forged with their husbands, my sons. I think they're both good moms to my grandchildren, and we enjoy a mutual love and respect that I treasure in the deepest parts of my heart.

Both of them - Lisa and Briana - have shown remarkable respect and restraint when I have opened my mouth inappropiately, and both of them have gone out of their way to ensure that I have time to nurture the mother-son relationships that mean so much to me.

So now you're expecting some big revelation, some "uh-oh, I really f****d up this time!" Au contraire, Dear Reader; I am here to tell you that I have waited patiently for ALMOST TEN DAYS to write this blog. Never let it be said that I cannot show restraint. Just because I have nearly chewed my foot off waiting, well please accord me points for keeping my mouth shut until d-i-l, Jr (known in the family as Briana) posted her own blog today, in which she detailed the recent events surrounding the anticipated birth of my first granddaughter!

Drew was originally due around July 4th, but recent events (which I will not repeat here; cruise on over to Briana's place) have conspired to advance her birth date to next Tuesday, June 23rd. Because Briana has been ordered to conserve calories, I have had the pleasure of spending more time with Addison than I ordinarily would. And I've had the pleasure of some unrushed conversations with Briana. Since most of our exchanges revolve around Addison (quite literally sometimes, as he insists, "It's my turn to talk now!"), it's been nice to indulge in girl talk with a young woman I love and admire.

So now you know. In just a few short days I will hold in my arms a little girl, my own flesh and blood. I'm excited and a little afraid. Even today it's not an easy world in which to be a woman, but I know that her parents, her big brother, her aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, will all be for her a source of love, strength and comfort.

I can hardly wait to see her face, this girl-child. Perhaps I hope to see in her a bit of me.

Why?

2009-06-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

I've written earlier about bigotry, racism, intolerance, and growing up in the segregated South, so you'd think nothing could surprise me any more. And at some level I am not surprised at recent events, but I am angered.

The recent murder of Dr. George Tiller during worship services at his church in Wichita; the murder of 23-year-old soldier William Long outside a recruiting office in Little Rock; and the murder last week of Tyrone Johns as he courteously opened the door for his assassin at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC, are all appalling indicators of the intolerance that afflicts this nation in the 21st century.

All three of these men were going about their lives in locations where they had a reasonable expectation of safety. All three have left behind people who loved them, people who needed them, people who admired and respected them. Mr. Johns' 11-year-old son referred to his dad as "my hero." And yet... And yet, three bigoted, small-minded, intolerant, and, yes, ignorant men acted as judge, jury, and executioner.

How have we become a nation of haters? When did we leave the path of respect and decency and veer onto a side road where hatred and ideology became the guiding forces? Why do so many people spew vitriol and intolerance against people who think differently? Why are there blogs and religions and websites dedicated to inciting people to violence? I know that most of these are fringe groups, but why do we allow them to continue? Why haven't we risen up in protest? Why do we read them, post to them, discuss them? Why, when we have a man in the White House who attempts to promote consensus and inclusiveness, do so many of us ridicule these methods? Even if you don't like the President, why does anyone think that partisan bickering and the continuation of "my way or the highway" attitudes is preferable to attempts to find common ground, or even to disagreeing in an agreeable manner?

One of my daughters-in-law and I had a recent exchange on Facebook regarding an issue that we view differently. We both have strong, well-thought-out feelings, and do not agree on several issues. But we don't hate each other! We agree on those things that we can and respectfully disagree on the others. We have mutual love and respect, and we each trust that the other is thoughtful and sincere about her opinions. Why is that so hard?

I'm a female heterosexual Christian. One of my dearest friends is Buddhist, my life's partner is an atheist, and one of my sons is gay. All of these men have taught me tolerance simply because I was willing to listen. I have learned that there is value in respecting all life, all manner of religious or philosophical beliefs, all manner of consensual sexual expression.

I am not so naive that I think intolerance, or even its violent expression, is new. I know that intolerance and violence have been the hallmarks of our nation for much of its existence. You have only to look at our treatment of Native Americans, Blacks, Irish, Italians, Chinese, Japanese across the years. But as a nation we have learned; why have we not learned as individuals? Why are so afraid of those who are different, who have different beliefs, different politics, different values, different ideas?

Why?

We're havin' a heat wave...

2009-05-31T14:23:00.000-07:00

Here in the land of slugs and moss, we're still usually having rain this time of year. Frequently we're still even having the occasional fire in the woodstove! But not this year. This year we're having warm - dare I say "hot"? - weather. Not hot like in South Florida or other parts of the south and northeast, but still... Mid-80s is pretty darned hot for us in May!

Of course, hot weather has some advantages. Such as yesterday's barbecue at Ben & Briana's, with Christina, Ada, Julie and Erich - and Addison, of course! It was a gorgeous day, spent mostly outside admiring their garden, watching the kids play, and complaining about the heat. But what else can you do about the weather?

We finally got the deck furniture out today. Well, Jim got it out while I played inside on the computer. Later this afternoon we'll sit out there with glasses of wine, enjoying our yard that we love so well. Our new honeysuckle vines are twining around our newly-installed arbor, and the star jasmine has exploded with growth and lots of buds that hold the promise of sweet smells in a few weeks.

The maple trees we planted 3-1/2 years ago are now providing enough shade that we don't hide from the afternoon sun any longer. And our ducks will swoop in later to enthrall us with the simple fact of their return.

As a teen in Florida, I loved the summer. It meant beaches, shorts, long and lazy days. As a young mother I was less thrilled with it, but can still conjure up the smell of sun-drenched little boys, all sweaty and puppy dog-like in their odor and behavior. And now - dare I confess? - I have occasional flashbacks to what summer in Miami was like and there's an elemental longing for hot afternoons, cold drinks, and then retreating inside to the airconditioned house.

Here, we don't have a/c - seems a little wasteful to us for these few days or weeks of heat. And, here, too, I know that these hot days will be quickly followed by drizzly rain, and then before I've had a chance to get a really nice tan, it will be fall!

So, here's to summer: However long it lasts, however hot it gets, it's a lazy time of year and I'm enjoying it so far!

Ask me again, though, in August when we start edging toward 100 degrees. I will likely be singing the praises of rain and snow by then!

Traveling Fool

2009-05-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

Over Memorial Day Weekend, Jim and I - as is our custom - headed east to the tiny Oregon town of Spray to watch their rodeo. Spray boasts a population of about 150 people, but it swells to nearly 15,000 over the Memorial Day Rodeo weekend! There is one motel, with only five rooms, and in-town camping facilities for about 30 trailers. The rest of the folks camp either in "nearby" towns (meaning anywhere from 40 to 50 miles away) or in the Umatilla National Forest. And that is where we choose to camp.

To add to our enjoyment, we took the grandkids with us this year, leaving on Thursday. Ada's mommy and daddy joined us on Friday evening, and my sister and brother-in-law arrived on Saturday. The kids were not particularly impressed with the rodeo, but did enjoy seeing the animals and definitely enjoyed the freedom of playing in the forest! We arrived home on Monday, exhausted, but with lots of happy memories.

Upon my arrival home, I found an email from one of my eFriends, commenting on our recent travels to Europe, and outlining her adult children's travels, along with a few of her own. She closed her email with a question: "Don't you think it would do most people good to travel outside the US to see how others live?" (I do hope she doesn't mind that I'm blatantly using her comment in my blog!)

I've thought about that over the past couple of days, in light of our recent European travels as well as our trip across the US last year, and even this past weekend in a small Oregon town. And I've come to the conclusion that travel of any kind is good for us. It opens our minds and broadens our horizons. It keeps us from becoming too comfortable with our way of life, and it challenges our assumptions.

By encountering people of different cultures - whether it be a foreign culture, or just the culture of a different region of our own country, or a town of a different size - we frequently come face to face with people whose ideas are opposed to ours, but who hold those ideas with the same fervor we feel. By taking on the role of guest in another culture, we have the opportunity to experience what it is like to be in a minority position - language, religion, government policies, food preferences - the list is long! - and to be for a short time in a position that is outside our usual comfort zone.

I am a woman who is not known for being submissive or feeling insecure. However, in a foreign country, or even in Spray, Oregon, I am much less assertive than I am in my "natural" environment. I am aware that I am a guest (with all that this status implies, thank you , Mom!), and I am always aware that my views on everything from politics to religion to the environment may be diametrically opposed to those whose space I have invaded. It makes me listen more carefully, examine my own comments more carefully - perhaps even editing what I want to say, and even putting myself in others' places to try to understand why they feel as they do.

So, yes, I do think it would be good for all of us to have the experience of travel. Not just outside the US, but outside our communities, our cities, our states, our geographic regions. I think the key to understanding is meeting each other face to face. It doesn't mean we will change our minds about anything, but it at least allows us to see that those who think differently are not demons, but our fellow travelers on this planet. Broadening our horizons in whatever ways we can will only make us more whole, and will certainly go a long way toward lessening our fear of that which is "other."

Thank you, Holly, for asking!

Rome

2009-05-18T17:01:00.000-07:00

Although we had been scheduled to make a coach tour of Rome as soon as we arrived, our Rome tour guide had changed the plan and arranged for us to check into our hotels early and get some rest. What a welcome relief that was! None of us had slept much on the train, we had been unable to use the bathrooms, due to the unbelievable stench that I will forever associate with trains, and we needed some time to relax and acclimate.

Following some down time, we were treated to a motorcoach tour of some of the Rome highlights, with stops at Vatican City, a tour of St. Peter’s Basilica, and a visit to the Colosseum. Vatican City is an interesting city-state, with Swiss Guards stationed near every entrance. They are very carefully chosen for their position as bodyguards for the Pope, and are allowed to serve a maximum of two years. Apparently, the Church feels that two years in Rome is enough temptation for these young men!

At St. Peter’s, I was finally more impressed than I was with Westminster Abbey, although for different reasons. Westminster seemed – to me – a more intensely prayerful place than St. Peter’s. Part of the reason, I think, is because regular worship services are still held there and St. Peter’s is used primarily for special occasions. Our guide, Salvatore, told us that for years any Italian child could be baptized at St. Peter’s, but no longer. Now the family must have some kind of connection or relationship to the Pope. The wedding chapel is the same. Salvatore (who was a wonderful guide, as nearly all of them are) lamented that St. Peter’s is no longer a holy place, but simply a tourist attraction. He seemed sad about it and regretted that he had been unable to have his daughter baptized there.

Our stop at the Colosseum was – well, I really can’t think of a superlative that is superlative enough! To see that magnificent structure, still standing after so many centuries, and after it has been cannibalized to provide marble and other materials for newer structures, well, it was the dream of a lifetime. We could almost visualize the people who attended events there so many years ago, and who could never have dreamed that centuries later people would be marveling at something they had created.

There are so many ruins in Rome and they turn up in unexpected places. We saw a portion of an ancient wall that had been incorporated into a newer apartment structure, and it was common to see remnants of pre-Christian-era walls alongside the modern roadways that we traveled.
We then made our way to Trevi Fountain, where I threw the coin from my right hand over my left shoulder, to ensure that I will someday return to Rome! It’s a magical city.

That evening we had dinner at a local restaurant. Everyone who had unexpectedly downsized accommodations on the train had the dinner comped as partial repayment. The food was the best we’d had so far in Europe, and the strolling singers were an enjoyable bonus. I laughed so hard that my sides hurt and it was truly an evening to be remembered. Well, except the wine has fogged some of the memories…

On Saturday, our last day, we had the exquisite treat of a visit to the Sistine Chapel. There were no photos allowed, but we had lots of time to soak up the glories of Michelangelo’s exquisite works. As before, it was different from what we had imagined – and yet, the same. The ceiling is about 69’ high, so nothing looked as large as we expected, but with no frame of reference, it was difficult to judge. Seeing the work in person gave both of us a new appreciation for the work that was accomplished more than 500 years ago. The colors are still so vibrant, and the depiction so vivid, that it’s hard to believe it has withstood the elements for so many years. As with St. Peter’s, it has largely become a tourist attraction and has very little to do with religious life today. It’s very sad.
We concluded our day of sightseeing – and our touring – with a visit to the Pantheon. As with so many of the ancient sites, the Christian church has co-opted the structures and created places of worship and memorial from what were essentially pagan sites.

The Pantheon is very well preserved, and is touted as the largest unsupported dome in the world. Of course there is support in the form of the arches, but it’s an impressive structure nonetheless!
Following the tour, we had time for lunch and shopping. Jim and I chose to have an al fresco lunch at a restaurant adjacent to the Pantheon, followed by a few purchases. We then joined the tour bus to return to our hotel.

That evening we had a final dinner with our group, and it was a highlight of the tour! We were serenaded by the restaurant owners, Fernando and Reinaldo, and their incredibly powerful tenor and baritone voices. They brought me to tears. So I bought their CD. Hey, how could I refuse?
We returned to our hotel and fell, exhausted, into bed. The next day we would say goodbye to Europe and return home. We’re tired (still recovering), but already talking about our next trip!

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For you intrepid souls who have read this far - and who are still interested! - I have posted photos of the trip at http://www.flickr.com/photos/cjcerezo/collections/72157618019448449

Paris

2009-05-18T16:57:00.000-07:00

We had a very early wake-up call on Monday, since our itinerary called for us to drive by motorcoach to Dover, board a ferry to cross the English Channel, and arrive in Paris mid-afternoon.

So, we were up at 3:30 a.m. and on the road by 4:30. Since some of our fellow travelers were staying at another hotel, we had to pick them up before we got on the road. The English countryside is very pretty, but we were tired and dozed part of the drive to Dover.

The white cliffs of Dover are as advertised, and Denise told us that they almost glow in the moonlight. She also told us that there are tunnels and caves inside the cliffs that were used during WWII, and that the cliffs themselves were a welcome beacon to the British pilots returning home from bombing missions.

After arriving in Calais, our first stop in France was at Vimy Ridge, where 11,000 Canadian soldiers died defending the French during WWII. The land at Vimy Ridge was given to Canada as a thank-you for the sacrifice of their nation. The memorial is beautiful and very peaceful, and all of the names of those who died are engraved around the perimeter. The men and women who staff the Memorial are all Canadian. Much of the site is off-limits since there is an unknown number of unexploded bombs and shells still in the ground. There’s also a network of caves and tunnels here that were used for communications. The grass grows thick and tall, but the devastation to the ground is still evident – huge gouges out of the landscape everywhere you look.

We loved the beauty of the French countryside as we continued our way toward Paris. Many of the houses are really old, and even the newer houses have those distinctive rooflines that always make me think of thatched roofs and French farmhouses of centuries past.

On arrival in Paris, we had our first view of the Eiffel Tower and we were both amazed at how enormous it is! Once again, something we thought we were familiar with surprised us! Our hotel was only about four blocks from the Tower, so we were fortunate to see it many times during our stay.
Our hotel was – well, different. The room was VERY small, the twin beds were tiny, and there were no amenities such as coffee, hot water, tea, etc. Denise, our guide, was very careful to explain the elevator system to us: Before you get in the elevator, you select your floor from the buttons outside the elevators, then you are told which elevator to board, A, B, or C. There are no buttons on the inside of the elevator, so if you enter the wrong one, you just have to wait until it stops, then you get off and once again make your selection. Okay, it was different, but not impossible. However, when we entered our room none of the lights worked and we couldn’t turn the television on! So I called the front desk and the young woman on duty managed to make clear to me that we had to put our room key into the slot just inside the door, thus activating the power in the room! Every time we left, we had to remove the card and all the power was interrupted.

We weren’t as fortunate with our hotel bar in Paris as we had been in London; the bartender was rude and ill-tempered so we didn’t return. Instead we found the bar in the hotel next door and ended each of our days in Paris having wine and sharing a crème brulée while looking out the window at a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower! It was spectacular.

On Tuesday, our first full day in Paris, we had a tour of the Eiffel Tower, taking the elevator to the second floor and enjoying a bird’s eye view of that beautiful city. In the afternoon, we boarded a bus for an impressive tour of the Palace of Versailles. Wow! We were awestruck! The Palace is huge, and the grounds go on as far as you can see. It was easy to understand why the citizens of Paris rebelled against the monarchy and stormed the Palace, leading to the eventual beheading of the King and Queen. We saw the private compartments of the king and queen, including the original bedchamber of Marie Antoinette and many of the fabrics – bed canopy, bedspread, wall hangings – that were there when she was alive. In the photos that I’ll post you’ll see lots and lots of gold accents on gates, fences, ornaments of all kinds; it’s not gold paint, but is all gold leaf! Paris still spends enormous amounts of money maintaining and restoring the gold leaf. Although it does last a long time, it’s very expensive when it does have to be replaced.

On Wednesday, a driving tour of the City was followed by a trip to Montmarte to see the beautiful Cathedral of Sacre Couer and a light lunch in the art colony before heading back to Paris and the true highlight of our trip: a tour of the Louvre!

As with so many buildings in Paris, the Louvre started life as a palace and it covers an enormous amount of real estate. We did see the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Winged Victory, and other incredible works of art for which the Louvre is renowned.

We ended our day with a boat ride on the Seine River, followed by dinner (Jim had escargot; they arrive in the shell in Paris, not in a neat little plate floating in butter!), and then our wine and crème brulée in our last night in Paris.

Although Paris is an incredibly clean city – the streets are all swept, garbage is picked up, and sidewalks are all washed every single day! – it was filled with pickpockets, gypsies, and beggars of every description. We were warned at every stop to watch out for them. Gypsies work in teams: one to distract, the other to pick, and often use children as part of the ruse. That in itself made Paris unpleasant to us, but overall it was our least favorite city for a variety of reasons.
Thursday was the day we had most anticipated: our much touted trip to Rome via train! We had the morning free (didn’t have to leave for the train station till 4:00 p.m.) so we took a cab to Notre Dame Cathedral. Jim was very tolerant of my church-visiting, and Notre Dame is quite impressive. I confess I liked Westminster Abbey better, however, and not just because of denominational preference! I did get a ticket to visit “The Treasury,” where all the old, ornate holy hardware is housed, and there were some impressive sights. There were also a number of relics on display, as is the Roman Catholic custom.

After our tour, we decided to have a cup of coffee at the sidewalk café outside the Cathedral to complete our “Paris experience.” The “experience” came with a price tag of € 11,40, which translates to about $15.85! Expensive coffee, no? And the only good coffee we had the whole trip was from McDonald’s!

We returned to our hotel where we spent about an hour-and-a-half visiting with our fellow tourers prior to heading for the train. This is the part of the story where the music becomes discordant, the skies cloud over, and ominous strangers appear in the background.

We had paid extra – quite a bit extra, in fact – for upgraded accommodations throughout the trip. We were in very nice hotels, in excellent locations, and were to have a two-person sleeper car on the train. Our tour guide very apologetically advised us that there had been an overbooking of the train and we would not be getting our sleeper compartments. Instead, we would be sleeping in “couchettes” – a small (about 5’ wide) compartment, with sleeping arrangements for SIX PEOPLE. However, they thought perhaps they could work it so we had ONLY four people to a compartment, and as compensation, we would get a free dinner in Rome.

This was not good. Neither of us sleeps well at night and were not only upset (as everyone was) that we would have to share, but also concerned that our erratic sleeping habits would be disturbing to others in the cabin. So I spoke privately to our guide and she assured me that she would try to get us a cabin for just the two of us. And, in fact, she did. But it was awful. Not only did we spend 14 hours in a tiny compartment while young people on holiday (the reason the train was overbooked) ran up and down the halls, but the “beds” were barely the width of our bodies, AND we had to keep our luggage with us “for security reasons.”

To add insult to injury, at about 3:00 a.m., at the France/Italy border crossing, we were awakened by a rattling of the door and a loud, officious knocking. Jim opened the door, and a stern-looking Italian policeman began barking at us in Italian! We were startled and a little frightened (this was a foreign country, remember), but managed to convey that we only speak English. He then demanded our passports and tickets, asked if all of the luggage was ours, where we were from, where we were going, were we traveling alone or with a group. We answered all of his questions, he slammed the door shut, and went on. A short time later we saw several police officers herding a couple of young men across the boarding platform. Needless to say, our sleep was even more fitful the remainder of the night!

When we spoke to our touring friends, we learned that none of the others had gotten the third degree, only Jim and I. We assume that they were looking for two people, and when they found two people they questioned them. The others were assumed to all be traveling together. We also assume that the miscreants were freeloaders, illegal entrants, or criminals of some sort. But we’ll never know!

London

2009-05-18T16:54:00.000-07:00

We arrived in London around 7:00 a.m. Heathrow Airport is HUGE, and we had our first taste of being strangers in a strange land. We weren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. We were directed into a large room, along with perhaps 1,000 other passengers arriving from various parts of the world. We waited – and waited – while approximately six people checked passports and entry papers. No one was hurrying – in fact, they seemed almost purposefully slow – and the wait seemed interminable. In truth, by the time we had been in London for an hour, we had collected our luggage, been through the entry process, and were in the Arrival Hall looking for our tour company. Over here – at least at Heathrow – arriving passengers aren’t thrown out on the street after collecting luggage, nor do they have to hang out in the ticketing area while waiting to be picked up. There’s actually a large portion of the airport where you can be greeted and collected. Kind of a nice touch.
After a short wait, we boarded a shuttle which took us to our hotel. There are many shuttle companies, and passengers are delivered to various hotels around London, so we spent about an hour in the company of people we’ll never see again, talking about our various tours and home countries. It was fun and a nice start to our vacation.

When we arrived, exhausted and rumpled, at our hotel, it was only 9:00 a.m. We were NOT happy to be told that we would have to wait until 4:00 p.m. to claim our room! London is a large, intimidating city and we were in no mood to set out to look at the sights. Especially since we had no idea exactly where we were, how to find our way back if we got lost, and were just damned tired! So I found a very nice man whose title was “Customer Relations Manager,” pleaded age, exhaustion, and medical issues (Jim’s back, my knees), and within 10 minutes we were exploring our new digs.

The Thistle Marble Arch, where we stayed, is a very nice hotel. The hotel rooms in Europe are much smaller than what we’re used to in the US, but still very comfortable. We could actually open our windows and look out to the street below, and we had all the amenities except coffee pot in the room and washcloths! Fortunately, there was a McDonald’s close by, so it was my early morning routine to take my walk and pick up large cups of coffee before we even showered.

The buffet breakfast provided by the hotel was plentiful but not particularly good. Neither of us is fond of the way the English prepare food – beef is overcooked, fish tends to be greasy, and some of the meat is mysterious – but there was always plenty of fruit and croissants, along with unlimited coffee and juices, so we did just fine.

The hotel bar – The Glen Miller Bar – was a friendly and welcoming place for us to stop each evening for a glass or two of wine and hors d’oeuvres. The wait staff always remembered what we drank and we really loved the atmosphere. The bar has lots of Glen Miller memorabilia, and is named for him since it was the hotel where his military regiment stayed, and where he slept the night before he left on his last mission. It was nice to be greeted after each day’s sightseeing by a bartender who remembered that Jim drinks red and Cheryle drinks white. A pleasant place.

Saturday was our first day officially touring. We did mostly “drive-bys,” giving us just a taste of the city along with a good bit of history. Our tour guide, Denise, was very efficient, funny, and very knowledgeable about the area. Since she lives there, I guess that isn’t surprising!

We saw the gorgeous memorial that Queen Victoria built to Prince Albert, the Tower Bridge, walked along the River Thames, and then drove by the buildings of Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey, where we stopped for a while, but didn’t go inside. We then made our way to Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guard. The crowds around the castle are unbelievable – London has a huge daytime population, and it increases to almost unimaginable proportions when the tourists are included! We gathered across from where the Guard musters and watched them march down the street to the castle. I think the only way to get close enough to the fence to see them inside the grounds would be to arrive first thing in the morning for the noon change. We finished touring shortly after noon, and Jim returned to the hotel and I took off on my own.

With some help from Denise, I was able to figure out the tube and made my way to the Victoria and Albert Museum (known locally as “The V & A”) where I immersed myself in 600 years of Britain’s history. It was marvelous and I wished many times that Jim had come with me, but we would never have left! After the museum, I took a short walk to Harrod’s. There’s really no way to describe this, the mother of all department stores! Each room is themed, the food court is surrounded by cuts of nearly every meat and seafood imaginable, and there are guards at every turn. I made a few purchases, spent some time figuring out which bus I needed, and climbed on one of London’s famous double-decker buses to make my way back to the hotel.

Our plan for Sunday was for Jim to visit the War Memorial Museum while I attended Mass at Westminster Abbey. We then had a planned tour to the Tower of London. Jim was impressed by the museum, and saw many things he had only read about before. I was thrilled, awed, and somewhat unbelieving that I was actually attending Mass at the Abbey – the Mother Church for Episcopalians!
All went as scheduled, and we met up at the tour office at 2:00. We were unable to start the tour on time because of a traffic accident that had roads blocked off. Our bus driver backed our bus up for about four blocks in order to make our way out of the jam. Throughout the trip, we were all amazed at the skillful drivers we had, getting us out of tight places, around hairpin turns, and down unimaginably narrow streets!

Our tour began with a visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral. St. Paul’s was the first cathedral built to be Church of England; all the ones prior had been Roman Catholic cathedrals and were taken over by Henry VIII when he separated from Rome. St. Paul’s was also a sign of hope for Londoners during WWII, and there were people who were specially designated to put out any fires started by German bombs. Each day the news that “St. Paul’s is okay” gave heart to a city badly in need of good news.
After St. Paul’s we headed to the Tower of London. One of the things that has amazed us is that, although many of these sites are familiar from the news, books, television shows, etc., they have still been very different from what we expected. Although there is a specific building called “The Tower,” it is part of a much larger complex referred to as “The Tower of London.” We didn’t make it to the Crown Jewels – the line was very long – but we did get to peek into a lot of historical places, including the monument where Anne Boleyn is believed to have been beheaded. We were also treated to the spring mating ritual of a couple of ravens who were conducting their amorous activities in the middle of the lawn!

We left St. Paul’s on a boat, ending our day’s activities with a ride on the Thames River. A thoroughly enjoyable day!

Catching up, briefly

2009-05-18T16:44:00.000-07:00

Wow! It's been a long time, hasn't it? I'm going to beg your indulgence and post my travelogue of our trip to Europe in three parts: London, Paris, and Rome. We had a great time - as you will note if you decide to read them all.

But, as always, it's best to be back home.

Yesterday, we hosted a baby shower for my youngest son and daughter-in-law. It was so much fun and I always enjoy seeing my children's friends. All those high-school years I spent worrying about the people he ran around with are just distant memories now. He and his wife have a wonderful group of friends, and we had some family here, too.

We look forward to welcoming our little girl in just a few short weeks, but for now the lovely late Spring days make for a time of lazy anticipation.

I'll get back into the blogging routine soon!

Bits and pieces of this and that

2009-04-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

Coming home from tai chi this morning, I saw - as I've seen on three separate occasions - a dad waiting for his son's school bus. Each time, dad was on his cell phone, and each time boy jumped off the bus to run to dad - who continued talking on his cell phone as he and son turned to walk home. No acknowledgment, no hug, no "could you hold on a minute, or could I call you back?" Just dad and son walking home from the bus stop with no conversation or contact. Expensive neighborhood, which doesn't mean anything, but dad needs to hang up and pay attention.

Listening to Rush this morning. His guest host was a guy by the name of Mark Davis, who I guess is a big radio hoo-hah in some place called "Texas." BUT! Mark Davis was talking about the level of discourse in today's America and how mean-spirited and hateful it has become. He was bemoaning the loss of the good old days, when people actually had interesting and informed and thoughtful and respectful debates over their differences! When people who believed differently could disagree without being disagreeable! When ad hominem attacks were unthinkable! When opposing points of view could be expressed without name-calling, perjoratives, or repeated use of the f-bomb! What made this so interesting to me (other than the oddity of hearing it expressed during Rush's time slot) was that I had just been thinking the very same thing! Mr. Davis lays today's sound-bite opinions mainly at the feet of newspapers and news magazines that invite comments by readers. And I don't think he's too far off the mark. And both conservatives and liberals indulge in all of the most egregious behaviors. He did lose me when he said that Rush's show never sinks into hatred or name-calling (sorry, Mark, I've heard it there myself), but his point was valid. At least to me. I wonder if he'll be invited back to host...

A couple of weekends ago, we had grandchildren overnight and one of them woke up with a bloody nose. A one-time event, but it was certainly traumatic for all concerned. Blood around the mouth of a toddler at 3:00 a.m. can be quite shocking, in case anyone ever asks! Fast-forward to last weekend when I finally remembered that some of that blood (not much, though) had splattered onto the white duvet that was on the bed. So, here's my little household tip, especially since I really didn't want to take the duvet off the comforter and wash, dry, and reassemble: Blood on whites comes off pretty darned well with hydrogen peroxide. After you've gotten as much as you can, rinse carefully with plain water and a clean washcloth; if any blood spots remain, use a Q-tip and your favorite chlorine bleach to just touch the remaining spots, rinsing again afterwards. I've never had it fail, and I've never had holes in linens from the bleach. The Q-tip keeps you from using too much bleach, and delivers just enough to remove the blood. Just don't forget to rinse (wipe off) with water and a clean washcloth!

Household Tip #2: Red wine can be removed from white dress shirts (I've done it), white carpeting (done that, too), and almost anything else by soaking the stain in a solution of 50% hydrogen peroxide and 50% liquid dish detergent such as Ivory - don't use detergents with color in them; use only white or clear, otherwise you'll likely have a whole new issue to deal with! It may take a day or two of soaking or some scrubbing if it's a particulary bad stain. And it's always best if you get to it right away. But it works, and I swear by it.

With the good example of my youngest son and his wife as my guide (not to mention a little boost from Michelle Obama), our neighbor and I are planting our vegetable garden this weekend. I've always wanted to grow veggies, but was afraid it was more the idea of it that appealed to me and that the actual execution would prove too much of a chore. By joining forces with a neighbor (as Ben and Briana have done), it will not only halve the labor, but increase the pride and enjoyment. Since both families consist of only two people (and half of my family isn't crazy about produce!), we've agreed that we will donate anything beyond our modest requirements to the local food bank.

Next week we're off to Europe! This week it seems that spring has well and truly arrived.

Sometimes I just can't sit back and be quiet

2009-04-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

For the second time in as many days, I've been assaulted by an email from someone in my family or extended family. No, I didn't say I've been assaulted IN an email, but BY an email.

I am a Christian, with what I consider to be Christian values (remember "Love thy neighbor," and "Do unto others"?), but I do not insist that my family, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, blog-readers, or even the people who go to my church believe as I do. I think one of the greatest freedoms we enjoy in this nation is the freedom OF religion: that means you can be Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Secularist, Wiccan, Atheist, or any of a bazillion other religions and expect your choice to be respected.

I do not believe that organized prayer should be returned to schools. I believe children can pray whenever and however they choose as long as no one else (especially the school administration) dictates to whom or for what they should pray or not pray. I mentally cringe when I recall the daily New Testament reading in my school and the Christmas pageant, realizing today that there were a fair number of Jewish children in my classroom. I also ponder how difficult it must have been for the Catholic children to hear the closing words of the "Christian" Lord's prayer ("...For thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory..."). Those lines were added later (most scholars believe from the Illuminations done by monks) and Catholics do not say them. So, no prayer in schools. Unless, of course, EVERYONE gets a turn and the Christian parents will allow their children to sit through readings from the Koran, prayers to Isis, etc.

I don't think the lack of prayer in schools is responsible for the "moral decline of America." I think people make choices, and some of them are bad ones. I don't think the tragedy at Columbine, Alabama, upstate New York, or any other such tragedy is because there is no prayer in schools. If that's so, then how do you explain the Sunday School teacher and granddaughter of a minister, sexually abusing and the murdering her daughter's playmate? Was she denied prayer? How do you explain Jim Bakker, Jimmy Swaggart, or Ted Haggard - ministers all - straying from their marital vows? As I said: people make bad choices.

I think the words "under God" should be removed from the Pledge of Allegiance. They weren't added until 1954, after all, so really don't have the imprimatur of centuries, regardless of what Sarah Palin thinks. In fact, the Pledge didn't even come into being until the late 1800s, and I'm not even sure we should have a pledge. For an interesting article, see here.

I don't think gay marriage, people living "in sin" (I'm guilty!), or the host of other "ills" that some claim are besetting this nation mark the end of Life As We Know It. I think a lack of empathy, the great divide between the haves and have-nots, the increasingly intrusive nature of the extreme right and their brand of narrowly-defined religious values into government, and a need among many to be "right" no matter the cost to their fellow humans, are far greater threats to unity and continuation of our way of life.

I don't think taxes are bad, but necessary. And I found it intriguing that while Gov. Perry of Texas was stirring up his constituents to secession from the Union, many of them were waving American flags.

I don't think firearms should be outlawed in this country, but I can't think of one good reason for a private citizen to own an AK-47 or any other kind of assault rifle.

I'm sure I've offended some of my readers (and perhaps some of my family members), and for that I am sorry. I'm not normally an offensive person. But *I* have been offended, and those who committed the offenses had no regard for my feelings.

Sometimes, even the most tolerant of people can be pushed once too often.

Sshhh - it might be Spring!

2009-04-12T21:13:00.000-07:00

Here in the part of the country often referred to as the "Pacific NorthWet," we take Spring pretty darned seriously. It is arguably our most beautiful time of the year once it deigns to arrive.

Frankly, we don't really expect the daily rain to subside until July 5th or thereabouts, but we are occasionally graced with some truly beautiful days before then.

Inevitably, though, just as we are glorying in the budding trees, the clouds will roll in and the rain will once again dampen our streets, frizz (or uncurl) our hair, derail our plans, and send us scurrying indoors for family celebrations.

Jim and I enjoyed having Ada and Addison for Friday, Friday night, and Saturday, while their parents enjoyed some couple time and a good night's rest. We colored eggs on Saturday - no photos, though; it was a very intense 20 minutes and I didn't dare leave long enough to get my camera!

We also went to the park - twice! - and had fun in the sunny, but somewhat chilly, weather.

The kids were returned to their respective parents on Saturday, but arrived again this afternoon to find that the Easter Bunny had visited Gran and Grandpa's house, leaving lots of fun things for them. They brought their moms and dads, along with Ada's grandma and uncle. We had lots of good food, fun, and general hilarity.

In the midst of our celebration, we also had a vist from Mr. & Mrs. Mallard D. Ducks. This is the third year we've been their fast-food restaurant of choice and they know they can always find cracked corn in the yard.

We know that Mallards do not mate for life, so we're not certain if it's Mr. or Mrs. who always finds his or her way back, but we're so happy to see them that we don't ask questions.

In a few weeks, our rhodies, azaleas, fuschias, and honeysuckle will fill our yard with riotous color and we'll bask in warmer, rain-free days on the deck. Till then, we gratefully welcome the brief respites from rain, the bright faces of children, and the return of "our" ducks!

I think it might be Spring!

Sacrifice

2009-04-10T08:12:00.000-07:00

I have a confession: I'm a secret listener of Rush Limbaugh.

I know, it's hard to believe that someone who spouts such liberal thoughts actually tunes in her radio to the man who calls himself "...America's Anchorman... America's Truth Detector; the Doctor of Democracy; the Most Dangerous Man in America; the All-Knowing, All-Sensing, All-Everything Maha Rushie; defender of motherhood, protector of fatherhood and an all-around good guy." There's a simple reason for this: I truly believe it's important to know what the people I disagree with are saying. If we willfully blind ourselves to opposing points of view we run two obvious - and perhaps other, less-obvious - risks.

The first risk is that of being surprised by information that we may not glean from mass media (every outlet has some kind of bias these days). The second risk is that of indulging in surrounding ourselves only with like-minded people and news, thereby losing opportunities to learn to defend our own positions, or even to learn something that may change our minds.

So now that I have defended myself for indulging what appears to be aberrant behavior, I'd like to turn to the concept of sacrifice.

Today, Good Friday, is the most solemn day in the Christian year. It is the day that Christians observe the most stunning act of sacrifice known to mankind. The day that a teacher, a good man, the one many believe to have been God Incarnate, willingly gave up his life for the redemption of mankind. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:13 KJV)

Jesus taught by example the concept of sacrifice and sacrifical love, even for those we do not know, even for those who may persecute us, condemn us, even kill us. And that message was so strong, so believable, that even today we have people whom we call martyrs, people who will give their livelihood and their lives for causes and people that provide no benefit to them, but who believe in the concept of the greater good.

So what connection does Rush Limbaugh have with sacrifice? Well, on a recent weekday Mr. Limbaugh railed against sacrifice while promoting self-interest. As I listened, I was struck by how many people on the Far Right, many who call themselves "Christians," subscribe to the concept of sacrifice as an undesirable action. To be fair, Limbaugh approves what he calls "sacrifice" when it's performed for the benefit of our children and families; but to sacrifice so that others not related to us may benefit is derided as "...cheating them out of their own self-interest."

Perhaps the following quote, lifted directly from Limbaugh's own transcript of his program, will better illustrate how he feels:

"Everybody wins when everybody's acting in self-interest. Selfishness is a different thing. Self-interest is excellence; self-interest is what's desired; self-interest is what makes people want raises; self-interest is what makes people want their families to be secure; self-interest is what makes parents want their kids to be properly educated; self-interest is what propels the United States military to victory. Not sacrifice. Not the concept of sacrifice. Sacrifice is giving something to somebody you don't know to make yourself feel altruistic. You're not sacrificing. It doesn't make you great. But giving something to your family because you provided it for them, that is good. But if you run around just giving people who do nothing for you, who are just worthless, don't have anything to do with you, you're cheating them out of their own self-interest."

And so, Rush Limbaugh dismisses the entire meaning of Holy Week and Easter, reducing not only Jesus' sacrifice, but the sacrifice of countless others - recognized martyrs, police officers, firefighters, and just plain people, who gave their lives so that others - often unknown to them - might live, or be safe, or share in the promise of this life.

On this Good Friday, 2009, and on all the days and years to follow, I hope I am never too self-important to subscribe to the belief that only me and mine are deserving of what I am able to give. And I am ever-thankful to those who have sacrificed on the battlefield, in the Civil Rights movement, for women's rights and older Americans' rights, in labor struggles, and in countless other ways, so that I - and you - might have a better life.

When lives intersect

2009-03-30T09:50:00.000-07:00

A generation ago - or more appropriately, less than a half-generation ago - a person's death was usually grieved by family members and people in his or her physical communities. Oh, you might hear of the death of an old high school or college friend, and have a momentary sense of loss for the person you used to know, but you quickly went about your life and there was probably nothing that triggered the memory of that loss until the next time you were laughing over old photographs.

Today many of us have "friends" whom we have never met - and probably never will. I have lots of friends through several online venues, in addition to those I call "friend" in my neighborhood, from jobs I've held, shirt-tail relatives, and friends of my children. My online "friends" are people who read and comment on this blog from Arizona, Virginia, Wisconsin, and other places. I don't know them in the traditional sense, but I know them from their comments and from their own blogs. They're important to me and add to my life in many ways.

I've had online friends in the past from newsgroups as varied as beta testing, graphics software, and the Episcopal Church. Some were very real to me and as I - or they - dropped out of these various groups, I missed them. Once, several years ago, a particularly personable and friendly member of my graphics newsgroup died. His death was reported by those who knew him well, and though not unexpected, it was still a shock - in the way death always is - and he was mourned by all of us.

As a recent devotee of Facebook, I have upped my online friend quotient dramatically. Some "friends" are family members, I have an old BFF from high school, and one or two others whom I know personally for one reason or another. But many of my Facebook friends have come by way of being friends of friends, and are people with whom I have no connection other than Facebook, and - for some, at least - an affinity for the Episcopal Church.

This morning, I awoke to the very sad news that one of these tangential friends had taken his life, apparently some time on Sunday. He was a friendly, funny man who had some health issues, was in the midst of a divorce, and - according to his last post on Saturday - had not been feeling well. He leaves behind two young children who loved their dad, and whom he adored. He gave no hint that he was planning this drastic action, and had been busy and active this Lenten season in his church.

The posts that are appearing on his Facebook page are testament to the fact that his loss is felt by people across North America, not just in the corner of Tennessee where he lived. When he was born almost 41 years ago, he lived in a much smaller world than the one in which he died, and I'm sure no one ever dreamed that his death would cause sorrow in so many.

With suicide, we who are left wonder why: What pain was so great that you couldn't reach out? What finally sent you to that place in your mind where being dead was preferable to being here? What depths of despair did you reach that even thoughts of your children could not lift you out? And if funny, involved, well-loved Lee could reach that awful place, who else in my life might make that choice?

Hard questions, all, and no answers for any of us. My faith is such that I believe Lee has found at last a freedom from pain, and that he rests this day in the arms of God. So I do not mourn his death so much as I mourn his death-effect. We who knew him online will miss his banter, his wit and wisdom. Those who knew him in life will miss so much more. And his children will miss him for the rest of their lives.

Rest in peace, Lee. You are a part of my life's story.

A patchwork of life

2009-03-29T12:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my sister and I went to a quilt show in Portland. Neither of us quilts, although we both do/have done our share of embroidery, crochet, knitting, counted cross-stitch, applique, and plain-vanilla sewing over the years. There were some incredibly beautiful quilts and other sewing examples, as well as kits, fabrics, crafty items, and things such as spinning wheels and "long arm" quilting machines available for sale and for demonstration.

The place was packed with young and old, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, siblings, grandchildren, and just friends. All were oohing and aahing over the incredible display of talent and investment of time and money that filled the room - a smorgasbord of color, shape, texture, and imagination. It boggles my mind to think of the hours invested in the hundreds of quilts that were displayed.

So, you might ask, what were you doing there if you don't quilt? Well, I would say, it involves a story (as so many things do!). Once upon a time, back during the Great Depression, my Granny had a WPA job that involved sewing. And because everything was so precious during those years, any scraps that were left over were given to the workers to take home. I envision scraps measuring in inches, rather than yards, but something that could be put to good use by folks who had grown accustomed to hardscrabble times.

And so the scraps accumulated, and eventually World War II was declared, the Depression ended, my father joined the Navy and brought his pregnant wife home to her mother - and the pile of scraps. Although my mother would eventually go to work for the war effort, her "confinement" was a time for being at home and doing homely things. Like piecing a quilt. At long last, the scraps had a defined purpose, and I can almost see my mom sitting at home in her mother's house, waiting for letters from my dad, waiting for her first child to be born, patiently measuring, cutting, and hand-sewing all of those pieces carefully kept by her own mother.

Eventually, this work measured more than 9' long and 6' wide, and was made up of 10" squares, each consisting of 16 individual pieces - all stitched together by hand. Eventually, too, my brother was born, my mother went to work at the local air base as a mechanic, and the work of her hands was folded up and put away. Over the years I'm sure she must have thought of it, but her life was busy and she had children to raise, work to do, bills to pay.

Last year, my sister pulled down a box from her closet, and together we marveled over the tiny, uniform stitches made by our mother's hand more than sixty-five years ago. I vowed that I would find a way to finish it, especially after my D-I-L Jr. told me that I have a "generational imperative" to do so! (How could I possibly not do it after that statement?!)

So yesterday, when we weren't staring gape-mouthed at the creations of others, we were talking to experts in the field of quilting, garnering information, encouragement, and our own share of those who marveled at this patchwork from so long ago. I'm looking forward to adding my own stitches to those of my mother, handling the fabric so thriftily gathered by my grandmother. And I'm hoping that Peggy will find time as well to sit with me on occasion and stitch her memories into this work of love.

Memories are made of this

2009-03-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows that I have a strong interest in history and in family. I do strongly believe that "past is prologue" and that we can learn important lessons from those who have gone before us. And I also get a thrill from being in a place, or touching something, that has been seen or held by ancient hands.

I'm fortunate that both my mother and her father left written life stories, filled with details about life "back in the olden days." It gives me a sense of who they were and what life was like in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, during the Great Depression, World War II, and also sends me reminiscing about my own childhood. As a second-generation Floridian (although I no longer live there), I know that my own brain holds memories of Florida as it used to be - before Disney, NASA, and the Army Corps of Engineers got their hands on it! Those who came later, including my own children, have no way to experience the sleepy small-town atmosphere of Tampa, where I was born, or Miami - where I spent 26 years - prior to the great influx of refugees and the orgy of glitter and glamour that permeates the city now.

Jim, my dear partner, is native to the Northwest and has stories of logging, firefighting, hunting (he and his friends have hunted in the same location for almost 50 years!), white water rafting in areas that now require permits - Jim was there when there were no other rafters - and old growth trees that were so huge just one tree would fill a logging truck! He remembers our now-busy city before the interstate highway, when nearly all Oregonians were natives, and when the salmon runs were abundant in Northwest rivers.

In other words, Jim and I both have stories to tell of times that are no more. To us, they were just life and seem to have no special need to be recorded. But I remind myself often that my mother's and grandfather's lives must have seemed just as mundane to them and yet they had the foresight to know that those times deserved to be remembered. They took the time to write down those things - with pen and paper; no word processors for them! - so that future generations would know what had come before, from the viewpoint of those who had lived it.

Each of us has a unique story to tell, even those who don't think we do - like Jim. And I think - although not everyone shares this opinion - that we have a responsibility to future generations to leave a record of those stories. If you're inclined (and I hope you are) Story Corps has some information and help. And an online search for "oral history project" will give you links to some specialized oral history sites such as Vietnam Veterans, AIDS survivors, and a number of other organizations.

Each generation moves inevitably from making history to being history, and the only way future generations have to know our path is through our words. I hope you'll think about filling in some of the blanks for your family!

What's in YOUR genes?

2009-03-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

I got an email the other day from one of my cousins on my mother's side, commenting on my blog. (I do wish she'd sign in and comment publicly, but I'm glad to hear from her, in whatever manner she chooses!)

(That's me, 3rd from the left in stripes; Nancy is the 3rd woman from the right, behind the young boy.)

Nancy is the youngest child of my mother's middle sister - mom was the oldest - and, growing up we really weren't close, although we did see each other. We didn't live real far away, but Nancy grew up in a small community and we were the Big City family. I have wonderful memories of visiting my aunt and uncle and cousins - they lived on a farm, down a red clay road. I remember loving being out in "the country" and enjoying the freedom from noise and traffic, seeing their critters and spending time together. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see Aunt Catherine ironing on her mangle iron. We were always warned about being careful not to touch it, but Aunt Catherine could make it sing! (I'm willing to consider that my memories may be colored by time, but don't tell me, please.)

I'm not sure that any of us look very much like each other, although careful inspection would probably reveal facial and other physical similarities. Our mothers "favored" one another, although old age revealed that my mom looked most like their mother, while Aunt Catherine was the image of their dad.

Many years have gone by since I've seen Nancy. The last time I recall clearly was at our granny's funeral in 1968, although I do think we visited once after that. The point is that we still live very different lives: she still lives in a small Southern community, I live in a major metropolitan area in the Northwest. Our religions have always been different, her family following the more conservative beliefs of our granny, and our family being staunch Episcopalians after the manner of our grandfather. According to Nancy's recent email, we also have some divergence of politics, though apparently we're not on opposing sides on everything.

We were raised in a time and place - and by mothers - who taught us that family is important and that others' religion and politics were to be respected and not used as a bludgeon. So although Nancy and I aren't "part" of each other's lives in the traditional sense, we still have that Cousin Connection that has withstood the passage of time.

But Nancy's email opened my eyes to the many ways we are alike, despite our apparent differences. Nancy is - or as she says, "was" - a writer. (I think writers are always writers, we just sometimes don't write!) That gift of writing comes directly from our common grandfather; my sister is similarly gifted, and my mom was prolific in the style of her father. I don't know if Aunt Catherine "wrote," nor do I know about my mom's youngest sister, Aunt Marion. I do know that Aunt Marion's daughter Laurel also writes. My sister's daughter is gifted, as is my oldest son. And one of my most poignant memories surrounding my mother's last illness is that all three of her children were mentally preparing her lengthy obituary even as we were gathering from different parts of the country to be with her. Writers all.

Nancy, who is three years older than I, also loves adventure, collecting "stuff," spoiling her grandchildren, and reading obituaries. Just like me. None of this is learned from each other, obviously, so I can only assume that it is implanted in our DNA as surely as the color of our hair, our eyes, our body types, and our musical abilities. It seems to me that this is a great gift. That, in us, our grandparents and parents live on. Not just in appearances, but in behaviors and talents. That in some small way, John Herbert Peck (1874-1961) and Willie Ola Peck (1887-1968) are still having an influence on the world. That the grandchildren of their grandchildren will carry parts of them forward to blossom in yet another generation.

I love this feeling of connection I have with Nancy, and I'm so thankful that she cared enough to not only read my blog entries, but to write and tell me about our commonalities. Maybe one of these days she'll even comment here. You'll know it's her by the writing style!

Mad dogs and Englishmen

2009-03-12T16:11:00.000-07:00

I've never made a bucket list (I might still do that, since I'm only middle-aged!), but if I had, visiting Europe - especially England - would be near the top of the list.

I am an unashamed Anglophile. Okay, maybe I should be a little ashamed since I used to think Prince Charles and I would have made a nice couple; after all, we're nearly the same age. Actually, I thought he looked a little priggy, but since it would have given me access to the Crown Jewels, several palaces, and centuries of history, I was willing to overlook his looks. But I would have been unwilling to overlook his taste in Camilla. However, I digress.

I've always wanted to visit England. To see the Changing of the Guard, Big Ben, the Tower of London (and the Crown Jewels, of course), Westminster Abbey, Parliament - oh, all the usual stuff. I've yearned to see double-decker buses, London roundabouts (but not to drive in London!), to visit a pub (but not to drink warm beer); I've mentally drawn the line at boiled beef, but think I could handle fish and chips.

So, at last, I'm going! Jim & I arranged our tour this morning and we leave the end of April. We aren't going only to England, since we both want to get a "taste" of Europe. We'll have 3 days in London, travel by ferry to France for three days in Paris (I expect we'll spend at least one of those days in the Louvre), and then by train to Italy for three days in Rome! Now, how exciting is that?

I would be happy to spend longer in England and Italy, stopping in France only long enough for the Louvre, but such are the arrangements of tours. And perhaps we'll go back in the next year or so for an extended visit.

We both love historical sites so much that it's a thrill to even start planning! I mean, what's more historical than Europe? We will have plenty of free time to visit things not on the tour, so we're talking now about what we most want to see. Maybe we'll be able to fit in a trip to Pompeii, but whatever we do, it will be exciting for us.

So if you notice a theme to my posts over the coming weeks, you'll know what's causing it. Or maybe I'll surprise us all and just treat the upcoming trip as a matter of course. But I doubt it.

Just keep breathing!

2009-03-03T09:04:00.000-08:00

I wish I could tell you that my daily reading of the obituaries was a recent addiction - you know, one of those things people do as they get older to see if any one they know has died. Or, failing that excuse, I wish I could tell you that I only began reading obituaries when I was fundraising for hospice in the 80s. It was important - from a fundraiser's point of view - to know which of our deceased patients had "Hospice" named as the beneficiary of any donations.

But the truth, the simple fact, is that I have read obituaries since about the time I started reading anything other than the comics and Ann Landers.

My name is Cheryle and I'm an obituary junkie.

Part of it, I'm certain, is due to my Southern heritage. Southerners are always keen to discuss who has died recently, what s/he died of, who has been seen paying too many condolence calls on the widow(er), and whether or not the family has been left financially solvent (in the case of the man's death) or who will take care of those poor, dear little children (if it's the mother who has died).

Of course if someone has died in the natural course of things, say, at age 93 after having survived at least one spouse and perhaps a child or two, there are other things that can be discussed. Such as whether or not the recently deceased has "just been waiting to die" ever since "George (or Mabel) passed on in 19 and 82." Or whether the house will sell for what it's worth since the recently deceased has just let it go to the dogs for the past 10 years. "Poor thing could hardly see anymore, so I reckon that's to be expected. Seems like those young'uns could've helped out some!"

But the real reason I read the obituaries is twofold: The first is so Jim or I can comment on the (perceived) fact that everyone who died was "so young," or that "at least it was all old people" (anyone older than we are).

The second reason, Dear Reader, is because I find so many obituaries are actually enthralling biographies of people whom it is now too late to meet! For example, today there was a death announcement for a particularly fascinating man. He just barely met the criteria for age, being only 9 months older than Jim, but he did so many things in his life! And he was a philosopher, besides. Oh, how I would have loved to have long conversations with him! And now the opportunity is forever lost.

Perhaps we should find a way to publish pre-obituaries, a daily listing of people in our communities - not the Rich and Famous, but just the ordinary Joes and Janes who populate our cities and towns. People from whom we could learn and with whom we could exchange ideas. People to whom we could pose questions and discuss answers. People whose lives could, perhaps, enlarge our own lives.

Or maybe we could just all find an older relative or friend whose storehouse of knowledge and wisdom could guide us as we muddle our way through this life. There are so many questions I still have for my mother and for my grandfather; questions that will remain unanswered; questions that I didn't know enough to ask when the opportunity was there.

And that may be the greatest loss we experience as we age. There are so many great gifts to being older - the blessings of seeing our children make their way, the advent of grandchildren - but surely there are losses. I think I will begin to look for ways to engage my family and friends in conversations beyond the mundane. Less of "How is the job going?" and more of "What do you think?"

I'll bet there are some interesting stories just waiting to be heard!

The Moving Finger writes...

2009-03-02T08:31:00.000-08:00

"...and, having writ, Moves on;
nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

My finger moves only to keyboard nowadays, seldom ever to write. And when I do write, it's frequently - usually - illegible, even to me. My handwriting was never anything to brag about, once I was freed from the uniformity of first grade manuscript and third grade cursive. By 6th grade I had developed my own "ruffles and flourishes" if you will, with "g"s and "y"s trailing reverse fish-hooks (just like every other girl my age) and "i"s dotted with great circles (also like every other girl my age!). Fortunately, this was before the age of the smiley face, or I'm sure my schoolwork would have sported that degradation as well!

My adult handwriting was an improvement - of sorts. My mom used to say, "Cheryle's handwriting is a beatiful thing to see; you just can't read it!" And she was right: my college papers, letters, notes to my children's teachers, all swept gracefully, grammatically correctly, Emily Post-ly (Postally?) across the papers upon which they were inscribed - and there were NO spelling errors! Folding them to place in an envelope, or stapling the corners together, I would often feel a sense of pride in how pretty they were, never giving a thought to how difficult they were to read. After all, I could read them; what's wrong with you people?

Even through years of using typewriter and then computers, it was easier to grab a sheet of paper and write something than it was to type (or keyboard) it. After all, formatting, finding paper, turning on the printer - well it was just easier to grab a piece of notebook paper from the kids or a legal pad from my office and write the letter, note, whatever.

My sister and I used to write long chatty letters to each other. She lived on one Coast, I on the other, and whenever a fat, legal-sized envelope with my sister's handwriting on it showed up in the mailbox, I saved it for when I could sit and relish it. Cross-outs, digressions, coffee rings - all were dear to me and cherished. And I responded in kind. Sometimes our letters would start on one day and end 12, or 15, or 20 pages later, on another. What treasures they were - and are; I've saved them all.

And I loved - and still do - seeing my mother's handwriting. It takes me back to childhood notes for school, or birthday cards, or mementos for my children, and, of course, her letters to me. I enjoy my grandfather's handwriting, an art learned in the 19th century, with letters that look so different today, peppered with words and phrases lost in the whirl of progress. And I treasure the school papers and too few letters that I have from my own boys, benchmarks of their progress in school, postcards from far-away places, Mother's Day and birthday cards that can make me cry or smile - or both!

Alas! I have become such a slave to the keyboard and email that I can barely write any longer. Sometimes it's an effort even to sign my name on a credit card slip (well, not that much of an effort!). My hand shakes sometimes when I try to write; it's not a real palsy because it doesn't happen any other time (like when I eat). But frequently I have to stop and form each letter in a word very intentionally, otherwise my writing is illegible even to me.

I will not leave behind volumes of letters written to my children and grandchildren, nor will I have many to add to those precious ones tucked away in boxes. And I'm sorry for that.

My sister sent an article about handwriting to me over the weekend. It was sent, of course, electronically, which was kind of ironic. But it speaks to the loss of this once revered art form, and it made me nostalgic for the "good old days."

Progress is good and I love the convenience and speed of computers. Hey, if not for computers, you'd be missing all this musing! But I'm sorry that future generations won't have the evocative odor of letters stuffed in old shoe boxes and hidden away in closets. Or know that thrill of touching a piece of paper that grandfather rested his hand upon more than a century ago. Or finding that word that a relative just never spelled the same way twice. Or especially the quiet joy of holding a letter from a long-dead loved one, re-reading the words so carefully written in an ageing hand, the faded ink a testament to taking precious time to say, "I love you and I miss you. Write soon. Love, Mom"

Partisanship is not the same as patriotism

2009-02-20T22:40:00.000-08:00

It was really a time of learning new trades, new ways of doing things, and making do. Other than heavy hearts, I fully believe that if the truth was ever told, this country was more together, caring more, with less, than ever before or since. (Cecilia P. Jones-Angell, October 19, 1990)

The statement above is taken from my mother's memoirs,which she wrote out in the years before she died, and refers to the early days of WWII. I am struck by the comment of people caring more, with less, and that the country was together.

In many ways, perhaps, it was a simpler time, despite the fact that the whole world was at war, and given that the country was emerging from the Great Depression. I think that we could learn from our history about the value of pulling together toward a common goal instead of fighting to undermine whatever hope we might find for our nation and the world.

I can accept that there are people who did not vote for our current President and who are disappointed that their candidate, their party, did not win. I know that I would be unhappy had the election gone the other way. But I hope that I would be looking for solutions and working to mend fences instead of continuing to be angry and working to tear the fragile fabric of our economy.

Today I watched a documentary by Alexandria Pelosi, the daughter of the Speaker of the House. She compiled film clips and interviews with my countrymen who supported the McCain ticket because she felt it was important to know that there are people in this nation who vehemently disagree with what the Democratic Party stands for, and who yet are faithful Americans and patriots. She wanted people to know that we share a love for our nation with people who believe differently and who feel excluded from decision-making, and who even feel betrayed and marginalized.

The documentary began with a disclaimer that not everyone who is Republican is as radical as some who are portrayed, but that the people who spoke were sincere and genuine in their feelings. I can accept that; I can even embrace the differences of my fellow Americans without accepting their ideology. What I cannot embrace or accept is the determination to see our country fail just because of spiteful feelings or resentment over last November's election.

In recent days I've seen and heard too many conservative politicians posturing over the stimulus bill that the President signed this week. I've heard some Republican governors decry the bill and make statements regarding whether or not they will accept money from the bill, even as their states sink further and further into unemployment, foreclosure crises, and budgets bordering on bankruptcy.

Fortunately, the bill allows for state legislatures to accept the money over the governors' objections so as to avoid states being penalized for political reasons. I heard Governor Schwartzenegger on this documentary as he criticized then-candidate Obama for his fiscal policies; and yet today the governor of California is eagerly awaiting the assistance this stimulus package will bring to his state. I know that the Republican governor of Florida has taken a stand with the President to implement the bill and bring relief to his constituents.

I don't think anyone should be silenced for their genuine objections, but I do think that people need to accept reality. I think Republican members of Congress need to look at where we are headed and, instead of attempting to place every stumbling block possible in the path of this new administration, they should be working for the good of the country rather than looking at their chances of getting re-elected.

I am so tired of the intractable partisanship that permeates the fiber of our nation. It was not always so; even I can recall a time when Senators, Congressmen, Governors, and even the common citizen put aside partisan politics for the good of the whole. Why would any right-minded person want our nation to fail? Why would one hope that our President will be proved wrong in his policies? Why wouldn't all Americans want to see our nation succeed, regardless of who is in office?

I truly cannot fathom the mindset that denies reality. If you don't agree with the stimulus package then, by all means, speak your mind; and if you're truly against it, then please return whatever monetary benefit you accrue. If you're really dead set against it, then you would be hypocritical to accept a reduction in your taxes or assistance with your mortgage or a job that is created or even additional weeks of unemployment compensation or COBRA assistance. If you put your money where your mouth is, then you will have credibility.

Otherwise, you are, in the words of St. Paul, a noisy gong or a clashing cymbal, seeking only to disrupt rather than attempting to heal in our time of national need.

Historical Valentine's Day

2009-02-15T05:49:00.000-08:00

What better way to spend Valentine's Day than doing something you love, in a place you love, with the person you love!

I awoke to find my bathroom floor covered with hearts (they look so striking against the white tile that I'm going to leave them there for a few days!). Jim has always managed to find a clever and dramatic way to surprise me, but has never surpassed our first year together when he filled my shower with heart-shaped balloons, but he still manages to find ways to surprise me!

After reading the newspaper and taking my morning walk, I had an appointment with the Red Cross to give blood. By 11:00 I was home and Jim and I were ready to begin our Valentine's Day Adventure! Yesterday, you see, was also Oregon's Sesquicentennial and we two history buffs had promised ourselves a day immersed in the history of this beautiful state.

We live just north of Oregon City, which was the capital of the Oregon Territory and the first Capital of the State. In honor of the day, many of the historic sites were admission-free, and the City's trolley was on a special route to hit the highlights. (As an aside for any other history buffs, Oregon City's archives holds the original plat for the city of San Francisco. Since OC was the territorial capital, it had to be filed here, and here it has stayed!)

We enjoyed two museums and two local homes, most notably that of Dr. John McLoughlin who is known as "The Father of Oregon." We viewed the city and the Willamette River from OC's own outdoor elevator, and then headed over to our favorite little wine bar, Winestock.

All in all, it was a lovely, if exhausting, day for two people who love sharing time together, and who love the history of our State and our Nation.

I hope you and your Valentine had a special day as well.

Perspective

2009-02-10T09:44:00.000-08:00

I'm multi-tasking this morning. I'm adding descriptions to family photos on my family tree site, recording episodes of "Little Bear" on a VCR tape for Addison, and watching the snow fall gently outside the window.

The snow is gentle and light, sticking to roofs and trees, and a little bit on the ground, but melting quickly on streets and sidewalks. It's so pretty when it falls and I do love it, although by noon it will turn to rain. We may have light snow again tomorrow morning, but then it will also turn quickly to rain.

In the 14 years I've lived in Oregon, we've had more snow this year than ever before, a sign, some say, of climate change. Whatever the reason, it's a nice change from our usual winter weather of rain, rain, and more rain.

It puts me in mind of the first time I saw snow.

As a Florida native, growing up in Tampa and Lake Wales, snow was never a part of my life. I do recall one winter when snow fell briefly, but melted mid-air. That was a big disappointment to me, since I read all the books that talked about kids playing in snow and was intensely disappointed in the eternal sunshine of life in Florida!

In 1964, however, I lived briefly in Portsmouth, VA. On a winter day around December 1st, I looked out to see snow! I was so excited! I put on my heavy coat and went outside and stood in it for about 15 minutes, marveling as it brushed my face and landed on my coat, melting too quickly to really count. But it was beautiful and I was young enough at 17 to be enthralled by the experience.

In subsequent years, we traveled to Oregon and Washington and I was treated to snow in the mountains, but never again to see it fall. Until 1991 when Ben and I lived for a fall and winter in Indianapolis.

That year winter came early - in October, I believe. Of course everyone blamed me for wanting it so badly, but I didn't care! Ben and I got up early in the morning and went outside and had a snowball fight. My 11-year-old son was as excited as I was and we laughed ourselves silly with the excitement of it all!

That afternoon as I gave a co-worker a ride home, the snow started falling again! She was telling me a story when I interrupted and said, "It's snowing!" She continued with her story, and I, in my excitement, repeated, "It's snowing!" "Yes," she replied, "I see it." "But," I exclaimed, "you don't understand: It's snowing and I'm driving in it!"

With exaggerated patience, she looked at me and said, "Cheryle, I'm from Buffalo, NY, and this just doesn't even count as snow!" I laughed and she continued with her story.

Perspective counts, but it shouldn't count for too much. Especially when it's snowing!

You're no longer relevant

2009-02-08T21:56:00.000-08:00

I want to relish the thoughts of a granddaughter and enjoy the planning that Jim and I are doing for travels this Spring. I want to bask in the glow of a new Presidency, and delight in the knowledge that the Oval Office is now occupied by a man who understands and cares about both the history and the future of this nation.

What I don't want to do is think about Dick Cheney.

However, he has insinuated himself into the public consciousness again this past week, and has violated a longstanding, if unwritten, code of conduct regarding new administrations. Oh, he's not the only one of Bush's administration to act out in the manner of petulant children, but he's been the most vocal. And, given the recent history of our nation, he is arguably the most dangerous.

Mr. Cheney still supports the suspension of civil rights for detainees at Guantanamo. He either fails to understand or, more likely, just doesn't care that civil rights are not just for select individuals. If they are, then who, exactly, gets to make the selection? If you think it doesn't matter, ask Oregon attorney Brandon Mayfield who suffered mightily under the so-called Patriot Act, which allows the government to suspend an individual's rights. Think of the horror of having this happen to your family!

Mr. Cheney has also continued to defend the use of torture, including that torture known as waterboarding. By defending this reprehensible action, Mr. Cheney has de facto agreed that the US will not object should such tactics be used against our own military. After all, how can you take the righteous high road for your own people when you care not at all for the people of other nations?

I believe that Cheney - who was almost frighteningly silent during the waning days of the Bush Administration - is now feeling the loss of power, the impotence, perhaps, of a man who is no more important than anyone else. The trappings of power are gone and I think he can't deal with it. Therefore he feels compelled to attack the current administration in a futile attempt to make himself look better.

Give it up, Dickie Boy. You just aren't relevant anymore.

Buttons and bows

2009-02-06T22:20:00.000-08:00

I suppose, in her heart of hearts, every woman wants a baby girl. I've always theorized that it's a hangover from the days of dolls and daydreams of clouds of pink lace and soft, fluffy things. And, of course, from somewhere deep in our ancient genetic code, the desire to reproduce oneself.

I had three pregnancies and delivered three wonderful male children, who have presented me with four adorable (and adored) male grandchildren. I've grown accustomed to boy things: trucks, Spiderman, StarWars, light sabers, Matchbox cars, tiny little briefs, questions about why I can't pee standing up, and fart jokes. I've also enjoyed through the years the button-bursting pride of being surrounded by tall, handsome young men, and a sense of matriarchy that perhaps comes from being the only woman in a houseful of male children. I've shared a sense of camaraderie with my two beloved daughters-in-law, and especially Lisa, my d-i-l, Sr., who is herself the mother of three gorgeous boys.

When my youngest son and his wife (d-i-l, Jr.) announced late last fall that we will have a new addition in July, I kind of assumed that I would add one more boy to my stable of boys. And, quite frankly, I was okay with that. I had long ago given up the idea of leaving my doll collection to a grandchild and assumed that it would pass someday to a great-granchild, or find its way onto the shelves of the local Goodwill Store.

So, here I sit tonight, still digesting the news that Ben and Briana delivered this afternoon: I'm going to have a granddaughter! It still seems unreal. I've tried to imagine changing girl diapers, and I'm already pondering what I will sew/crochet/embroider for her first gift. Oh, I know that her parents will want me to not be too fluffy, and I will try very hard to honor that. And I know that she is just as likely to be a tomboy as she is to be a girly-girl. And I know that I will do with her as I have done with her brother and allow her to grow into her own person, respecting her strengths and weaknesses, loving her and reveling in her accomplishments. I know that her gender will not make her more or less important to me, and I know that I will love her for herself, cherishing her life as I cherish her brother and her cousins.

But I know, too, that she will carry within her the strength of generations of strong women from both sides of her family, and that she will also live in a time when those strengths will not be deprecated because she is a woman. This child, my granddaughter, will stand in a time of new opportunity. She will benefit from the generations who have gone before, male and female, and can make her choices based on her own abilities and desires. In some ways I envy her, being born in this time to parents who will recognize that she will be her own woman and who will help her realize her potential.

I look forward to meeting you, dear granddaughter, and holding you and rocking you and singing to you, as I have your brother and your cousins.

I hope it's okay if the blanket I wrap you in has a little lace around the edges!

A birthday

2009-01-31T15:57:00.000-08:00

Eighty-nine years ago today, in a small but growing town in Central Florida, the first child of Willie and John Peck was born. They lived with Willie's parents, youngest sister, and brother, the only ones still at home of a family of eleven children.

Her father, John, was a seaman and had already seen much of the world, although he would see even more in the years to come. Her mother, Willie, was a seamstress and had owned a store when she was a very young woman. She loved them both, but had a special devotion and affection for her father, remembering him always as so much better than he really was, and cherishing throughout her life the times she spent with him.

She would have a hard life - raped at 14 and forced to marry a much older man; then falling in love with and marrying a good-looking, sweet-talking man who never grew up; years during WWII working on airplanes and traveling between Florida and Maryland, leaving her baby son in her mother's care; contracting polio as a young mom, pregnant with her third child; and raising three children as a divorced woman in the 50s, selling door-to-door cosmetics, encyclopedias, automobiles - whatever it took to keep her family together and provide for children all but abandoned by their father.

Through it all, she kept faith - in herself and in her God. Surely she must have shed many tears and wondered many times how she would ever manage; but her children never saw those tears or heard the fears of her heart. She could make hot dogs for dinner seem like a feast ("We're having meat tonight, kids! Don't eat too much or you'll get protein poisoning!"), and somehow she could always scrape up the cost of a ticket to the high school football game to see her son play.

She was mistress of a home filled with love and laughter. Her daughters' dates often ended up sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, talking until it was too late to go anywhere. Their friends nearly always preferred visiting her to spending time at their own homes. Even after her kids were all married and moved away, old boyfriends would stop by to see her, bringing their wives and kids to show off.

She grew old quickly. Polio had taken its toll, and osteoporosis was the final insult. At age 72, the doctors said she had the body of a 90-year-old. Still with that irrepressible humor - and with a breathing tube down her throat - the intensive care nurses told her and her children that they needed to keep the laughter down: "There are sick people in here!" and, "We'll just close this door so you don't disturb them."

In 1992, just 13 days after her 72nd birthday, she died. I miss her every day.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Growing old in the age of modern medicine

2009-01-30T09:11:00.000-08:00

My mom (as well a lot of other people) used to say, "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself!) That has become my new refrain as I move toward 62.

I don't feel old, and I certainly don't think of myself as old (I do refrain from mini-skirts, however; I'm not blind yet!), and I know that my 61 is not my grandmother's 61. However...

Years of falling off my bike, jumping from moderately high places, working long hours on my feet, and a lifetime of weight gains and losses have taken a toll on my poor knees. Especially my left knee. The dreaded arthritis. It hurts my viscera just to see it in print.

The pain was awful, waking me up at night and then keeping me awake. Bringing tears to my eyes at times. Keeping me from running and jumping at the playground with Addison ("You knee hurt again, Gran?") In other words, knee pain was dramatically affecting my quality of life.

So, off I went to The Bone Doc, a nice young man, only a year older than my oldest son, which is another thing about getting older, but that's for another day! He took x-rays and then took the time to x-plain them. Both knees are arthritic, and there's really no difference in the degree. So why does my left knee hurt and my right knee feels fine? He doesn't know and neither do I.

As I sat there, expecting him to start discussing surgical options, he surprised me by saying, "There are several methods of treatment, and I want you to be comfortable with what we do. It's really your decision." Since I had really thought my only option would be knee replacement, this was nice to hear. As he began to discuss the options, I was intrigued by the idea of injections - not cortisone, not steroids, but of a medication derived from roosters' combs! Hyalgan, it's called, and I had heard about it from a family member just a few weeks before. It requires three injections, one week apart, into the joint. The results can be dramatic and can last for up to a year.

Sign me up!

To make a long story short, I actually had four injections, because of our December snow "event." It caused me to miss a week and I didn't want to take any chances, since the injections weren't the most pleasant medical care I've ever had! More uncomfortable than painful, but still.

The last injection was two weeks ago, and the results have bordered on miraculous! I no longer wake up with knee pain during the night. I can crawl around on the floor with Addison, run and jump, get up and down stairs easily. Oh, I'm still a bit stiff sometimes, but that's to be expected, given my age and level of activity. BUT I DON'T HURT!

And that, Dear Reader, is cause for celebration.

Reflection

2009-01-19T20:41:00.000-08:00

President George W. Bush is leaving office. I have no desire to beat up on him; I'm certain that he is, at heart, a nice person. I felt the same way about Jimmy Carter. In fact I am somewhat famously known (among my children, at least) for stating that President Carter was sincere in his belief that what he did was right for the nation. I believe that George W. Bush was also sincere in his belief that he was following the leading of his conscience.

The important difference is that Carter was congruent in his philosophy and behavior. Bush seems truly unable to see the contradictions in his actions and statements. For example, Bush described the failure to find weapons of mass destruction in Iran as a "huge disappointment." I'm sorry. This doesn't qualify as a "huge disappointment" in my view. I consider it a "huge disappointment" when one of my sons doesn't get a job/raise/etc. Going to war under the pretense of WMD is more along the order of tragedy. When a President chooses to engage in a war that costs the lives of nearly 5,000 men and woman, I think this is much more than a "disappointment" to the wives, husband, children, parents, siblings, and friends of those who died. When young people die before they have a chance to live, it is at least as tragic as abortion. At least. For the Commander in Chief to call it a "disappointment" diminishes the value of those lives.

Let us leave the war for a moment and visit President Bush's most "anxious moment" during his 8-year Presidency. According to him, it was when he threw the opening pitch for the 2001 World Series. Now none of us can deny that there was unprecedented pressure upon the President following the tragedy of 9/11. It was a time when all of us were hyper-aware of the eyes of the world and we were keeping our own eyes open. But after 7-1/2 years of war, strife, abuses of prisoners, economic collapse - and still, the World Series opening ball was the President's most anxious moment? I just don't get it.

So, Mr. President, we bid you farewell. I voted for you once and I have to say that I regret that vote. For I was as frivolous as you. I voted for you because Al Gore bored me. I didn't want to listen to four - or eight - years of his monotony. And so I cast my vote with as little care as you have shown for the men and women who have paid the ultimate price of freedom - even as you have expressed your angst over throwing out a ball at the World Series. I wish I could take that vote back, because I will live with the shame of it for the rest of my days.

I'd like to say that you seem like the kind of guy I'd enjoy having a beer with - and maybe I would. But that will never happen. I am left to judge you as each of us is judged by others: by the congruency of our actions and our words. You are not an introspective man; we have learned that over the years. So history will be your judge - though you dismiss even that judgment. I am glad we have survived you, even though we have only barely done so. I am glad you are going home to Texas. They will welcome you and give you a place.

But I am sorry for the damage you have done to our nation. I am sorry - grievously sorry - for the lives lost in your made-up war. I am sorry for the loss of respect that this nation has felt around the world. I am sorry for the people who have lost the respect of the American people because of you. But most of all, I am sorry for that vote I cast in November, 2000. I wish I could take it back.

Perfect!

2009-01-06T12:51:00.000-08:00

This year I was able to extend Christmas all the way to New Year's Day! My family and friends know how much I love Christmas and my birthday, and I will always find ways to extend the celebrations if possible. (For example a few years ago, Jim gave me a weekend for two at a hotel on the Coast for my June birthday. My sister and I finally used that gift that November, so I just considered that it was still my birthday! Clever, huh?)

This year, my youngest son, his wife, and their son (Addison) spent the actual Christmas holiday with her family about an hour's drive out of town. They came home on Sunday, had to work on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, so it was Thursday - New Year's Day - before we could get together with them to exchange gifts.

I love giving and I love receiving, so the whole Christmas thing is wonderful for me. Jim & I had been looking forward to the kids' reactions to our presents for them, and hoped for some wonderful home-made goodies in return. (Briana is a great cook, and both Ben and Briana are extraordinarily creative people, so our gifts are usually unique and thoughful.) I truly don't think anyone was disappointed - we had one item that had to be returned, but it brought something we truly needed in its place, so all was well.

Then came MY last gift. The tag said: "To Cheryle Ann From Santa." And the box was - well, not huge, but large. And I couldn't imagine what it held, or why my whole name was on the tag. Briana said, "We think this must have been hanging around in Santa's bag since you were a little girl, and he finally found it to give to you!" I was even more perplexed.

When I opened the box, there inside was a beautiful new doll for my collection - but she is dressed up in Western costume. "It's Annie Oakley!" I cried out. And then I just cried. My loved ones know how much I love Annie Oakley. How, when I was a little girl, my mom made an Annie Oakley outfit for me to wear while I sang all the songs from "Annie Get Your Gun." They know that one of the highlights of my 60th birthday two summers ago was going to Cody, WY and seeing the museum where artifacts of her life and career are on display. And they know that my doll collection has been languishing in the guest room, destined for perhaps a great-granddaughter, since my kids seem to only produce boys!**
Strictly speaking, and according to the tag on her arm, her name is Jan Jesse. But it's just not MY fault if the manufacturer didn't recognize her true identity, or if Annie chooses not to be harrassed by the paparazzi! She and I both know she's Annie Oakley, so don't let me hear from any naysayers out there in blogdom!

Briana found her at an estate sale last year, and thought of ME! Now, how cool is that? (Briana finds the most and the best bargains at estate sales - and she obviously also has an eye toward things that will be loved by others.)

Annie has not yet joined her sisters (and brother) in the guest room. As I told Jim last night, I'm not through looking at her yet. Besides, she is the impetus for me to finally do what I've wanted to do for several years: build a proper display case for my lovelies. Annie will be right there next to Katie, the last doll my mom ever gave me.

** We have a little postscript due regarding my grandchildren. The postscript is due around the 4th of July, and we do not yet know if we are expecting a boy or a girl. I've waited to make the announcement until Briana told the world on her blog, but gosh it's been hard not to share!

It's just me again!

2008-12-31T22:40:00.000-08:00

Across the hall from me, a little boy is sleeping. Tomorrow morning he'll come into my room, touch my face gently, and say, "Hi, Gran. It's 6:30 (or whatever time it will be)." He'll climb into bed with me and we'll cuddle for a few minutes before he says, "I'm hungry."

That is how 2009 will begin for me. It is my 62nd New Year's Day. This is the year I will begin to collect Social Security, and Jim & I hope to make a long-anticipated trip to Europe this year and perhaps another trip across the US, taking a different route and seeing different things.

This is a good time of life.

We measure so much by beginnings and endings, and yet, truly, time is unimportant. Each day is a gift, each smile, each embrace, each touch of a hand - whether it's a hand marked by age or a hand still sticky with a cookie, each sunrise, each rising or sleeping, each is its own precious and special moment.

I really never make New Year's resolutions. When I was younger - a teenager - I would draw up lists of things that seemed to fill the bill for resolutions, but my heart was never in it. Beyond the vague "I really need to lose weight," it has always seemed to me that this great creation of mankind - time - is really immaterial to our lives. It drags on, it speeds by, it escapes our notice, or it becomes all we can think about. And yet all we really have is each moment.

This year, I plan to appreciate the moments. I hope I can live my days without anticipating what is to come tomorrow, without wishing away the moment I am in.

My mother used to tell me that I was wishing my life away. You know the wishes, I'm sure: I wish my birthday/Christmas/prom would hurry up and get here. I wish it was time for vacation. I wish my kids were older and I could __________.

Well, my kids are older. Adults, every one of them. And sometimes I long for those far-away times when I could hold them on my lap and listen to their dreams. The days that I muddled through in a haze, or wished away in anticipation or frustration, each of those days is gone, never to return.

I hope to look at each moment in 2009 with the eyes of a child, as a unique event that will never happen again in quite the same way. I know, even as I write this, that I will fail in this expectation; it's the way I'm made - perhaps the way each of us is made. But I'm going to try.

And so I will end 2008 secure in knowing that, across the hall, Addison is curled up with his blankie and his Winnie-the-Pooh. I will think of him and of all my grandsons - Andrew, David, Matthew, and Adin - as they embark on all the hopes, joys, disappointments, successes, and even failures of this life - and hope that they can find within themselves a lifetime of seeing the new in each day, each moment.

I wish for you, everyone, a bright and beautiful 2009, beginning with tomorrow's sunrise!

I hope I'm not boring you

2008-12-22T21:58:00.000-08:00

Okay, I know you've probably had it with my waxing poetic over our recent "winter event" here in the Portland area, but I do hope you'll indulge one more post. Today, Jim drove to my son's house (about 12 miles away) to retrieve my daughter-in-law and grandson, saving them from another day of being housebound and to spend a few hours with adult conversation, a movie, and admiring the wildlife at the feeders in our yard.

Since Ben, Briana, and Addison are hoping to head East tomorrow to spend Christmas with Briana's family, it was a nice opportunity to have a few hours together prior to Christmas. Jim plowed his way out of the driveway, using his truck bumper as a plow, and brought my dear ones to me. After work, Ben made his way to our house and took his wife and son back home. It was a treasured interlude in a snowy, cold, and otherwise quiet day at home for just the two of us.

The worst of the storm seems to be over, although more showshowers are forecast, and temperatures are said to be on the rise. We will still have snow on the ground for Christmas (and I love the idea of that!), and the "kids" will spend the rest of the holiday in a winter wonderland on the north slope of Mt. Hood. I will miss spending Christmas with them, but know how fortunate I am to spend time with them for most of the holidays and am glad that Briana's parents and siblings will have time to be with each other for this rare snow holiday.

The photos included here show the progression of snow over the past week (December 14, 19, and 22). Our front yard decorations are flamingoes, and I've been intentional about taking photos of them to show the increasing depth of the snow. For a Florida gal, this is truly a winter treat!

Merry Christmas to all!

Let it snow!

2008-12-21T16:42:00.000-08:00

I know that there are lots of places where snow is an annual occurrence, on levels far greater than anything I've ever seen. (Except I have been to Glacier Bay and THAT'S a lot of snow!) But here in the Pacific Northwest our usual Winter Wonderland is wet, rainy, muddy, soggy, flooded, and rainy. Oh, did I mention rain? It is much more common to worry about slipping on algae than on ice, and we're far more accustomed to tracking in fir needles than snow and ice.

But this year... Oh, this year! It's a winter wonderland around here. We've had some kind of wintry precipitation - snow, hail, freezing rain - for almost every day since Sunday, December 14th. And we've only been above freezing once or twice, when temperatures zoomed all the way up to 36 degrees!

So we're staying in. We could put chains on the truck and go to the store, but we don't need to. At our ages, need trumps want and there isn't anything at all we need. We have a good supply of wood for the woodstove, and the woodshed is only a few steps from the back door of the garage. We have plenty of food and wine, we have working indoor plumbing, we have plenty of things to read, and we have (so far) electricity to power lights, television, computers, and the stove.

Our kids, on the other hand, are doing what kids do. Of course, they are adult children, but Ben and Mike are really kids at heart and they love driving places and doing things. For them, adventure trumps comfort. They've visited friends, been sledding, went out to buy cupcakes for Addison's 3rd birthday (Happy birthday, Bubs!), and have just generally enjoyed this rare event. I love knowing that they're so adventurous, and am happy that they're young enough and healthy enough to fully appreciate this incredible weather.

Of course, being Portland, we do have our little issues. One of our news channels has pre-empted all regular programming for the past week, filling our lives with more information than anyone really needs - although I'm sure people who are heading out appreciate knowing what's going on. We're always unprepared for snow - our cities and counties don't have the equipment to handle a winter event of this magnitude, and we aren't accustomed to driving in this weather so there are lots of cautionary stories and lots of reports of cars sliding down hills and minor accidents. Unfortunately, there have also been a few deaths, most of which have resulted from unsafe behavior under the guise of "fun."

But for the most part, it's gorgeous and exciting and FUN! And for a Florida gal, it's like waking up inside a Currier & Ives painting!

Good friends and gingerbread houses - or Why Good Housekeeping Will Never Hire Me As Their Christmas Decorations Editor

2008-12-20T13:46:00.000-08:00

It is said that you can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends. My family is pretty remarkable, if somewhat weird, and I enjoy being related to them. Once in a great while I've been lucky enough to have friends who fit right in with my family. If that's troublesome to them (and perhaps it should be!) they've managed to conceal it gracefully.

Two such friends are our neighbors, Mary and Gary. Although Mary & Gary don't have grandchildren yet, they are very indulgent of Ada and Addison, and the attraction is mutual. Addison has been known to follow them to the bathroom!

So Mary, in what was either a gesture of extreme kindness or a diabolical plot, brought two gingerbread house kits over a couple of weeks ago - one for each kiddo. All she asked was the opportunity to see the finished products. I, who had never put a gingerbread house together, was charmed by the thought. I had briefly considered getting one kit for the two of them to share, but dismissed the idea when I realized that coordinating kid visits at this time of year was going to be problematic. Mary, of course, was untroubled by the mechanics of such coordination.

So when we unexpectedly had Ada overnight last Thursday, I seized the opportunity. I knew that I would be babysitting Addison on Friday evening, and could arrive early enough that he and I could work on his house; Ada and I could decorate hers before I left.

What I learned about gingerbread houses:

It takes longer than the recommended 30 minutes for the walls and roof construction to set; overnight is better - and may be mandatory!
Gumballs do not work well as roof decoration unless an adult is willing to hold them down for 10-15 minutes EACH while the icing sets up enough to hold.
Gumballs DO make a good cap for the peak of the roof, but if you press down too hard, the roof will start to slide.
Neither gumballs nor jellybeans are recommended decoration for the sides of the house; gravity takes over even more quickly on the vertical than it does on the slope.
Not all kids are thrilled with sticky hands and fingers, but all of them are thrilled at the sight of unlimited bite-sized candies!
A gingerbread house is a good opportunity to get rid of leftover Halloween candies if you have a creative mind.
There's really nothing quite like the memories created when you decorate a gingerbread house with grandchildren. Some of them are even good ones!

But in the final analysis, it was fun and the kids were proud of their creations. Grandpa observed while Ada and I labored, and Addison's mommy actually got into the act and was quite creative with candy canes and mints.

So, thank you, Mary, for the gingerbread houses! I'm including pictures so you can see the finished products. It was very thoughtful of you and I can hardly wait till you and Gary have grandchildren so I can return the favor.

I'm thinking drums...