Melmoirs

Precious is definitely related to fleeting

2012-01-25T11:00:00.003-05:00

Our neighborhood is in a bit of flux. Two of our close neighbors who happen to live right beside each other are both trying to sell their homes at the same time. It's not because there's a neighborhood flaw (it's a great little street); it just happened that way. Which, of course, makes the prospect of slapping our home on the market anytime soon seem like a pretty poor idea. Small street, fewer than 12 homes total, and three of them for sale simultaneously? Not a good scenario. Alas, we stay put and wait to see what unfolds... (Which feels like the story of my life lately... but I digress.) The entire point of this post, however, is not real estate markets. It's the idea that when we see an approaching end to something, then that thing begins to gain meaning and perhaps even value. For example, take our neighbors who are trying to move: one of the two homes seems to have found a buyer, and now I find that I feel sad and melancholy when I see the sellers walking their little dog. Each walk they take probably boils down to one of the last times I'll witness them strolling with the little guy (pictured here in a painting I just finished—would anyone out there like a commissioned pet portrait?)

I wanted to paint a portrait of their pup regardless, just because he's so darned cute and they've been such great neighbors. Now, it looks as if the painting might end up being a parting gift. When big upheavals are imminent and impending, small moments and glimpses are loaded with sentimental weight. I suppose I'm realizing that one more familiar thing that I took for granted is likely going away. We can keep in touch, but it won't be the same—it never is. Something I assumed was a given will soon be taken. And that in itself makes me examine the soon-to-be-taken in a totally different light. Is that true for everyone? Is it human to re-evaluate everything right before, or even right after, it is removed from one's realm?

Not much to say

2012-01-18T11:44:00.000-05:00

I've always found this time of year to be uninspiring. I know that many folks attack it with resolutions, plans to lighten their load of possessions, new approaches to help organize their lives... and those are all very worthy pursuits. It's just that I do that sort of thing all year, honestly, and frequently fall short or fail; my energy wanes in the grips of winter, after the holiday rush, and my attempts to revitalize myself and my life feel futile and phony. I call this mood my "dull-drums." It's a time to be thoughtful, I suppose. Or to ponder the amazing fact that my 10th wedding anniversary is just around the corner. Or to try to evaluate just when I stopped being viable and hip (or to realize that I never, in fact, actually achieved those states of being...) Mostly, I am trying to be aware of each breath, of the speed with which we're all spinning, of the fact that I am staring at middle age and don't have quite as much "going on" as I thought I would by now. I'm feeling pretty peaceful, though, about the ways that my reality differs from younger expectations I might have had about my fourth decade of life. God is kind, and He has shaped my understanding of success and contentment so that most of the time, I can truly feel comfortable in both those areas.On that note, I'll remain quiet here on the blogosphere sideline until I'm able to make more substantive observations. I hope you are finding health and happiness in the new year—and even if you aren't, the year is still pretty young, so don't despair.(And again, the single giant paragraph. Yep, still having issues. Sorry.)

Art, and life

2012-01-11T10:28:00.001-05:00

I finished this painting last week, but couldn't post it because of the operating system issues we were having. (We're still having them, but since they have not yet directly affected my husband's life, they are not yet being addressed. Sigh.) (Yes, I realize I should probably try to address them myself. I wish I had more than a misguided clue.)So. I love female cardinals, and this little gal was so alert. She looked sort of like a gossip, not necessarily a mean-spirited type, but the bird who simply loves to share news of the neighborhood. Our pal Tom takes the best photos; this image was inspired from one of his beautiful works. It's for sale in the Etsy shop. In unrelated news, my little guy is getting big. Filling out, solid limbs, visible muscle definition in legs now... It's freaking me out. As most parents do in times such as these, I suppose, I am recalling with fondness and nostalgia (and teary eyes) memories from his very early childhood. One thing that we talk about frequently is the boy's discovery that most people have more than one eye. We were teaching him body parts, pointing to nose, mouth, ears, and eyes. We'd point to the feature, say the name, do it again, ask him to repeat us--you know the drill. At one point, after we'd done this several times in as many days, my sweet child was showing his new awareness to his father. "Daddee, eye." He pointed to his dad's eyeball, bringing the stubby finger close but not poking him (sometimes that happened). Then all of a sudden, the kid looked in amazement at my husband's entire face, and apparently it was the first holistic study he'd done. He said, with awe and amazement, "Daddee, two eyes!" We still laugh about it to this day. P.S. If this entire post is running together as one big paragraph, I apologize. It didn't look that way when I wrote it, but since I am still forced to work on a machine that's not mine, I'm having trouble figuring out the idiosyncrasies of the shared machine... Alas, one big para. Ugh.

Issues

2012-01-05T10:30:00.001-05:00

That's what we're having with our computer these days. Time for a new operating system... which we're researching now. I'm on a shared machine right now.If I'm an absentee blogger, you'll know why.And I'm going to enable comments without review by me. That might be a huge mistake. We'll have to see what happens. Often, the un-moderated comments turn into major spam... Stay tuned. And stay warm!

Zoom, zoom

2012-01-04T10:43:00.000-05:00

Coming out of the Christmas holiday is sort of like the last third of an amusement park coaster ride. The speed and spin factors become almost unbearable, you can see the finish line if you dare to open your eyes, and you feel increasingly ill.

Then it's done, you're coasting to a stop, and at once the simultaneous relief and letdown flood your every pore. (On a side, note, my post-holiday nausea probably isn't caused by motion sickness, but instead by a horrifyingly out-of-control consumption of cookies...)

As usual, I'm feeling much more relief than any other emotion. Christmas has pretty much lost most of its association with Christ, from what I see; mostly, it feels like a giant buy-a-thon these days. Not to mention that it's feeling rather brutal of late, what with pepper-sprayed shoppers and gun-toting, sneaker-buying thugs getting all the news coverage. This is why I shop second-hand, people—most shoppers can't afford weapons or self-defense sprays at the Goodwill.

So, honestly, I'm glad it's all over. Now comes the season of steeling oneself for the survival of long, cold, winter months. But already the days are getting a tiny bit longer, aren't they? We can cling to that, even while knit scarves and hats cling to our hair and throats as we try to endure the misery.

Happily, I am once again amazed and touched at the generosity of friends and family around us. We are really blessed, in so many ways. I guess that if I were to make a resolution, it would be to cultivate a genuine attitude of gratitude. A grateful heart really does change a person's perspective.

I found some great little Mary Engelbreit cards on clearance at the craft store, and one of them spoke to me: "If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it!"

That will be my goal. Because, truly, I feel like time is slipping away faster than I can mark it. Alongside the relief of holidays safely past, crouching unobtrusively next to my snow boots, is the quiet, sobering realization that I don't have nearly as much time as I thought I did.

My gifts thus far...

2011-12-23T22:11:00.001-05:00

Christmas is fast approaching, isn't it? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Wow. Thankfully, I had already finished most of the big tasks by Wednesday, because late Wednesday night (early Thursday morning, actually) I was awakened by a distress cry from my son. The words you don't want to hear at 2:37am: "Mom, I feel like I'm going to be sick!"

"Go into the bathroom! Hurry!" See what a fabulous mother I am? No sympathy, no concern for him... just a frantic plea that he exit all upholstered and carpeted areas before the coming upheaval. (Can you tell I've had to change smelly sheets in the middle of the night on multiple occasions? You see, there are definitely benefits to your child's increasing age; now he knows what he feels like right before he hurls. Yep, that's a benefit.)

All of this was performed in a hushed panic, of course, to try to allow at least one of us (my husband, who had to rise early and work the next day) to eke out some sleep. I met my poor boy in the bathroom, right before his theory was proven true. He was, indeed, going to be sick. And that pretty much foretold the next 30 hours, give or take a few hours. Yikes. We were up for hours in the basement rec room, sitting in the dark and first watching PBS's Lidia Celebrates America (until I realized the food shots were making the boy more ill) and then some sort of home improvement program. And he was still emptying his stomach throughout. Did I mention that?

Today, I am happy to report some improvement. He's not completely cured, but he's eating now and the food is staying put and appears to be on its way to a perfectly normal exit from the appropriate end. 'Nuf said.

However, the gifting wasn't over. I never mentioned here that last week, because I was hoping the situation would blow over without tragedy...but our new cat feasted on some lovely curling ribbon from a Christmas package. Yum, yum. I found bits of it in her regurgitated meal (perhaps that was foreshadowing of my kiddo's illness) and we watched the kitty through the next day and night, making certain she could still eat, drink, pee, do the other... and she did. I read various cat forums online which led me to believe that, since she could perform these duties without trouble or pain, she had gotten the ribbon out of her system and was going to be fine. And she is fine.

However. In the litter box a little while ago, can you guess what I discovered? Maybe you've guessed correctly—a lovely, undigested 4-inch strip of blue ribbon. Surrounded by, caked with, and mostly obscured by feces. That's right, a blue ribbon poo.

So, if this is the pattern of all the good things I'll receive this year? Wow, I can hardly wait to open some wrapped packages! What wonders might I find within? Aren't you jealous!?

Seriously, I hope your Christmas is a good one. I hope you receive the true gifts of joy and peace in our savior, and the fact that he was, indeed, one of us: Emmanual. God with us.

Merry Christmas! And for heaven's sake, throw away the ribbon and wash your hands with soap and hot water.

Odd bits

2011-12-14T09:53:00.001-05:00

Well, hello there! It's been a while, eh?

My son likes Arthur, the book and TV series by Marc Brown (who, incidentally, is from Erie, PA. We knew that because the mall in Arthur's town is called Millcreek Mall, just like Erie's! And the town Arthur lives in is Elwood City, which is a real town south of Erie. Yep! We were onto you, Marc Brown!) So, on the PBS website, there are Arthur games. And one of them is a game for his friend, Buster Baxter the bunny, who is obsessed with aliens. On the site, you can build your very own, original alien. Marcus loves it. One "parts" category from which to choose is called Odd Bits, and when you pass the cursor over it, a strange, alienesque voice says, "Odd bits." It always cracks me up. Hence, the title of this post.

(If you care to create your own alien, click here.)

Okay, back to this post.

It's the holiday season (can you hear Andy Williams crooning that line?) and things are rather hectic, but under control. Right before Thanksgiving, we added a member to our family. Here she is.

Isn't she pretty? Her given name was Ninja, and it fits; she's stealthy and silent a lot of the time. I like dogs, too, and hopefully there is still a dog in our future. But with the uncertainty of where we'll end up living (we still hope to move), a house-restricted cat seemed like a smarter choice. We've been needing a furry addition for awhile; the home just felt too sterile. She's very shy with strangers, and we were strangers initially. For days, this little lady hid in impossibly tiny spots, dusty corners, underneath cabinets, etc. She didn't eat or pee for at least 24 hours. I had second and third thoughts about our decision, which I did not voice aloud since this whole thing had been my idea.

But in time, she's come around. For the past couple of weeks, she's been increasingly friendly, and now she's staked out a comfortable chair in the living room as her own. It's likely that no guest of ours will ever see her, because said guest will be a stranger. But we know that she's really pretty sweet and playful. She's very much the opposite of our old cat, who was honestly more of a "dog-cat" that got in your face, meowed full volume, and then leaped onto your lap if you passed muster. Finding a different personality for this kitty was intentional; you can't repeat the past pet, nor should you try.

The whole experience has reminded me that earning the trust of someone who's shy and suspicious feels like a real accomplishment. I'm sort of more like the old cat, meowing a lot and getting in people's faces. That's not good. I need to be more quiet, subdued, reserved. It's not natural but it probably goes a lot farther than my current approach. I always struggle with stuff from the bible that talks up the "gentleness of spirit" aspect, because I really have to look deep in myself to find that sort of thing. Maybe I should work on putting more of it in there, so it's not such a rare discovery...

Onward to another new addition: a lovely, nearly completed (doesn't have a door or windows yet) shed in the garden. Yes, I know—why build a shed if you plan to move? Please ask my husband. Maybe you'll get a more satisfying answer than I did.

Moving on, I looked for a photo I took last summer, but couldn't locate it and was too lazy to search through my CDs of saved images. The photo featured a wonderful, simple, possibly nutritious entrée called egg-in-the-hole. I first learned of this easy meal from Martha Stewart, but I turned it into an art form in late August, when our home-grown tomatoes were bursting from the vines. EITH is a lovely food form because it is completely flexible and easily individualized. (And yes, occasionally I take pictures of my edible creations. No comments, please.)

Here are some divinely uncomplicated instructions for Egg-in-the-Hole:

-Take a piece of bread, rip a smallish hole in the center, and eat the bread you ripped out to sustain you while you cook this masterpiece.
-Heat a medium-sized fry pan over medium heat.
-Drop in a BIG pat of butter.
-When it's sizzling, decrease the heat slightly and drop in the hole-y bread.
-As it begins to toast in the pan, crack an egg into the hole in the bread.
-When about 30 seconds have passed, use a spatula to loosen the egg/bread so it doesn't stick too much to the pan.
-After about 30 more seconds, turn over the egg/bread.
-Add some lunch meat or leftover turkey or ham to the top of the mostly cooked egg.
-Add some shredded or thinly sliced cheese atop the meat.
-Ascertain that the egg is fully cooked or darn close, and then turn off the heat and cover the pan for a minute or two.
-EAT. It's that easy. The most difficult part is washing the fry pan. Which isn't too bad, since you used a ton of butter to prevent sticking. ; )

The tastiest combo I found was whole wheat bread, a home-grown egg courtesy of my sister's hens, then turkey topped with a fresh slice of tomato, sprinkled liberally with Parmesan and pepper. But the beauty of this is that it works with whatever ingredients you have available. The butter gives the bread a rich, crispy texture that feels positively luxurious. You don't even need meat, because the egg gives you protein. You can use fresh greens wilted on top, or just cheese, or even a dollop of cottage cheese. It's completely up to you. Use whole-grain bread and don't go too crazy with the butter, and you might just be able to pass this off as a healthy little meal.

Signing off now; more Christmas-related tasks await. Stay jolly and joyful!

Extroverts, optimistic party planners, and other menaces

2011-12-02T10:19:00.003-05:00

Disclaimer: It's the mad, misguided Christmas season, and that can mean only one thing—Mel is in rare form and her bad side is hanging on the clothesline for all to see. And this rant has nothing to do with Jesus, for whom I am very thankful.
**********

Christmas inevitably brings many stress factors. Not just the shopping, the over-spending, the regular-and-expected lying to children, the preparations, the baking, the decorations which might be skipped in years past but are now par for the course with a child in the house... Those are all festive yet exhausting. But the biggest stress inducers by far, for me at least, would be the multiple social occasions that pop up and the people who pressure you to attend them.

I'm an introvert. I've confessed that here before. It doesn't mean I don't like people; I genuinely like a lot of people. I even admire some of them, emulate a few, respect several... But anyway, being an introvert simply means that I am not fueled by my time around people. I find that it makes me weary. I am fueled, fired up, and energized by time alone or with just a close friend of two.

That said, you can imagine that the Christmas season is fraught with peril for people like me. Suddenly, a relatively open schedule is littered with events, parties and dinners and family occasions. It's hard to squeeze them all in, but more than that, it's difficult for someone like me to embrace them and anticipate them with anything other than a heavy sigh. I already know what they will entail. There will be long hours of conversation, often about things I don't know (at the many occasions that my happy, friendly, extroverted husband has been invited to); there will be lots of fattening, rich, sugar-laden food (that I will have to avoid so as not to aggravate my prediabetic condition); there will likely be other women I don't know fawning all over my guy, which makes me a tad uneasy. There will be several events which don't allow children, and that's fine here and there but introduces some friction into the works because although they're not my events, I am expected to find childcare—which can be challenging anytime, let alone at Christmastime...

To make matters more complex, my spouse loves people, adores these gatherings, and is happy not to miss a single one. Indeed, all the people who are like him, who also happen to be planners (thank Heaven the spouse is not), are delightedly setting up all sorts of fun evenings (and some daytimes) in which every attendee can come and happily revel in the wondrous company of all the other scintillating people.

Well, here's a newsflash: some people just don't revel in it. Some people find it tiresome after awhile. Maybe even after a very short while.

Just because people have good intentions does not guarantee that they always have good ideas. Sometimes, other people need to be honest and explain the flip side of all this Christmas activity. I don't want to be a hermit, but I am worn out with biting my tongue and saying yes, with shouldering blame for simply being who I am, for the implications from others that I am a strange, twisted, mean-spirited misanthrope when all I really want is meaningful time with my favorite people instead of frenzy.

That is all...for now. I apologize for being a damp dishcloth.

Happy, happy
Joy, joy.
-Ren and Stimpy

A heaping helping of stuffing balls and nostalgia

2011-11-29T15:21:00.001-05:00

When I was a teen, Thanksgiving took place at Ma-Ma's home.

Ma-Ma was my paternal grandmother. She shared a gigantic second-floor apartment in my home town, living there until the end of her life with her youngest son and, for awhile, his son—her oldest grandson. The place had to be nearly 3,000 square feet. It had tall ceilings, and a ridiculous staircase at both the front and back entrances (where both doors sported multiple locks, always securely locked). Running down one side of the length of the place was a spacious but dark hallway that could easily have been divided into three or four decent-sized rooms; off this hall there were several bedrooms, and a bath, with another half-bath accessible from the dining room. A cheerful sun porch faced the back parking lot, crammed from top to bottom with the bulk of Ma-Ma's bounteous plant collection. Anchoring the other end of the place was a huge living room complete with decorative fireplace. The living room conveniently faced the street, so you could sit in Ma-Ma's favorite rocker by the middle window—if you were lucky enough to land such a prime seat—and there you could watch the comings and goings of the entire town. You could look up the hill to a nearby park, to the college campus housed there, or you could look down the street toward the middle of Main Street (High Street, as it is named in that small town).

When we arrived, others were almost always there already—aunts, uncles, cousins of various ages, all wandering to and fro and getting in the way at times. The turkey was roasting, the potatoes were being mashed to perfection, the corn pudding and green bean casserole were warming somewhere safe... and the stuffing balls were likely being fussed over by my grandmother. Generously portioned, not too wet and not too dry, she formed them all by hand, and they were never baked to perfection inside a bird's carcass! Absolutely not. They were wonderfully browned on cookie sheets, I think. She was always very concerned about their safety, or at least that's what I recall. Would they dry out? Become too hard? We didn't want to bat them in a sports event, we wanted to savor their crispy-tender wonder. The stuffing balls must be protected. The gravy was very important, too; it was another delicate delight to be nurtured and watched.

The dining room in that apartment was grand, right out of the 20s I suppose, with beautiful woodwork, double glass-paned doors leading in from the grand hallway, and my grandmother's table in the center of the room as its stupendous crowning glory. I seem to remember that the big wooden table was always pulled out to its full length, even when the holidays were done. The room was large, the table almost as large, and we filled it and still required a kids' table; I think that was a card table at the end of the room opposite those swinging double doors.

When the meal was ready, we all took plates and filled them, or had help filling them in the case of little ones. We sat, we usually remembered to say a grace and ponder the things we felt thankful about having, and then we ate like the hungry, fragrance-teased people we were. The food was always fabulous. The whole experience was loud, confusing, a bit crowded, and immense fun.

When the meal was done and the kids long gone from the room, the adults lingered, eating more, talking more. I think I lingered most of the time, perhaps realizing even in my spoiled youth that these were precious moments, that some day I would be penning a memory as I am right now. Talk of family, of the people in town, of political developments, all swirled around the warm room. And then, everyone gathered dishes and carried them to the kitchen, and the great food preservation and dish-washing events began in earnest.

I do remember being expected to help wash or dry dishes. I think I usually dried, probably not yet trusted in my girlish giddiness to handle Ma-Ma's pretty China when fully submerged in soapy suds. I don't recall us ever breaking into song or anything, but the mood even while we worked was festive and upbeat. I've never minded getting up and doing something immediately after a big meal, so the clean-up was a welcome chance to move around and remain standing instead of folding my stuffed belly into a soft chair. (That still just impedes my digestion, truly.)

Then it would all be done, or at least the main meal. Maybe we delayed the pies; I really can't remember. I feel as if we held off on desserts and enjoyed them a bit later, after people had squeezed in a rest. When everyone had eaten, that vast living room was like a morgue, bodies everywhere, the couch and recliner always occupied but also large portions of the floor; people everywhere were flung in the half-joyful, half-suffering poses of the gorged. The room was never silent, though; that was the decade of MTV's birth, those early days when the station actually played music videos. My lucky grandmother had a cable subscription, something that we country folk couldn't even fathom, and a day at Ma-Ma's was one of my only chances to absorb as many videos as possible. I never napped, but I did jockey for a position on the floor in front of the television, so I could stretch out on my stomach and gaze, in my overfed stupor, at the musical mindlessness before me.

Now, I am about the same age that my aunts and uncles were at that gathering. Now, my child is small, and my nieces and nephews are teens and young adults. Now, that apartment is inhabited by someone else. My parents are the grandparents. MTV has become something unrecognizable; indeed, much of this culture is unrecognizable to me—strange and empty. Ungrounded. Shallow.

I am realizing, in my old age, that there are scenes and people that you will never stop missing.

Happy belated Thanksgiving. Remember it all, cherish it. Take photos. Write it down. It will fade, and change, and then suddenly it will be part of the past.

Wholesome family activities

2011-11-15T19:07:00.001-05:00

Well, I told you last time around that I'd share some information regarding our household supply of meat. So, here goes.

My husband hunts. I have no moral dilemma about this, because I know he is a responsible adult who has been trained properly in this arena by other responsible adults. Plus, I know he respects life of all kinds, and the creator of life to boot. Additionally, he does his best to prepare himself and his weapon so that when a hunting opportunity arises, he is ready and can aim with practiced care and accuracy so as to make the animal's death quick and as free of suffering as possible.

(I also know that my little son is not with him while he engages in this pursuit, and I am more than a tad relieved that the kid has not yet shown serious interest.)

Anyway. We try to be honest with our child, and that involves talking openly about hunting, wild animals, death, humane treatment of life, and our food supply. (Most kids can handle the truth; it's the adults who turn away and get squeamish.)

So, my hunter was successful on one of his recent archery forays, and he made an excellent, quick-kill shot on a very large buck. For the past few years, thanks to some knowledgeable hunting friends from church, my husband has begun to process his own animals. I won't lie; this freaked me out at first, mostly because it happened in our garage. Yes, my father hunted also, as did many of the people (kids, too) in my hometown. I'm comfortable with that, as long as the people who hunt are cautious, mature, and respectful of life. I'm not so comfortable with animals being skinned where the station wagon should be... I'm also not so comfortable with large pans of flesh, or with an electric grinder making a horrific racket in my basement. But? I'm getting there.

The whole experience, now that we've been through it more than once or twice, is actually very informative. I've learned a lot about different cuts of meat on grazing animals—which ones are typically tender, which ones are tough, which ones require a full day of roasting in juices but deliver wonderfully when granted patient, proper cooking techniques. I've learned how deer carry their fat in a totally different way than beef (the fat is layered just under the skin, not marbled throughout muscle... although most of the heavily marbled purchased meats are coming from cows that were fed corn, a totally unnatural and harmful food product for them...) I've learned that honestly, doe meat tastes better than buck. I've learned that a whole lot of garbage can be hidden in any purchased sausage product. (Don't say you haven't been warned! Some of those sausages could make hot dogs or gelatin seem pretty harmless, folks...)

Anyway, mostly I've learned that butchering is bloody, messy work, and that for all my concerns about our garage and basement, they're likely just as (if not more) sanitary than a typical butcher shop.

It's hard to ignore the fact that you're eating animal flesh when you watch the stuff getting ground up and mixed with other stuff, emerging like little worms from a loud machine. There's pretty much no getting around that image. You're eating meat. But hear me on this: Any time you eat meat, even prettily packaged plastic-wrapped store-bought meat, you're participating in this procedure in some way. You're funding it. For anyone who's labeling my family and me as barbarians right now, I ask you only this: when did you last eat a burger? a pepperoni pizza? a good steak? The more marbled the steak, the more likely that the cow it came from was close to death from corn consumption even before it was slaughtered. Fish? Yes, it too had a face once. Not cute and fuzzy, not pretty and big-eyed, but a face nonetheless. For all the people who are shaking their heads at us right now, ready to dial CYS to save our child from this horror, I say to you that you are part of it, too, every time you go out to dinner and watch your children happily, mindlessly consume chicken nuggets.

If you eat meat, any meat, then some creature had to die, in some form or fashion.

I'd rather know what I'm supporting than not know. I like helping to determine exactly what goes into our meat supply regarding flavors and source foods. This deer was fat, healthy, and happy; he had a good life. And frankly, I'd rather participate personally in his death this way than support some of the cruel, sick, and unusual practices that are rampant in modern feedlots. If I ever have the acreage, I like to think I'll try to raise my own chickens and turkeys.

That's how we spent a few hours during the past week or so. And I like to think that in the big picture, we're no worse than anyone else. At least we're informed. We know where the food came from. We know how it was prepared. Yes, we all washed our hands repeatedly, and sterilized the necessary surfaces with bleach. But I have peace of mind about it all.

Do you?

P.S. I hope I didn't scare anyone away permanently. It's a topic worth pondering, I assure you.

Posing porcine...and a public service announcement of sorts

2011-11-10T14:26:00.001-05:00

Here's my latest painting, created from a photograph taken on a most awesome farm north of Pittsburgh.

Isn't this inquisitive piggy adorable?

The farm was still making final decisions about its name, last I heard, but I've already named this cutie: Berkshire Beauty. You can read more about the pigs, piglets, and other animals on the farm if you click on the Paleo Habitat link over there on the left. (I'll put Berkshire in my Etsy shop tomorrow, if not sooner.)

The people who run the farm are awesome; it's so neat, and inspiring, when you hear stories of and from people who are taking big steps, and some risks, just because they believe in a cause. That's what these folks are doing. In addition to running a household, taking kids to activities, working, juggling all the same things that most of us try to manage daily...they're also taking care of a couple of small herds of livestock. If I understood them well, then the biggest reward is just seeing these lovely creatures doing exactly what they're supposed to do. The family behind Paleo Habitat takes pleasure in the farm experience itself, the contented animals in their natural settings, even the struggles and hard work that must be endured to care for their charges and keep them well.

The result of all the effort is happy creatures being themselves. Will the animals still come to the end of their lives on a dinner table? Yes, some of them will. This farm isn't a retirement home for the animals. But until that day comes, these beasts will relish carefree days in relative comfort, some of them mowing the grass, others rooting for nuts and pieces of apple with their grain. At least, I think it was grain... And when one of these animals arrives at that final day, I'm convinced from the dedication and commitment I've seen that these animal owners will ensure a quick and humane end.

My point is this: These pigs and cows (and whatever else comes to that farm) will live in fields of grass, not small squares of mud and filth and fecal matter. These creatures will not be forced to subsist on a diet of corn and corn derivatives until their stomachs ulcerate simply because corn is cheap and plentiful. These folks have read the same books I have and more, they've studied the big, awful meat producing operations in this country, and they've decided they're not having any part of it anymore. They believe in what they're doing and they want to do it well, for themselves and for the animals in their care.

And I respect that. Very much.

If you haven't read it yet? The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. If you haven't seen it yet? Food Inc.

Inform yourself. Farmer's markets and small farms are growing quickly in this country because people are finally getting a whiff of the crap that our meat supply has eaten, stood in, and been forced to survive until it's killed in an often horrible, painful fashion. It doesn't have to be that way.

P.S. Stay tuned: more information about the meat supply here at our house to come in my next post!

Easy like Saturday morning

2011-11-05T21:46:00.000-04:00

A sunny Saturday did dawn
And, unlike every other morn,
There was no rush, no lunch to pack,
No bus to catch to school and back.

Instead, the sun, so cheery, leaked
Through curtain slivers, where it streaked
The bedroom walls with happy light
That beckoned so a person might
Be moved to climb from underneath
The cozy nest of downy sheath.

But no—instead, that person (me)
Lay warm and dreamy, drowsily
Devising what the day might bring:
Some pancakes, fresh air, songs to sing...

For now? The covers would stay snug.
But wait! My son's insistent tug!!!*

Ugh!

Okay! I'm up!

* Actually, he didn't tug on covers this morning; he was so absorbed in Legos that I was able to lounge in bed for several minutes and get up when I was good and ready. That doesn't happen often here. The above scenario is more common. Either that, or he climbs all over my bed and jabs with elbows and knees until it's downright uncomfortable to remain, and I end up removing myself gladly.

Happy weekend!

A confession...and a question

2011-10-31T11:21:00.001-04:00

I'm going to reveal something to you.

I like my own kid best.

Yeah, I know. He's my child, of course I prefer him, he's my own, my family, my little boy whom I've nurtured since his arrival in the world. He's the one I have fed, and snuggled, and disciplined, and taught, and guided, and dressed. I've comforted him after nightmares, fought to put medicine in his mouth when he's sick, held him still for painful shots from nurses. Of course he's my favorite kid.

But I'm not talking parental love here. I love him dearly, but that's different. That's the love that God gives you for your child (or children), the all-consuming, protective love that grows bigger as needed. At least that's what I'm guessing, based on what I've heard from every other parent I know, and what I've heard about large families and about children who've grown up.

I'm talking here, though, about liking your kid. It's different. Of course you love your child. But I really, truly like my child. I like him better than any other kid in the world. And we know lots of great kids: nieces and nephews, my son's friends and classmates, children we've met at church, etc. There are hoards of wonderful, charming, very likable little people out there. I know some of them.

But I still prefer my own small guy. Maybe because I see little pieces of myself and my husband in his mannerisms and his speech. Maybe because I can think of countless examples of his kindness, times when he's thought of the well-being of others, observances he's made that required sensitivity and awareness. I can think of innumerable moments when I've simply been proud of him. (I can think of other times, too, when I wasn't so proud—but honestly, I can't recall too many.)

None of these observances are earth-shattering in depth or meaning. I'm guessing that many parents who pondered this subject would agree. But it all begs the question: Does every parent feel this way? I'm guessing that they don't, and that is sad to me. I'm not thinking of awful parents who abuse or mistreat their children. I'm thinking of parents who adore their kids, who care deeply for them like no one else could.

Are their some loving, caring parents who just honestly don't like their kid(s)? Is that possible?

I mean, there have to be kids who are vastly different from the people who are rearing them. There have to be examples of children who resemble not at all, in thought or deed, the people who are responsible for those children. Right?

I just don't know. It seems hard to believe, but it seems equally hard to believe that it never happens. I hope it doesn't, but I suspect that occasionally it does.

And if it does—what a shame, for everyone involved.

Signs of things to come?

2011-10-25T13:40:00.000-04:00

Lucky me—I've managed to pick up a horrible head cold, the first of the season. Thus far, my other two housemates have remained uninfected. I keep coughing in their general direction, which is my kind way of warning them to wash hands often with soap. We'll see if they listen, or also fall ill.

The worst thing about being sick is that I have no energy. None. Every part of my body feels heavier than normal, held down by invisible bands that make movement difficult and painful. Joints throb, extremities ache, my brain is dull and thick. That's the telltale symptom of sickness for me, the absolute drained feeling that causes me to sit stupidly or (worse yet) to lie senselessly on whatever flat surface is available. When I don't want to do anything, and I'm content to just sit, then I know for certain that I'm ill. Otherwise, I'd be in motion. I'm much happier in motion. It's part of the reason I shun television; I'm not even the reader I used to be, because it requires being somewhat still. (Yes, I know, I could get a Kindle and read while I run on a treadmill... Please. I want to enjoy the reading experience.)

Anyway, the whole sick thing makes me wonder if this is sort of how I'll feel when I'm old, Lord willin' and the creek don't rise. Will going up stairs take more effort than it's worth exerting? Will I have the strength to rise from my bed, or will I have to try more than once before I succeed? Will my brain feel addled and confused, like a maze of dead ends that don't lead to the right answer? Will my limbs feel constrained and leaden?

It's a valid question, I think, yet one that I don't want to consider for long. It's frightening to me, quite frankly, and I don't like to think about things that frighten me. I might be around for a long, long time, and I can already detect activities that aren't as easy for me as they used to be, memories that don't come as quickly, motions that used to be silent and now elicit an "Mmmph" sound.

The whole "is this what I'll feel like if I get to be an old woman" concern is just one more reason to hate being under the weather. Especially on a sunny day, with blue skies and warm-ish breezes. Those breezes aren't nearly as sweet when your nose takes up your whole face and the only thing you long for is a Vicks-scented tissue.

Okay, enough self-pity. Onward. I'll just carry some laundry upstairs now; I think I can break through the unseen barriers on the steps, the ones that press down on me while I'm trying to climb. I can do it. Deep breath (through my mouth). Here goes.

I urge you to check this out

2011-10-21T09:19:00.000-04:00

In keeping with yesterday's post:

The stories you'll find on this link (below) encompass the very spirit that has made this country great. They are the voices of true Americans. Read these stories, be inspired, and if you agree, then consider adding your own life anecdote.

http://the53.tumblr.com/

When an American says that he loves his country, he means not only that he loves the New England hills, the prairies glistening in the sun, the wide and rising plains, the great mountains, and the sea. He means that he loves an inner air, an inner light in which freedom lives and in which a man can draw the breath of self-respect.
~Adlai Stevenson

This is why I don't watch the news

2011-10-20T10:08:00.000-04:00

Watching the news, any news, for more than a couple of minutes is nearly impossible for me. The stories on the news are either ludicrous, horrific, or feature mind-numbingly evil antagonists. And sometimes, those stories infuriate me.

The local news can be awful, but often equates a soap-opera news option—overly dramatic broadcasters, all blonde hair, raised eyebrows and deadpan delivery, covering fires in abandoned buildings, bearded men who are arrested for not placing reflective triangles on their buggies... Sometimes the stories are tragic, and sometimes it's just a slow news day.

The world news? That's usually too disturbing to watch for long. We've become immune to violence and death from over-exposure. How many people were killed in the bombing? Was that a dead body I just saw covered in rubble? There was another natural disaster? What was it this time? Oh.

Let's take a look at what's going on now. Okay, there was a large-scale exotic animal massacre in Ohio because some loon of a guy who had amassed all these amazing creatures decided to 1) release them and 2) kill himself. Huh?! What in the world? Why did he collect them all, and then why did he free them and take his own life? Did he think this was some sort of statement? Did he honestly believe the animals would roam freely and not come to harm? How did he even get them? Was it legal? Apparently there were complaints for years about this goofball, yet he continued to acquire (both animals and bizarre personal traits, I'm guessing) and here we are today with a boatload of animal corpses in Ohio.

It gets better. In Philadelphia, authorities uncovered a dungeon of suffering for mentally challenged adults and an assortment of youth who receive government assistance of some sort. A sick little trio of friends decided, apparently, this was an easy way to make some money. How in the world this seemed like a defensible idea to anyone, I will never know. I can't even go there. I am ill just considering the conditions and suffering that these people were held in.

Now, those are stories that turn our stomachs, as they should. I don't want to know about them, but I probably should be at least informed so I keep abreast of what people are capable of doing. I can't begin to understand, but I should be aware and be reminded: This is a really messed up place with some seriously twisted people in it.

But then there are stories that enrage me, too. Like the whole Occupy Wall Street nonsense. What are these people against, exactly? Joblessness? If they had jobs, they likely wouldn't be able to participate in this lovely demonstration for very long. So maybe that's the beef? Or is it that big, bad corporations weren't held accountable for money loss? Were they hoping for college loans to be forgotten and that didn't happen? Have they come to the depressing realization that they can't drive new, fast cars on their current budgets? Do these folks even know why they're there? Are they angry that their cell phones are out of battery power? That their designer duds got dirty and/or no longer match? What, really, is the main complaint?

I can't stand to watch much of it, these people camped out in the very spaces that corporations provide for them, the displeased crowds who all manage to have what they really value (technology, name brands, nice camping gear) but bemoan the lack of money and opportunity. I hate to burst everyone's bubble, but here's the truth: many lives begin with (and sometimes continue with) un-fantastic, uninspiring, unrewarding work. Many of us started there, and frankly, more than a few have remained there. I can tell you why the middle class is shrinking; it's because the middle class tries very hard to have a lot of the same baubles that the upper class enjoys. We here in middle world have a very serious case of misguided, confused priorities. I want to live in a country that appreciates hard work, the basics, and has values. I don't really care to join with a band of creative hippy types who are whining about the lack of handouts.

Stop looking for handouts. Stop kvetching about who got them. Contact the president who's exacerbating the situation, your local and state representatives (do you even know who they are? did you vote?) and share your frustrations with them, and then go to work somewhere. Drive a small used car, live in a smaller house or apartment, shop where I shop, and most of all, Shush. Vociferously occupying a space that lies in the shadow of the very corporations that fund your hobbies, hand-helds, and highfalutin pursuits is hypocritical. If we look back at the history of this country, our success has been the result of individuals who competed to make money and make things better, and who worked hard. Sometimes, success has rested on the ability of many to do without, to sacrifice willingly. Nobody got rich by spreading the wealth, which actually means taking someone else's wealth. Which that wealthy person likely worked to attain. It's not the government's job to provide for us. The government owes us nothing but rights, freedoms, and protection from crazy people.

All right. I'm stepping off the soapbox now. I'm getting fired up just thinking about all this, weird people, cruel people, uninformed spoiled people, etc. I don't want to live in a bubble, but I also don't want to immerse myself in a boiling cauldron of information that fills me with helpless fury.

So, I'll keep the television off, and limit my time online. If I want to maintain a healthy balance in my mind and heart, I need to restrict my exposure. I want to feel genuine love for my fellow man, but golly, they can be an unlovable bunch.

Pumpkin... and pumpkin kin

2011-10-13T10:15:00.004-04:00

I love the colors of autumn, especially the squashes, gourds, and pumpkins that grace every grocer's shelf and roadside stand. The bumpy orange guy on the right is my favorite; I already used him in some photos last week. So bright, yet humble. And butternut—who could forget butternut? Having tasted one recently, I am reminded of its exquisite golden flesh hiding inside.

I'll put this latest painting in the Etsy shop in the next couple of days; the edges are still drying.

On a side note, I am supposed (she says doubtfully) to have Comcast come install their services this afternoon. Supposedly (eyebrows raised), my service will be better, faster, and cheaper. We'll see. Verizon has made a dubious, bitter, sardonic customer out of me.

Oh well, have a great rest of week/weekend. Hope it's all you need and more.

Saved by a horn

2011-10-11T14:26:00.001-04:00

Picture it. A lovely fall day, and me behind the wheel, heading into the nearby Giant Eagle to pick up a few items. I turn down one long aisle, scanning the lot for a good space. About 10 cars in front of me, near the store entrance, a woman is loading bags into her trunk. I see a good spot a few cars from her, and I notice that she is rearranging the bags she's already loaded to make more space. I also notice that the cart from whence she is unloading appears to be very slowly inching away from her. I stop my car mid-aisle, and observe closely through the windshield: yes, the cart is most definitely rolling away. In fact, it is steadily picking up speed.

I hit the horn, except this is the Saturn that I'm driving, the one with the mystery horn location that is somewhere in the center of the steering wheel but never quite in the same place twice. I proceed to strike the middle of the wheel repeatedly, in different locations, to no avail. The cart is moving more noticeably now, and the woman is still gazing in the opposite direction, mesmerized by how to maximize her trunk space, utterly oblivious to the encroaching mishap.

Ahh, finally success on my end—"Beep beep, beep beep beep beep, BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!" She looks up and I frantically motion to the cart that is now moving with purpose toward a couple of cars. The woman is quick, unlike many shoppers at Giant Eagle; she immediately senses the seriousness of the situation, and with lightning reflexes she runs full tilt toward the cart, reaching desperately to grasp it before it bumps another vehicle. And of the 3 cars it could have zeroed in on, guess which one it's screaming toward? That's right, a Porsche. Bright cherry red, the curvy Carrera style, lovingly polished to a shine.

Just as the cart is about to bang into that shiny car, the woman manages to grab its handle and stop it, mere inches away from the pricey red machine. I can see her take a deep breath, relax her shoulders, and she waves a thanks at me, then takes the naughty cart, still holding groceries, to her car to finish the job. This time, she keeps a foot (brake) behind one wheel.

I park, get out, we joke about a sports car's magnetic ability to attract danger, and I head inside the store. As I pass the Porsche, I can't help noticing that its vanity license plate details the car's make and the fact that it features turbo power. Yeah, that would not have been a pretty scene: the cart, the dent and/or scratch, the angry aging man who drives it (yes, I'm pretty sure that's who drives it), and the unhappy conversation that would ensue.

The day was most definitely saved. For those two drivers, at least. My work is done.

Okay, this weekend will not be a washout...

2011-10-07T13:01:00.000-04:00

If you live near southwestern PA, that is. I can't speak for the rest of the country. Sorry about that next-to-last post, with all the nicey-nice references to getting outside, partaking of fresh air, basking in the splendor, blah blah blabbity blah. Obviously, last weekend around here was not a good one for spending time outdoors.

But the next couple of days promise to be much more conducive to happy, warm thoughts. Really!

The pictures on these blank notecards were taken in my back yard. The colors this time of year are simply amazing. If you need any autumnal blank notecards, just stop here in my Etsy shop and have at it. (Fellow Pittsburghers can always just email me and we'll figure out a meeting spot—no shipping costs!)

Wishing you a sun-filled, colorful weekend.

Ain't askeered

2011-10-04T13:21:00.000-04:00

I said to my husband the other day, as a lead-in to my reminder about where I store financial records, "If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, all the receipt for the **** are in the ****."

I allude to this type of thinking in other ways, too: "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise..." is one of my stock introductory phrases. When we're going away for a few hours, the hus and I, and especially when all three of us are going somewhere near or far, I call the home phone to leave a message detailing the location of our will.

He gets annoyed with me for doing this, the husband. "You know, that's kind of awful," he says after I place the call to our answering machine. He gives me dirty looks when I mention the bus. He occasionally goes down the path of how I shouldn't say those things because I might speak them unto myself, with the power of some strange inexplicable self-fulfilling prophecy that some Christians embrace–which is why so many of them are phonies who preach how we can expect only blessings and money from God because we'll just refuse to accept whatever else might come our way.

Well, I do believe that we can affect our mood, our attitude, and our witness to others by the things we say out loud. But I also know that terrible things happen sometimes and there's not a word that could have been spoken or withheld to prevent them. People die in horrible ways sometimes, even young moms and dads, even children. We live in a fallen world and tragedies do occur here. If I refrain from leaving a voice mail message that reveals the location of our will, that doesn't mean that we're any safer as we travel. It might mean that if something bad happens, no one will know where to look and read our wishes... and then there's likely to be some ugly, nasty squabbling. And delays. And additional taxes.

I don't know why I speak of these things in such off-handed fashion, almost in jest. I guess it's my pathetic way of acknowledging the very real risks of our existence. Maybe it's my tongue-in-cheek method of trying to appear unfazed by these potential realities. There's a slim chance that deep down, a tiny part of me holds tight to the completely untrue belief that by addressing the dangers out loud, I am warding them away.

I hope and pray that none of my just-in-case pronouncements ever come true. I try to be thankful for every day that no devastation occurs in my little life. Yet, being grateful, too, is a nod to the awful possibilities; you see, if I didn't realize that with every tragedy, there by the grace of God go I, then I wouldn't have the sense to be grateful when I am spared.

It makes sense to me, in a twisted way.

Just juicy (NOT couture)

2011-09-28T09:30:00.001-04:00

One of the good things about a sagging economy (yes, there are good things) is that a bit of common sense and frugality begins to return to people. Suddenly, it's hip to clip (coupons) and out of the blue, magazines and newspapers begin to feature stories on trading services and bartering for goods. Which makes sense, when you think about it; before money got all standardized, trade was a main form of obtaining your necessary goods. It works even when money isn't worth much, and it works with skills as well.

Take this painting, for example. It came together quickly because it was for a friend, but also because I knew there was something for me on the other end. I make things with paint, you see, but my friend makes things with yarn. Which I can't do, unless you count misshapen pom-poms. So, we decided to trade skills, thus trading a finished product at the end. Fun! And how sensible, isn't it?

By the way, this friend also has an Etsy shop where she sells vintage goods and some handmade items. I highly encourage you to check it out here.

(I can't sell prints of this berry painting, because I don't have permission to sell or reproduce the image that I used as source. However, I can paint originals from all sorts of sources. So, if you have a favorite subject or photo you'd like to have rendered as an original painting, let me know and we'll talk.)

**********

On another note, my little family spent a most enjoyable, affordable Saturday at a local marching band festival. Delightful! It's so refreshing and inspiring to see young people working hard to make great music, to listen to the awesome melodies, to watch them scurrying around a football field, and just to be outdoors on a lovely day. This weekend promises cooler temps, but plenty of opportunities to get out there and immerse yourself in your community and nature. Support kids, considering buying something from people with hand-lettered signs, and get some fresh air to boot! It's therapeutic!

And yet more about expectations

2011-09-20T14:09:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking about expectations, and how they shape our perception of—well, of everything.

(I touched on expectations here once before. Here I go again.)

We spent a long weekend in Cape May, NJ, and arrived home this past Sunday evening. It was nice to get away, the town was as beautiful as always, we climbed lighthouse steps and rode in a horse-drawn carriage and visited a Civil War village and ate far too much food that someone else had prepared and consequently cleaned up. It was fun.

But the weather mostly stunk. We knew, thanks to internet weather reports, that an unseasonable cold snap was expected, both here and there. We packed jackets, and rain coats, and umbrellas. And we didn't use them the whole time, but we did use them a significant portion of the time. We squeezed in some beach fun, but we also spent time looking longingly, through mist and raindrops and wind, at the nearly inhospitable shore. I fumed a bit on the drive home, felt sorry for myself, composed various blog posts with silly titles such as 'Scuse Me while I Curse the Sky... (I kid you not.)

Yet, the weekend was nice, and relaxing, and trouble-free. Even the rides there and back weren't bad. The newly purchased used car ran like a champ, we saw mountains, and Amish buggies, and rolling hills with barns tucked neatly within. We neatly avoided Philly at rush hour. Whew.

So what was lacking? Not much. Some sunshine, some warmer temperatures, I guess—I was expecting air temps to match the water temps (upper 70s) as they normally do in mid-September. (The water was great; the air, not so.) And there's the problem word: expecting. I was anticipating a certain type of visit, and we didn't have it. So now I feel disenchanted, disappointed, cheated of what should have been a warm, balmy weekend. But why? We're all humans living on this changeable orb. We know, by now, that weather is not a sure thing in any direction. We know that it isn't always sunny at the beach. Yet still, there's this pervasive feeling of discontentment in my gut.

Expectations can get us into trouble emotionally. If I'm learning any lesson consistently and repeatedly, it's that I need to expect less from life. I need to stop expecting good weather, uncomplicated days, and excellent health. I need to stop expecting people to be good, and thoughtful, and unselfish. I need to remember which world I'm currently inhabiting, and start living with more appreciation for the many times when things actually do go well and I ride the wave of relative ease of living. Truly, for most of us these days, life is pretty easy. We have so many gadgets, countless conveniences, comforts, and abundance, that it seems we've lost sight of the harsh reality that there's still so much we can't control.

Like the weather at the beach.

So, I need to turn my foolish little expectations on their heads. Let's see what that looks like:

I'm so glad that a hurricane didn't hit land while we were there! I'm so thankful that our tire didn't fall off en route and roll down a mountainside. I'm so happy that the horse pulling our Cape May carriage was obedient and stopped at the light instead of rolling through the busy intersection or charging a pedestrian. I'm really delighted that Marcus's slight cold didn't turn into a full-fledged illness with fever and chills. I'm very relieved that no one mugged me because this was one of the few times each year when I actually had cash in my purse. I'm thankful that I was blessed enough to have my own great little family to accompany me on this drizzly escapade.

There. That wasn't so hard, was it? No. It wasn't. We aren't perfect. Life isn't perfect. It's good, but not perfect. And that's okay. I can hope for better weather next time, but I need to steer clear of "why, why, woe unto us."

It was fun. And the last positive spin? All that cold wetness made it much easier to depart on the final day. Here's to realistic expectations, and nurturing a grateful heart.

Joy in, and from, the garden

2011-09-14T13:39:00.001-04:00

A garden can be so inspiring, especially on a late summer morning.

I was picking beans earlier today, plucking some peppers, thinning the slightly leggy arugula, and as I pulled each item from its vine or stalk, the plant released a little zing of scent, redolent with the fresh good thing I'd just freed. Around me, birds were talking to each other, a squirrel was threatening some perceived intruder, cars swished past behind the fence, a neighbor directed the driver of a large truck of mulch to the desired spot in his yard. It was warm but not hot, slightly cloudy but not raining, and I was a small part of something so big and wonderful that I could scarcely receive all the stimuli around me.

These little veggies came from our garden. I couldn't resist painting them; the colors were so yummy. And I hadn't painted from real life in a long time—I'd forgotten how rich the shadows, how complex and delicate are the tiniest details in real life. (The veggies are for sale in my Etsy shop.)

And now, for everyone who's grown cabbage that's becoming ripe, here's a simple grilling recipe to use some of it. (We never intentionally grow cabbage because the plants are space hogs, but it seems that each year, we are gifted with a handful of them. I like cabbage, though, plus it's super-healthy...and I discovered that grilling it is fabulous.) You'll see from my recipe that I like to keep things "loose" so that everyone can make the recipe his own.

Grilled Cabbage Potato Kielbasa Stuff

NOTE: You'll need a grill cage/pan/something with small openings to fit over grill)
*red potatoes (4 larger ones)
*fresh cabbage (one small head or part of a big one)
*big hunk of kielbasa, any brand, any style (about 1 pound)
*some olive oil, salt, and pepper

First, pre-cook the potatoes in the microwave; stab them each with a fork several times, put them on a plate, and cook them using the potato setting. If no setting, then on high for 8 or 9 minutes will do it.

While the potatoes cook in the microwave, cut up a big hunk of kielbasa into large, bite-sized pieces. Then chop the cabbage into big pieces, not bothering to separate the layers. (Obviously, don't use the stem or nasty thick white parts.)

When potatoes are done, let them cool briefly and then chop them, skins and all, into big pieces. If they're undercooked, it's okay—they'll finish on the grill.

Now put all the big chunks and pieces into a big bowl and slosh a bit of olive oil into it. Add several bold dashes of salt and pepper and any other seasoning you'd like (no baking spices, though) and then put the whole mess on a pre-heated grill tray. Use a long-handled something-or-other to keep the stuff moving around periodically, turning it, making sure what's on top ends up on bottom and vice versa... About 8 minutes on low/medium heat should do it.

Scoop it all off the grill tray into a big bowl—the same one you used before, if you'd like. Eat it. It's great with corn on the cob, even better if you slice the corn off the cob and mix it into the grill.

The kicker may surprise you: Put a big scoop of full-fat, small-curd cottage cheese on top of the whole thing. WOW. It's fantastic. I can't tell you why it works, but I can assure you that it does.

(This recipe feeds 2 hungry adults with a tad left. Need more? Double it!)

Hey! Have a great rest of the week and weekend! I'll be removed from technology for a few days, but I'll be back next week! : )

Ten years since

2011-09-11T08:39:00.002-04:00

For reasons I can't put into words, I spent some time on YouTube yesterday, looking up footage and sound clips from that awful, awful day 10 years ago.

I felt truly compelled to do so. Compelled because I'd talked with my sister about a story on the news, featuring the recording of a flight attendant calling from one of those doomed flights. The people first receiving the message couldn't quite believe what they were hearing. Attack? Not a test? And then, when it was confirmed, they were all business.

I listened to some heartbreaking stuff on that website. Last recordings from many, calls to emergency operators who began as hopeful lifelines and became instead a last contact, a companion for death. There were a few clips that, after reading the comments below them, I chose not to hear. There are some voices that I don't want to have in my head permanently.

But I have a choice; I can simply click elsewhere. Those people who died had very little choices remaining for them. Burn, choke, or jump? Sit in fear or attack your attackers? Get yourself out or go back for others and risk your own neck?

I will never forget what evil people did that day. I will never become complacent. I don't want to—that's what compels me to listen to the recordings and watch those towers crumple into the ground over and over. I believe that not all Muslims are killers, just like I believe that I'm not represented by the extreme Christian factions who bomb abortion clinics. But I also know that my savior is a proponent of love, and forgiveness. And whomever those people worship doesn't condone that sort of thing for anyone who doesn't share the same beliefs.

They're out there, right now, plotting. Planning. They might even be in your town. Don't become complacent. Don't think that things are different now. Hang a flag, and shamelessly put your hand on your heart when you speak the anthem or sing a song about our country. Pray. Try sincerely to be good and forgive. But do not rest easily. We're not dealing with mere people here; I believe we are dealing with Satan's soldiers.

Vladimir Putin: "We are as dust to them."

Mel: Yes, that about captures it. I'm willing to be dust to God, but not to those bastards.

NOTE: At least Google kindly decided to acknowledge the event, in its own small way, for the first time. FINALLY.

Finally, a new painting

2011-09-08T09:19:00.000-04:00

I actually wrapped this up last week, in a rare half hour of painting with my son in the same vicinity. The sweet boy patiently created bug potions in his outside "laboratory" while I finished this lazy lion.

Now the kiddo is back in school and I'm going through that strange adjustment period of sudden silence. I'll figure out what to do with myself in a few days, but for now I'll just wander around in a bit of a haze... and figure out what to paint next.

The lion in my Etsy shop; I'll be turning the image into cards and/or prints when I can pin down the husband to help me with technical specifics.

Seize these last couple of weeks of summer! Consider lying in some tall grass amid dappled sunshine, like this big-maned fellow!

This IS the something

2011-09-03T20:18:00.000-04:00

It's easy to get sucked into the rhythm of our ridiculously high-tech, over-scheduled culture. In summer, so many of our friends are taking multiple vacations, or their children are attending various camps, or they're juggling a busy schedule of work and sitter and grandparent pick-ups. Plus, the weather is nice and warm; no one is stuck at home, staring at a snowstorm. There are festivals galore, crafts and food and ethnicity and music all being featured here or there. The pool beckons, as do museums, and the zoo, and hiking trails, and the library...

There's a bit of pressure to make the most of the couple of months you have: where should we go today? What's in season? What's on the agenda? Have we been to this place yet? Or should we go to that place? Which is closer? More expensive? Do you friends like this one? I heard this one is fun.

By mid-summer, our steam is beginning to run thin. By August? It's pretty much gone, without even a whistle. It's canning season, there's harvesting to be done, and we're running low on both personal fuel and family budgets. August, I suppose, is the month when you come to appreciate the back yard most of all. It's the month when you truly embrace, out of both weariness and comfort, the beckoning sway of the glider. The very glider where you once read stories to your child is where he now reads them to you. The same glider where you witnessed the first hummingbird of the season will be your seat when you soon bid farewell to those hummers. The glider where you've watched the chipmunks run madly to cover, where you saw the hawk swoop down for a defenseless animal. The very glider where you've welcomed countless mornings and evenings, with their rosy pink skies and array of either chirping birds or prowling bats.

That same patio, that glider, that backyard garden, all of them will provide company when you welcome autumn, and a new classroom teacher for your child. All those yard factors will be present, sitting still, while life moves forward without ceasing. They will comfort you with their sameness even as you mourn the loss of other places, people, traditions.

I'm realizing anew that I don't need to keep telling myself we should be "doing something." Sometimes it's good enough to just sit, and talk, and think. That familiar patio and yard are the setting for my son's most imaginative games, for our best and deepest discussions about what he wants to be and do someday. Yes, we reminisce about Kennywood and the beach. But we also share thoughts, and dreams, and secrets. The baring of hearts happens on that familiar (dare I say boring?) concrete and turf. Those are the places where we permit vulnerability, where we face some frightening and honest truths. Those worn seats and paths bring out what is hidden and real and true.

We don't need to always be "doing something." This is the something, this sharing of selves. It can't happen when we're constantly busy. It must be coaxed by languid minds, into the light of well-known, well-loved territories.

It's not too late. Stop doing something. Start letting out the real.

No blessing for you!!! *

2011-08-30T16:53:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of weird phrases and behaviors that have been ingrained in us since childhood. Some such traditions help pave the way for courteous interaction; it has even been said that "good manners are the glue of our society," or something similar to that. Yet there exist a few archaic, misguided cultural morés that simply don't make sense.

The act of pronouncing "God bless you" after someone near you sneezes, for example. Doing just a few minutes' worth of research turns up limitless possible reasons why English-speaking cultures do this, but not a one of them still holds water. When someone sneezes, do any of us honestly believe that the sneeze is a vulnerable millisecond upon which the soul is more exposed to evil spirits? Is there a one among us who truly thinks the heart stops while the sneeze happens? No one is sneezing as a pre-cursor to the plague any longer; why do we all still bless each other as if the sneezer were at death's door?

The thing that makes me pause most of all is the fact that nearly everyone uses this phrase, or its secular third cousin, the shorter version of "Bless you." People who don't utter the word blessing in any other context are sure to trip over the next person in order to bless a complete stranger after his face has contorted and blown droplets nearby. Why?

We have decided in our home to oust this phony proprietary phrase. We're not saying it anymore. Instead, it's the burden of the sneezer to pardon him or herself after sneezing. After all, sneezing is actually rather disgusting, often resulting in flying spittle, snotty nose, and a loud shout whilst all that nastiness is expelled. In my family, it's more often a volley of sneezes. Yeeeeeuch.

I invite you to join us in the "No Blessing for You" campaign. It's easy. Simply say nothing when someone near you sneezes. It's okay. The sneezer likely does not have the plague, nor did his heart stop. And I hate to break it to you all, but evil spirits are all around, all the time—not just when you sneeze.

Blessings are good, when intentional and heartfelt. Praying for blessing for people is even better. But not when they spit on me.

*If you're a fan of the 90s sit-com Seinfeld, then you know the Soup Nazi—the crazy foreign fellow who makes stupendous soup but serves or withholds it as he sees fit. This title is a nod to that episode. The "glue of society" comment is another Seinfeld moment--Kramer said it.)

Serious stuff

2011-08-24T08:22:00.000-04:00

I guess it was hearing about Gary's death that brought this post to existence.

Gary, someone whom I'd barely known, but knew that I liked immensely. I "walked the aisle" with Gary over 15 years ago, as attendants in the wedding of friends we had in common. We'd never spoken before then (he was slightly older, in a different crowd in high school) but the entire event was so much more relaxed and fun because he was on the team of over-dressed people sitting at the big table. Funny, easy to know, and so comfortable in his own skin, his joie de vivre was contagious.

He's dead. I found out recently that he died a few months ago, of an aggressive form of cancer. Just a year or so older than I am. That spark of a person is gone from this place.

There are many people I used to know who've already left this orb. Those who are considerably older than I am still hurt, but don't have the same ability to shock me. It's the people who are my age that feel most unnatural. Like Zane: I still can't believe he's gone. How can someone so alive cease to be alive? Heart attack, I think. And Greg, a person I'd never formally met but whose teenage image lives indelibly in in one of my scrapbooks because he happened to be standing next to an ex-boyfriend at some gathering. Greg was murdered in what appeared to everyone to be a random shooting. I don't believe they've ever caught the killer.

And then, last week, the crazy downpour of rain which led to an unprecedented wall of water that took four lives here in our city. It happened on a stretch of road I've traveled before, not far from some regular stomping grounds of ours (the zoo). Gone. Who could have predicted that tragedy?

I don't want to be a downer. I just feel a strong tugging at my soul that I need to be a voice of truth right now. And the truth is that none of us know when we'll depart this globe. For some, it is far sooner than we ever expected; others, like my husband's going-on-91 grandmother, admit readily that she's stayed longer than she ever thought she would. But the simple fact, courtesy Jim "Jimmy Mo" Morrison, is that no one here gets out alive.

People, if you are reading this, and you don't have a clue what will happen to you when you die, I pray that you'll stop right now and think about it.

I spent more than half my life trying not to think about it. I pushed it away even while two of my high school classmates were snuffed out before finishing college. I ran the other way, pursued stupid things, tried to achieve earthly goals, convinced myself halfheartedly that my fellow humans and I had somehow crawled from slime. I didn't want to appear unworldly, you see. I didn't want to be one of "those people" who blindly follow an invisible God who judges. I didn't want to be responsible. I didn't want to be accountable.

But I was empty, and sad. I made hurtful choices. Like the song says: I was lost.

It's funny how your eyes are opened widest when you are lowest. You're emotionally naked, and you finally take a good, clear, unwavering look around you. It's then that you become aware of a loving presence Who's been waiting, walking beside you, sometimes behind you, but always within arm's reach. Once you acknowledge the presence, you are not the same. Now that the presence is real to me, Jesus is a person I know and not an unachievable ideal. Over time, the idea of people coming from monkeys, let alone muddy water, is utterly inconceivable to me. There's a line from the remake of Charlotte's Web where Fern's mom is asking the doctor whether he thinks Charlotte's web words are a miracle—and the doctor basically reminds her that the web, itself, is a miracle. All of creation reveals a creator. The eye, the ear, alone are unbelievably complex systems. The brain? Beyond explanation. Pollination? Photosynthesis? The fact that we are perfectly distanced from the sun for survival? From the moon to control tides?

Maybe there's one person out there who will read this and really think about it all. If that's you, and you're thinking about it, then please read this, this and this. There is a savior and He loves you, all of us, even when we don't deserve it. He's already given everything for you. Accepting that outstretched hand will change your heart, and the way you think about this world. And this world is a very temporary one.

Bad things still happen. Every day. This small planet can be a pretty evil place, and people will disappoint, fall short, and treat each other unspeakably. I still feel pretty down at times, and there's a lot I don't understand. But it's funny—I find that I need less and less to understand everything. My mind isn't as restless as it used to be. Is it humility? The understanding that even if someone explained it all, I still wouldn't really get it? Has God taken away my troublesome desire to comprehend everything? Either way, it doesn't really matter. What matters is this: I am not the same person that I was before I took that hand. There are days when I cling to the hand, and days when I try to pull away from its stubborn grasp, like a little child trying to extract a sweaty palm so he can stray. But I know there is more than this world, and that I am forgiven and accepted once I leave it. I know that when I wise up, that loving hand will still be there for me. And that's a pretty good feeling, especially in these God-forsaken days.

Next post will be light as a feather. Promise.

The incredible shrinking tomatoes

2011-08-11T19:39:00.000-04:00

The creation of homemade, home-grown tomato sauce is a journey. From planting, to tending, to gathering, to peeling and gutting and cooking... and the result? Not nearly representative of the amount of work and time put into the creation. That starting pile is only a sampling of the mound of tomatoes with which I began. The second photo, of the naked tomatoes in the sink colander, is the real number of messy globes that were destroyed in this process.

And yet, the flavor is luscious. So, I suppose it is worth it, sort of. It's not as if canning is really difficult work, only hot and time-consuming. And you can wander around while the stuff cooks down, and stop by for an occasional stir and taste... There are far worse ways to spend your time.

Yeah, I'll do it again. Next week. I'll freeze some, too. Much easier. But canning is a sure thing, just in case the power grid goes out, and honestly? Those rich, red jars are just plain pretty—and far more satisfying to regard upon completion.

Against the wind

2011-08-10T16:45:00.000-04:00

There are seasons in your life when you feel palpable resistance. A lot of resistance. What was simple so many times before, now becomes suddenly complicated. Easy, mindless actions require more thought and planning than you would have believed possible. People who supported you are nowhere to be found, or worse yet have had a change of heart; decisions that would have been made in a heartbeat now flutter around in your mind like moths near a dim light, endless quandaries to be painfully pondered, situations that have grown so many sides it seems you've gained a couple of new dimensions in your mind.

That's pretty much where I am these days. If I were the kind of person who posted pictures of myself, I'd find one where my eyes are squeezed shut tightly, lips pressed together to keep out the dust, hair whipped frenziedly in all directions, because that's the sort of resistance I've been encountering of late. From the universe, some would say. From Satan, I believe. But there it is. Against the wind.

The most recent example? My car keys don't work reliably anymore. The car is old but still good, and without warning, my car keys, BOTH of them, have decided they no longer hold the necessary information to start the car when inserted into the ignition. I have jiggled, wiggled, and sworn at the keys, to no avail. They go neatly into the ignition, and then they mock me by refusing to turn. I turn the steering wheel with increasing force, wiggle the keys more roughly, and sweat breaks out on my brow... Nothing. And then, usually, after a couple of long-suffering minutes (with my child witnessing all this madness from the back seat), then the car starts. And we're fine.

The solution? Hopefully, a newly created key, etched from its source file instead of copied from the weary keys in my purse, will do the trick. No guarantee, of course; something called "tumblers" could also be the problem, I was told by a mechanic. But we are required by common sense and thriftiness (since lock replacement is far more expensive than a new key) to try the cheap key replacement method first.

Except, remember, I'm moving against the wind. Because I am a slacker, and I never got around to it, I have never changed my name officially with the people who issue car registrations. My correct married name is on my driver's license, on my car insurance, and I've repeatedly written the corrected name each time I've renewed the registration... but the people in PennDOT never changed it, nor did they tell me that they required a copy of my marriage license in order to do so.

And to get the key re-cut, from the car records, any dealer requires that your registration name and the name on your license match exactly. EVEN IF YOU HAVE EVERY DRIVER'S LICENSE EVER ISSUED TO YOU, AND BOTH YOUR OLD AND CURRENT SOCIAL SECURITY CARDS, AND THE *!@?&% TITLE OF THE CAR BECAUSE OH, BY THE WAY, YOU'RE THE ONLY OWNER. And did you know that every blasted PA Department of Motor Vehicles is closed on Mondays? I know that, NOW. I remembered it as soon as I'd sweated and sworn my feeble key into action at the cursed dealer's garage, and then driven my angry self to the DMV to beg for an updated registration. Which I found out, yesterday, would not have been possible anyway. AAA was kind enough to help me, but apparently because we live in an archaic state, Pennsylvania processes all name changes only through Harrisburg, the old-fashioned way.

I called AAA today, after almost getting stranded at the grocery store. Could they at least plead my case? Could anything be done? We're afraid to go anywhere. I have a little son. It's summer. We don't want to be stuck in the grocery store parking lot, cursing the melting ice cream. We have a perfectly good car! We have every document known to man EXCEPT the bloody registration with a perfect name match! Our lives and safety are in jeopardy here, people! (Dramatic music rising in the background)

Can AAA help us? No. Sorry. Does PennDOT care? No. I called them, too. Could they please do it quickly? Process it ASAP? Make a note on my file? No, no, and no. They're not allowed. They get 4 days to process it once it's in their hands. Getting it back to me via good ol' U.S.P.S. snail mail can take up to 10 days. That's 10 business days, mind you. Remember how many holidays these people get?

So, this is just one little example of the forces that have worked against me lately. I never dreamed that getting a replacement key would cause such stress, duress, and fury. And the other thought that's coming to me again and again is that this is such a small matter, really. I honestly don't have any right to get really upset. People all over the world are truly suffering, the economy is staggering and tripping its way further into a malodorous cesspool of debt, there are natural disasters and helicopters crashing and sickness and poverty and drought... I truly have no right to complain. I know that.

Okay, I'm done now. No more self-pity. The key issue will get resolved in time, although not my time. And these are all small issues in the big picture.

Thanks, Lord, that we haven't really been stranded yet. Thank you that this is the biggest problem on my mind right now.

P.S. Can you help us out with this key madness, Lord? Please?

Mid-summer doldrums...

2011-07-26T22:30:00.001-04:00

It's been a good summer so far, yet I've been feeling a tad deflated of late.

I couldn't quite pin down the reason why. Maybe it was the incredible heat. Maybe it was the fact that the rat is still living in our garden, and in our attempts to kill the thing we mistakenly murdered a chipmunk instead. Maybe it's because I'm the only person I know who gains weight instead of losing it during the hottest months of the year. Maybe it's because we were thinking about trying to move to the country, but then, with Todd starting a new job and then being out of town for a week, we've missed the search-and-sell window of time that we'd need to change schools before the new year. Maybe it's because I'm yet again disappointed in the way my church handled a sticky personnel change. It could be any of those reasons...

But then I figured it out. The real reason for my slump is that late July is the mid-life crisis of summer. It's the point when you look back at what has transpired thus far, and ahead to what remains. Late July is when you begin to realize you may have squandered much of June, what with alternately thinking "we have all summer" and running around too much instead of truly appreciating the fresh green world around you. Late July is the reality check, when you start to actually number the remaining weekends in the season. It's the time of summer when you begin to understand that you won't fit in all the fun experiences and events you'd hoped to, simply because there's not enough time, or money, or both. It's when you glimpse the first back-to-school sales ads, and remember all the educational activities you planned to tackle each week with your kid... and didn't.

But it's okay. For all those things I'm reluctantly crossing off the list, the things I'm planning to put on next year's summer list, I'm also examining the list of fun things we have managed to fit in: picking berries, visiting museums and downtown, running through fountains, swimming, taking hikes, playing with friends, visiting with family, cooking out, sitting on the porch, reading and telling great stories, eating ice cream—lots of ice cream (hence the weight gain)... We haven't squandered too much, now that I think about it. We've had a pretty good balance. I even got the kid to paint with me this morning, "plein air." I lasted much longer than he did, but he made sand souffle in his sandbox until I was ready to break for lunch, and a light breeze was blowing, and the sun shone beautifully but not directly on us, and all was unbelievably well.

Coming to the 40-something point of summer is a lot like living to that point of your life: there are regrets, and there is also rejoicing. There is ever-increasing thankfulness, and an effort to strive for joy, with the growing understanding that it is a choice.

I suppose I was just feeling the mortality of summer pressing down on me a bit. Happily, we still have a few weeks left. And if I'm looking through the long lens, we hopefully have next summer, and maybe even the next after that. Life is like that; you can't dwell on the haven'ts. You have to acknowledge them, but only so you can work them into the next list. I'll try to spend much more time reveling in the Have Done category than grumbling through the Haven't Yet list. I strongly encourage you to do the same.

That said, however, don't sleep too late, or get stuck in front of the stupid TV. Those guys are summer thieves for sure.

A class act? Del yeah!

2011-07-17T22:38:00.000-04:00

One evening last week, the husband, the kid, and I made our hurried, scrambling way to the South Hills to witness a bluegrass legend: the Del McCoury Band. Del and the boys were playing in one of a string of giant stone churches atop Washington Road; the event was a fund-raiser for both a youth organization that began at our church, and for a group for kids based in Dormont, I think.

Anyway, for days before making a decision, we went back and forth about whether to go. Todd loves this guy and his music, I like him too, he's known all through the music industry as the guy who brought back and re-energized bluegrass music, other artists laud and revere him, etc. But the timing couldn't be much worse for us, both schedule-wise and spending-wise. Still, it was for a good cause, and we both knew we might never get such an opportunity so close to home again.

So we scarfed down dinner and jumped into the car. We just made it, tickets were still available, and we got decent seats. The huge, beautifully appointed church was warm and getting warmer, but no one cared too much. We parked ourselves near a fan standing in an outer walkway and waited with anticipation. I took a quick look around at the crowd, a mostly middle-aged to older gathering with a smattering of young adults, a number of families, and a handful of small children sprinkled here and there (ours among them).

Then the lights dimmed, the resident pastor addressed the crowd briefly and told us no video was permitted, and the show began. McCoury and his crew walked onto the small stage, all dressed in suits with ties, carrying their beautifully shined, perfectly tuned instruments.

Del himself addressed their audience at first and many times throughout the show. He was a white-haired, well-groomed man with a kind-hearted, quirky sense of humor; he explained at one point that he'd worked with Bill Monroe (father of bluegrass music) in the early 60s, so I figured Del had to be at least 70. He joked several times about his mind and how it's not what it used to be, but then would tease us that he could only remember the songs that he liked best or the ones that weren't as challenging to play. He spoke to the crowd often, affably and comfortably, telling anecdotes about his past experience, other performers, and the history of the genre. I got the feeling that whether playing a small show inside a church, or performing at Carnegie Hall (which they have), this guy would be the same. In a word, he was delightful.

The other members of the group were clean-cut, well-spoken men, two of whom happened to be named McCoury as well (Del's sons, I'm sure); the youngest appeared to be no more than 30. Each of them was a consummate musical genius, bringing forth unbelievably complex, blisteringly fast melodies from their strings with ease, then switching to quieter, slower tones, then back to traditional driving bluegrass rhythms. The topper, of course, was that in addition to their unbelievable mastery of their instruments, they all could sing fabulously well, and in perfect harmony. While they played.

Even if you abhor this type of music (and I used to really despise it, I'll confess), you could not argue that these fellows are amazingly talented, multi-faceted musicians. Remember this type of entertainer? The dancers/singers/musicians of yesteryear? The type of groups and individuals who looked nice and respectable, who had layers of talent, humility, and good manners on stage to boot? Del and his band covered a couple of tunes, talked about some of the songwriters whose work they'd covered at other shows, and in every instance the man had only good things to say about each of those artists. How refreshing is that, eh? I'll bet I will never read a stupid news story about Del twittering some unkind statements to a competitor, or posting something unflattering on his Facebook wall about another musician. And the band played a long time, two sets, plus a few more songs as an encore. With the suits and ties on the whole time, mopping their sweaty foreheads while they thanked us all for coming. For a charitable show that I'm certain could not have been too profitable for them, if they saw any profit at all.

At one point, Del asked for the mikes to be shut off, and they performed an amazing, quietly moving song about getting down on your knees and praying. There was no pretense, no drama, just heartfelt rendering of words and notes. These folks were, and are, the real deal, or putting on such a good show that they bamboozled me—a scathing skeptic—with ease.

I am so, so glad we went to the trouble to attend. It was rushed, it was hot, my boy got weary before it all ended, but I left that show with hope for the future of entertainment. There are still class acts in the world, even in America. You won't often find them in the headlines, but you can find them.

*****

Here's a little sampling of Del and the boys. Sorry you missed them.

The bold and the hideous

2011-07-13T16:34:00.000-04:00

Ah, the sights and sounds and smells of summer. Sunshine warming your shoulders, bright blooms in every direction, colors that only God could dream of... that is July here in lovely western Pennsylvania. Except you might get a few very unwelcome visitors in your happy little utopia...

See the pretty flowers? (Note the great color combination of the first; remember my favorite shades of dandelion yellow and wine red? These beauties are perfection, no?)

See the last picture? That sneaky, pink-nosed beast stealing the birds' discarded sunflower seeds? I got a good look—the brown/gray fur, the long skinny tail...

Definitely not a chippy.

Last night, the hus and I worked on a shared mission. He took his trusty machete and obliterated the full, lush hostas (a.k.a. rodent hideout), while I drove with purpose
to the nearest Home Depot. Guess what I purchased?

I hope I don't poison the wrong critter by accident, but I simply cannot and will not tolerate dirty rats. Yeeeech.

Second-hand furry goods

2011-07-09T10:50:00.001-04:00

I am a big proponent of buying second-hand items, especially with big things like furniture and cars. I've tried to instill this mindset in my son. Perhaps with too much success...

We talk here and there about getting a dog. Our neighbor dog is a sweet little pup that we sometimes help care for, as I mentioned here. And since the loss of our kitty, I rather miss the soft, furry presence of a pet in our home (although I don't miss the hair, nor the messes and strange behaviors).

We were discussing a pet, the boy and I, and he said he might want a puppy. I reminded him that puppies can be a lot like babies. "They whine more, and also poop and pee more often, not in the appropriate places," I said. "Besides, we should adopt an adult dog—puppies are always more successful at finding homes, because they're small and cute. They're way more likely to be adopted."

"Would we get a big dog?" he asked.

"Not necessarily big, just full-grown. Those dogs are less likely to find homes," I told him. "Plus, you don't want to buy puppies from a pet store. Some of those puppies aren't healthy." I didn't mention the horrors of puppy mills that I've read about. Sadly, some of them in our very own beloved Pennsylvania... There are some pretty cruel people in this world.

"So where would we get one?" the kid asked me.

"At an animal shelter, Honey."

"Oh, we could get a used dog," he replied, with sudden understanding. I burst out laughing. A used dog. Then we both started giggling.

"Well, they're not used." Then I considered it again. "I guess they are used dogs. But that's okay. We like used stuff, right?"

"Yeah." We chuckled some more. I was picturing the animals, from like-new to lightly loved, all the way to heavily adored, looking wan and worn. It made me a little sad even though we were laughing about it, because it's just another example of how people get a new thing, then lose interest or don't find immediate satisfaction in the thing and dump it somewhere. Except sometimes the thing is alive.

So, yes, if we get a pet, it'll be used. Which is just up our alley.

America, America

2011-07-03T16:59:00.001-04:00

Hey, All you nice people! All two or three of you who actually read this!

I want to wish you a delightful Independence Day. If you are American, then hopefully you'll recognize this adorable little Lego scene. I must give credit to Carl's Jr. (a restaurant chain that apparently is not popular where I am? since I never heard of them?) but they did the honors. In homage to the many Legos littering my world, courtesy of my sweet boy, I'll allow our favorite building blocks to depict one of America's finest moments.

There were many. There are many still to come. I hope you'll take some time to ponder some of those moments that shaped our country in the next 48 hours. I also hope that if you are American, you'll proudly display a flag on or near your residence.

If you want to feel concern for America's future, as I do, perhaps you'll watch this:

If Blogger is being stupid and the link is not showing up, then copy/paste this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=gQD9IaGoLWk

The vid is courtesy of my sis. Thanks, sis!

A different kind of painting

2011-06-30T08:05:00.001-04:00

Our recent adventures have taken us into and around the city of Pittsburgh, and the boy and I have rediscovered some of our favorite fountains.

One sits in the outdoor courtyard that lies between the Carnegie Museums of Art and of Natural History. The terraced space has small trees, lots of tables and chairs, and a crashing, thunderous wall of water on one side. Gallon after gallon falls from the top of the wall into a long, shallow pool. Because of the force of water impacting water, this one is quite splashy; to stand near it is to ensure wet feet and face. Aaah.

Another great fountain lies next to the BNY Mellon Building (this used to be called One Mellon Center), on the side next to the USX Tower. There's a lovely little park there, with several bench-laden walkways both sunny and shaded to accommodate foot traffic. The fountain sits in a bright, open area; it looks simple enough, a circular ground-level design with large steps that mimic the slight hill upon which it sits. Standing off-center inside the circle are four tall obelisks, notched on top, and water pours from each and intersects with other waters on the way down. It is deceptively uncomplicated, but intricate and painstakingly planned upon closer inspection. The off-center forms, the notches to facilitate water breakage, the placement in full sun, all make it a hugely successful design. During lunch hour, you'll be lucky to find a bench near this beauty, so I must not be the only one who admires it.

But the crowing glory, my friends? The show-stopper? That would be the fountain at PPG Plaza.

This one, too, might not grab your attention at first. It's a bunch of jets set right into sidewalk level on the large plaza floor. If you happen upon it when the jets are on low power, it will look like a series of baby fountains spurting from the concrete, surrounding a stumpy Washington monument-wannabe. But oh, when it's in full power, the scene is quite different. The jets are amazingly strong, and those cute little waterfalls suddenly grow until they tower over your head, reaching heights up to 15 or more feet. The monument in the center of the jets is a safe haven, misty and dreamy but somewhat protected from direct sprays.

What makes this one most special is that it's interactive, and the actors are children. Any visiting kid, of any age, size, or color, can walk and run right through the whole sopping scene. The constant accompaniment to the splashing, arching, spraying waters is the unrestrained screams and giggles of every dripping child there. It is the perfect summer symphony, a glorious cacophony of delight and joy. Conversation close to the fountain is absolutely drowned, and no one minds. Shouts mingle with the sounds of small, slapping feet, and the water rises, rises, rises as do the shrieks of glee. Rainbows dance everywhere, the shiny black glass of the surrounding towers gleams in a wavy sea of reflections, and it is impossible not to grin like a fool in the midst of it all.

Have you taken any time lately to really appreciate the miracle of water? Its existence, its necessity for sustenance, its power to heal and amaze? Yes, I know, it can flood, too–it can cause damage and death and destruction. It deserves our respect. But I just want to think about the good things it does right now.

The perils of childhood summers

2011-06-23T22:23:00.000-04:00

We signed up for beginner sessions at the pool a few weeks ago, and then the lessons began this past Monday. There we all stood, a bevy of parents, grandparents, and swimsuit-clad kids of all ages. The perky, tanned lifeguards called out names and got everyone into the proper groupings, and the guardians and younger siblings made their way to spots in the grass or shade, where we plunked down to observe the swimmers-in-training.

It's funny how you can bury a memory, and then years later it all comes back with unsettling clarity. It's the swimming lessons' fault. My kid hates them. He needs them, I know. It is essential that he learn to swim. Crucial. Absolutely a must. But it's not fun. Not yet, anyway.

I didn't fully recollect how much I, too, used to hate swimming lessons until the second day of this week, when my sweet son pleaded silently with me from the pool, his face distorted by the telltale pre-cry grimace. I spoke to him over the fence, as close as I was permitted to get. He had to be tough, I said; he just needed to do his best. It was okay if it wasn't perfect. It would get easier. Etc. Etc. In vain. He heard not a word through his misery. I gave up after a minute and returned, guilt-stricken, to my safe spot in the shade.

The next day, I stayed farther away. When he looked my way repeatedly, I looked down at the notebook in my hands, adding imaginary items to my grocery list so he knew without a doubt that I wouldn't save him and let him out of the lesson commitment. This morning, after he'd played the tears card in the car before the lesson began, I went farther; I sat behind a huge mountain of a man after my son entered the pool, thus totally obliterating the kid's view of me. He seemed to give up after a bit, according to a classmate's grandpa who was keeping watch as he sat next to me, and by the end of class my boy was actually trying to retrieve a ring from under water. This is big for us, believe me. Ring retrieval is an enormous step.

Now, we have a few days off from lessons, and I pray that his ring-seeking moment of bravery will not be forgotten over the long weekend. The point of this post, though, is not how my boy hates swimming; it's the fact that my vicarious suffering has brought back to me memories of my own early days at the "big pool." The sad truth is that I recognized that dripping, grimacing face of his, and it was my face. From many years back.

My teacher was not a cute, brown-skinned teenager. My teacher was Miss Betty. She was ancient to us kids, but old even by the standards of most adults. Her hair was frizzy and white, and when she instructed the older kids and was submerged, I'm pretty certain she wore an old rubbery swim-cap. Her requisite blue suit was stretched over her doughy flesh, and I don't recall that she was actually tanned even though she had reportedly life-guarded since birth; she must have been an advocate of sunscreen even back in the day. Or, her weary pigment had just given up.

Miss Betty had about as many soft, fuzzy edges as a box. Her voice was not an encouraging coo—it was more of a bark. She had no tolerance for fear, and she accepted no excuses. When she said blow bubbles, by God you blew bubbles. Even if you filled the pool with snot as you wept openly. There we stood, a row of horrified 6-year-olds, our blue lips quivering (the lessons always happened in the morning, early in the summer when the water was still barely 75 degrees), and Betty made us blow, and float, and kick until we could barely move our frozen limbs.

For many of us not raised near a ready supply of deep water, the idea of putting your face under water it not appealing. The very sensation of water rushing around one's head, up one's nose, into one's ears is pretty frightening. Doing this under duress while a crabby old lady hollers at your from above the water's surface or, worse yet, "helps" you to do these things, is pretty traumatizing. At several points my terrified, oxygen-deprived young brain was convinced that Betty would let me drown. She never did.

In fact, not only did she manage to pass me on to the next level, turtle-floating and bubble-blowing in adequate fashion, but she also delivered artificial respiration successfully to an infant a few years later, thus saving a baby from drowning. She may not have been heavy on charm, but she knew her stuff, that Betty.

So, I know there is hope for my boy. I can still side-stroke myself to safety these days thanks to her Betty's stubborn efforts, and I do go under the surface willingly, not just when forced to do so. But my heart breaks a little when I imagine the thoughts that must be going through my little guy's head. I keep reassuring him that the guards know what they're doing, that they all started out the same way that he is starting, the same way that I started. It does get easier. I can't assure him that it will ever be easy—that might be a lie. But easier? Yes.

Happily, I can still say with certainty that Dory was right: "Just keep swimming." I just wish we could skip this part of the learning experience.

A "felt" melmoir

2011-06-13T22:42:00.000-04:00

I've been absent from the internet for several days, not because I chose to step away, and not because my child and our hectic summer schedule kept me from writing... Nope. I was absent because Verizon stinks. I really can't say quite enough bad things about them right now. I will tell the entire frustrating story some other time, when it's less fresh and I am less tempted to write bad words in this family-friendly venue, but OH will I tell it. V is going D O W N .

This little anecdote, however, has nothing to do with poor customer service or the sad, isolated, out-of-touch existence that has been mine of late. This has to do with pool.

Not the pool. Just pool. As in pool table.

At one point in my youth, I believe when I was in middle school, my parents came to the decision that we could use a pool table in our dining room.

I still can't quite believe this happened, looking back. Right there. In our dining room. In lieu of a dining table. Granted, we never used the dining table except when we had company—meals were always eaten at the kitchen table—but still. I am truly surprised that my mother agreed to it. We must have obtained the table for a steal or for free, and I believe its presence preceded the spacious, old wooden table and chairs that now adorn the dining room. But I am still shocked when I recall the large, green felt reality of that big ol' table.

It was odd, being able to stroll into your own dining room and break up the set. Most of the sticks were frankly too long to use effectively in the room, as I recall; depending on the location of the ball, there was often not enough space to really take the shot properly because the back of your stick banged into the wall behind it. But it mattered not: I was a shrimp, the youngest, and I preferred the short, wimpy stick. I think we all fought over that stick when the shot really mattered, because it was the only stick guaranteed to fit inside the available space.

At any time, my sisters and I could wander in and chalk a stick, break, and start whacking balls into holes. I distinctly remember one snowy day when the morning dawned impassable and school was canceled, but by mid-day it was quite harmless. Family friends of ours came over with their two sons, and we spent the afternoon smacking the cue into stripes and solids alike, having a rip-roaring good time as the frigid wind blew outside. It was a blast. I don't recall being very good, but I was definitely a better pool player then than I am now. If we'd kept the table, I might have actually started applying logic; perhaps geometry could have been useful for something.

Alas, the pool table was a short-lived phenomenon at our home. Perhaps my mother finally demanded that it go. Perhaps my father grew weary of the endless cracking sounds that emanated from the heart of our home. Maybe, just maybe, the novelty wore off and we needed another table to set papers on. For whatever reason, without too much argument as I can recall, the table went away and was replaced by a more appropriate, far more boring table. It's odd; I recall neither the installation of nor the removal of the pool table, even though the room in which it dwelt was not large and the doorways to and from quite narrow and unforgiving. It must have been a battle getting it into and out of there, but in my mind, the table just appeared. And then disappeared. It's funny what a mind chooses to remember.

Oh, well. Just another quirky snapshot from my past. Have any of those yourself?

Winding down and shifting gears

2011-06-07T11:41:00.000-04:00

We're in the last week of school here; some districts have already finished for the year. It's exciting and also hard to believe. My little guy will be a first grader—egads!—and we'll be spending lots more time playing and less time hurrying to get somewhere on time. At least that's the plan. I am eager to spend more time with my sweet little boy.

It's hard to find balance, though. I'll go from having too much time alone to being deprived of it altogether. I don't know how often I'll be blogging, let alone painting. Unless I can turn the kid on to painting, too—I do have multiple easels, and he's loaded with tempera thanks to a generous Christmas gift from pals. A family plein air session, anyone? Todd did go to Art Institute... but seems less inclined to do old-fashioned paper-and-canvas art unless it's sketching. He's just too good at that Adobe Creative Suite.

So, I won't bid you adieu, but I will say that my posts for the new couple of months are likely to be hit or miss. This is the last painting* I will finish while the kiddo is institutionalized. It's the entryway for a building on my church's campus. For me, this door signifies my stepping into the world of choir rehearsal. I pull that handle, mount the steps inside, and join a throng of voices raised in worship. We'll have the summer off, so perhaps I can see this doorway hanging in my home, and be reminded to revisit my arpeggios occasionally. (Not that we sing those at rehearsal. There's no time! We get right down to business, man! God's praises won't wait for warm-ups!)

Have a great kick-off to the summer season. Remember, the whole point is to do less. It's perfectly okay to achieve mind-liberating, creativity-feeding boredom.

* Thanks to Rick C. for the great photo source!

Not-so-great expectations

2011-06-03T14:14:00.002-04:00

Earlier this week, after the kid was sleeping, the husband and I sat down to chat about what sort of house we'd like to find. We are sort of looking, now that we've been pre-approved for the loan, but we aren't finding our dream or anything that even resembles it. And we don't have a lot of time to take advantage of the window of opportunity that summer permits.

Just like any house hunters, we have a little list in our heads of all the must-haves, followed closely by the nice-to-haves. What seems to occur, though, is that as I look at what's really, truly available on the market and in our price range, I start to adjust my happy little list. My husband, however, does not.

I suppose it could be a matter of faith. If we trust God to deliver what we need, then the right house will either pop up or it won't. If we're meant to move, then the place will be in the right location, the right distance from town, the right school. I shouldn't need to fret about any of it. And honestly, I'm not fretting. I like where we live. If I didn't dislike close neighbors, yappy dogs, loud vehicles, and bus traffic, and if I didn't still believe that our society is doomed to collapse pretty darned soon, then I'd just sit tight here and be thankful for what we have. I really am thankful; it's a great place.

My actual conundrum is the fact that I am a giver-upper. I don't cling to ideals. I don't cling to anything. I am as changeable as a June weather system. In the midst of our lively conversation (translation: rather hostile volley of words), it became clear to me that my husband thinks I am a bit of a flibbertegibbet. That I hurry through things, longing more to finish and accomplish the task than to do it well.

The reason that hurt was because he's right. And he is the exact opposite, painstakingly researching, studying, sketching, idealizing (IMHO, of course) before even approaching the road to be taken. Which is why he's better at doing home projects, why he's superior at remodels, why the garden that he built last year looks so nice.

The problem is that other than that garden, I'm usually the driving force behind major changes in our lives. And remember, the garden came to be when I went back to work for that awful year of dad-stays-at-home-with-the-boy. It was a matter of survival, and we got through it, but by no means was I the only one going crazy. I think the garden helped my spouse to make it through the year.

I stand firm that we may not have gotten married yet, let alone purchased any homes, if I hadn't been my flibbertegibbet self and gotten the silly notion in my head about the importance of emotional commitment and then property ownership. We may not even have a child yet. Well, we might have gotten around to that, since I am married to a man. 'Nuf said.

I don't mean to expose too much insider information here; that's not what this blog is supposed to be about. I guess I am just wondering where other people stand on ideals and must-haves. Is the rest of the world as movable and wishy-washy as I am, because it's necessary to bend your own rules sometimes? Is it right to expect to find exactly the right thing? Does stepping away a little bit mean that you're giving up? That you don't have enough faith in God to deliver? Or is it just a healthy realization that adults can't wear rose-colored glasses and still reach goals?

I was reading another blog, written by a woman who'd lost a child suddenly, and she commented that some of the best advice she received was simply that as time goes by, you expect less. You don't expect to ever feel the same way that you did when your child was living. You don't expect, anymore, to see her sweet face in the morning. You don't expect others to understand your suffering. You lower your expectations. And I fear that perhaps, on a much more shallow level, that's what I've begun to do with my life.

Things don't go as you'd hoped with your home, your family, the economy, and you adjust your expectations. Jobs are lost, and once again you re-set your list of what you'd been ready to experience. Relationships disappoint, people let you down, you don't set the world on fire by 30... and all along, you are constantly rewriting that list in your mind.

Did I just describe most people? Or only myself? How firmly should we stick to that list we made? Is saving considerable money worth giving up on a lot of what you'd hoped to find? And would anyone ever do anything if they waited for the list to be completely fulfilled?

Too many questions, I know. But I welcome your feedback.

-Pessimist Mel

The real me

2011-06-01T10:59:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I found myself near a department store. So, I decided to head in and abuse myself until I felt really depressed.

Well, that wasn't how it started out—but that's pretty much how it ended.

I made the mistake of doing a little spontaneous swimsuit shopping. Foolish, I know. That sort of adventure requires preparation, the pumping up of one's ego, a salad for breakfast to alleviate guilt, etc. But I broke all the rules because, by golly, the suits were all 50% off. Unfortunately, that was 50% off of the price, not the size of my thighs.

(If you're one of the two guys who actually read this, I apologize. I think a guy can relate if he thinks of areas of his body that haven't held up too well over the years, or of tasks that used to be easy that now require real effort. I'll try not to be too graphic or girly. I'm not a terribly girly girl, anyway, so I think you'll be safe.)

It began innocently enough, with simple purchase pursuits like toilet paper and sunscreen. And then. There they were, in all their stretchy, bright-colored glory. Animal prints, pink hyacinths, little skirty bottoms that one might believe could hide flaws. They hung enticingly, just the styles I'd been admiring in a magazine recently, with adjustable straps and reinforced tummies and all those wonderful extras that would turn me into a model. I couldn't help myself; I slipped into the happy world of what I look like in my mind. I grabbed an assortment of tops and bottoms and carried them with misguided hope to the dressing room.

Oh. My. Goodness. The first top was too small, which squeezed certain areas painfully until I feared I'd be unable to remove the article. I tried the other, and it was too large and turned the same aforementioned areas into ridiculously unflattering, saggy triangles. All through this painful process, I couldn't help noticing that my arms are really quite dimply and white. And round. And that there are parts of the lower arm that appear to be nearly detached because of the way they function independently from the rest of my upper torso.

But oh, that's just above the waist. Below was even worse. More fishy whiteness, more dimpling and orange peels where there should be none, more bulgy parts that refused to stay hidden smoothly under spandex. Why are all the modern, fashionable waistbands right at the plumpest part of my waist? In my mind, I'm still a slender, wasp-waisted gal... Where is that girl now? Oh, that's right. Over 40, had a baby, can't stop eating mac and cheese, etc.

The rear view was too upsetting to discuss. I realize I could amend some of this with harder exercise and more eating discipline, but honestly, it would require a lifestyle choice and self-centered approach that I just can't imagine happening right now. I have a 6-year-old, I can't justify the cost of joining a gym or hiring a trainer, and I already feel as if I've given up so much with the whole prediabetes issue that I'm just not willing to give any more.

The solution? I'll wear my old suit, which sports an old-lady skirt, and I'll wear my cute little cover-up I bought on super-clearance last fall, and I'll stop looking in 3-way mirrors under fluorescent lighting. Even if I get thinner and more fit, I can't ever match the image of me that I carry in my own mind. The idealistic vision that can't be found anymore. The imaginary Mel. I don't believe it's possible to regain that fresh face, the wide-open eyes, the tight neck skin, the hairless chin.

I'll do what I can. I don't look that bad, truly; I won't sit around beating myself up. Even as I left the dressing room, I saw far chubbier women shopping nearby and they weren't one bit worried about their thighs. I know I'm thinner than I was before my son was born, and I know I'm healthier than I used to be, too. And thank goodness I don't live at a beach where people hang out in swimsuits all the time. That's unsanitary, anyway. Right?

Still, it's a sobering moment, when you face the real you in a harsh reflection, and that real you confronts the happy younger you that lives cluelessly in your mind. Hey, little girl, says nowadays me. Hey, step aside or I'll sit on you. This is my house now. Move it, you bag o' bones.

Damn, I miss that bony kid. Or at least I miss her outward appearance. Now, pass me that big bathing dress and a bag of chips, okay?

It lived up to its name

2011-05-27T13:36:00.001-04:00

I've written about the Pittsburgh Zoo and PPG Aquarium before on this blog. And I've been there many times since my son was born. We even sprang for a membership last year, which we thoroughly enjoyed. However, I've been somewhat spoiled in my zoo visitations, because I've always been able to take advantage of weekday mornings and off-season lulls. Our family's zoo escapades were made with crowd avoidance in mind, with daytime temperatures in mind, and we've always steered clear of May visits, period. Why? Field trips, that's why.

Except yesterday, I was the field trip. I went to the zoo with my son's kindergarten class. Some other insane mothers also chaperoned (one of them coming straight from a night shift—no sleep!!!) and we met the buses in the parking lot. We'd already received a list of the kids for whom we'd be responsible, and we checked names, counted heads, double-checked lunches, and set off through the zoo. We had to meet back at the entrance in under four hours, and there was much to see.

A couple of my little cuties immediately decided they wanted to stop at one of several shops; they seemed to be convinced that I'd be ponying up for everyone to purchase an overpriced item from China. Sorry, kids, not happening. I steered them clear of the first store and we made our way toward the leopard and tigers. It began to dawn on me, then, just how many people were visiting the zoo that day. Hordes of kids and a handful of adults, most in a series of matching t-shirts, were crushed up against all the fences surrounding the tiger area. People were standing several folks deep in places. It was a bit unnerving.

I tried to keep an eye on my five children, one of whom was my own; this was not an easy task in such a slew of small bodies. I'd have them in sight, and then one would be gone, then two... Sigh. When I finally was able to extricate all five of them from the mass, I called an emergency meeting. We needed a team name, I said. And some rules.

One child wanted to be the Cats, another wanted to be Orange Cubs, so we combined and became the Orange Cats* for the day. Also, I explained, there are tons of people here and I need to be able to easily see you all, at all times. That meant, I stressed, no one more than 10 feet away at a time. Perhaps I should have forced hand-holding, but honestly, it was hard to do—the day was heating up, people were sweaty, slippery little hands kept sliding away anyway, boys outnumbered girls... and I was not their teacher. They just weren't as willing to do that for me. I guess I can't blame them.

So, the Orange Cats set out once again, up the hill toward the savannas of Africa. It seemed that every display caused a slight uproar of sorts: the elephant house was too smelly, the fish in the pond were yucky, the orangutan was vigorously scratching an inappropriate area, the gorilla had some sort of visible residue on his posterior... Through it all, I kept losing my kids in the crowds, then finding them again. I can tell you in precise detail what each one of them had one because I got so good at locating the clothing. Happily, calling to the Orange Cats yielded better results than yelling out their names.

At some point, after much repetition of the phrase, "I'm hungry, I want lunch," I noticed that indeed, our bag lunches were looking worse for travel. I gave in at 11:30, and we found a large shady rock outside the aquarium and ate our sandwiches. Several people needed help opening packages, but at last we were all munching and for a moment, life was calm. We hit the head, and got drinks of water.

Refueled, we plunged into the aquarium (the building that houses the tanks, not the tank itself) and the madness resumed. Bigger crowds than ever shuffled through the dark halls, and the noise was deafening. Even if you could see your charge a few feet away, they likely couldn't hear you calling because of the throng of voices all around. We finally got out of there, passing through one of the cute zoo shops so the kids could see I was, in fact, not springing for toys for all. Once they comprehended this sad truth, they made their way outside again and we headed downhill to the polar bear exhibit. Outside the big bears' window, one of my kids announced that he was bleeding. Indeed, he was: lovely red droplets stood out on his shin. Did I have a tissue? Neosporin? Of course not. I'm the rebel mother who won't even join PTO, remember? Naturally I did not have the "good mom" tools of the trade. We found another restroom, I appointed the biggest kid as stand-in leader, and I rushed into the ladies' room to get a paper towel and soap. No towels! We're green!!! Blow your hands dry! So I had to stem the flow with toilet paper.

The boy survived and we went on. Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.

Kids Kingdom is a part of the zoo specifically designed for kids. It has play areas, animals you can pet, crazy rope bridges and climbing apparatuses. The Kingdom also has several enclosed slides at its entrance. I hate enclosed areas and have never attempted to partake in these slides, but I know that even on less crowded days, the slides are popular. On this day, they were absolutely mobbed. The children in my little group had been talking about them and couldn't wait to get there; also, I'd happily noticed that my gang was getting a bit more tired and slowing down. I made them all promise to come right back to me and not leave the slide area. (Stupid, I know—I should have handcuffed them all to me and run in the other direction.) Anyway, the Orange Cats had been listening pretty well and staying together. I found an obvious place to stand and waited for them to return to me.

Minutes passed. The two little girls showed up at the bottom of one slide, and I quickly corralled them. One time down was enough. My son showed up. And the other two remained missing.

More minutes passed. It felt like at least ten. Maybe 7 or 8 minutes? I kept checking my watch. They were gone. I had the other three sit in front of me and we all scanned the crowd. I was praying they'd show up. Where were they? What could have happened? Would they have gone on to the next area without me? After we'd all agreed to stay here until we were together again? I scrunched around in my purse, found my wallet, pulled out the number of the teacher... I had to talk to her and find out the procedure for lost kids... There was another little lost kid just behind us, talking to a zoo worker and another adult, and the stricken look on the boy's face made me want to cry. Oh, why did this happen?! I trusted them to come back to me!

My mind raced ahead, to the moment of confrontation with the parents of the boys; would they shout at me? Call me irresponsible? What if someone kidnapped the kids? What if they were found by another teacher or parent, thus informing the world how ineffectual a chaperone I truly was? Would I be ostrasized from future trips? I was just dialing the teacher's cell phone when one of my waiting three hollered out to the missing boys. There they both were, coming away from the end of the biggest, tallest tube slide.

Oh, my Lord, I was so relieved. The two latecomers explained that the line for the big slide had been incredibly long. We hadn't been able to see that, because the whole Kingdom is cleverly designed in a stand of tall trees, most of which had foliage now. It's a great set-up for shade, a beautiful view when you're strolling along the elevated walkways above the whole place... but when you're missing two children? It is decidedly not pretty.

Well, we held hands for awhile after that. Then, after I'd finished having a heart attack, we made our way toward the final building, first stopping at another playground with—yep, you guessed it—more of the awful, horrible, infuriating tubes where kids can climb and hide. And one of my disappearing boys did his best trick again, while my other four students and I looked in vain at every tube opening. When he did finally emerge at the top of yet another slide, I waited at the bottom to nab him. Guess what? The little twit saw me and turned around to exit another way. Suffice it to say that he got to me my favorite little buddy and hand-holder for the remainder of the day, which was thankfully wrapping up. I might have sprained a couple of his fingers when he tried to re-enter tubeland, but at that point I figured it was worth the risk; missing the bus back to school wasn't much better than losing a kid or two.

We made it back in time, and found the sidewalk littered with weary 6-year-olds. The buses came, the kids climbed on, and I left with sore feet, salty brow, and a firm decision that I would not willingly participate in this particular event again. And then I thought, What if I don't go and there aren't enough adults? What if everyone has to keep an eye on 8 or 10 kids instead of 5, all because of me?

Well, I won't think about that now. I'll just keep researching hair colors, so as to best hide the additional grey hairs that I am certain to find after yesterday's adventure. I came away not just with more greys, but also with even more respect for people who can work with large groups of small kids. God bless 'em. Every one.

And for the love of pete, don't go to the zoo in May. Or early June. Or on holidays. Unless what I've just described sounds like a grand time to you, that is.

*I've changed our team name for privacy reasons. Because I'm anal like that.

Duck, duck... and that's all

2011-05-24T09:50:00.001-04:00

You won't find a goose here. I figure they've pretty much taken over every small lake or pond within 50 miles, so if I choose to exclude them from my painting, the population will not be adversely affected whatsoever.

We saw these little ducks at my sister's a few weeks ago. Her family has chickens, ponies, cats, a dog, and the space to accommodate them. The ducklings were adorable, if loose-boweled (I know, I know, too much information) and the chicks had just progressed beyond that ball o' fluff stage, or so I was told. The down-covered darlings were all milling on the kitchen floor, and then in a giant plastic tote that was tall enough to contain them. I took photos like crazy, but those little birds just would not be still. Additionally, the big tote was bright blue and made a terrible background. So, after the fact, I pulled out my artist's license and proceeded to place the ducklings in a more appropriate setting.

If only real life were as easy to alter as art and digital images are. I suppose our memories can do that for us... and often do.

Anyway, the painting will be available in my Etsy shop later today.

The shirt that keeps on lying

2011-05-19T14:39:00.000-04:00

I'm a bit of a thrift store junkie; if you read this silly blog regularly, you know that already, because I mentioned it here, and here, and here... (I really do lead a normal life, I swear to you—I don't just hang out at resale shops and scan the craigslist page.)

Anyway, I like to shop secondhand. A few years back, I was searching for a replacement sweatshirt to take the place of ol' Esprit. Ol' Esprit was a baggy, grey, mostly-cotton-blend that I had worn happily for years. It was loose in all the right places, had a snug enough neck to actually provide warmth and coverage, and was the perfect neutral shade so it matched nearly everything I own. However, as often happens to favorites, Esprit began to show serious signs of love. When the seams started to split and I could no longer leave the house in it for fear of being jailed for vagrancy, I knew it had to go. I wore it when painting for awhile, but knew all along I needed a shirt to step into Esprit's shoes.

Enter the nearby Goodwill store, which in addition to its convenient location, also accepts debit cards for any amount, no matter how small. I went there to find my new sweatshirt love. I wore a T-shirt, so the try-on procedure would be simple, could be done even without a dressing room (in case they were filled), and would replicate new sweatshirt's most common wearing scenario: over a T. I found lots of options, but only one fit the bill perfectly—the fit was ideal, boxy and wide but not too long; the bottom band was not tight at all, thus permitting free movement and requiring no tugging. Best of all, the arms were not too long! This must have been a true woman's sweathshirt; all the men's versions are always designed for gorillas, or at least it looks that way on me with my short limbs. The only problem with the grey sweatshirt was that it sported a lovely Harvard Business School logo in the top left corner. The logo colors were nice and subtle, dark maroon and navy, and other than that I loved the shirt. So, I purchased it and decided it would not matter that it had writing on it, which I normally shun. (Writing should be on paper. Or a monitor.)

I brought the shirt home, washed it, and have worn it all over the place since that day. But the funny thing is that the Harvard thing gets a lot of attention. I've had a number of people ask me if I went to Harvard. Of course I tell them the truth: "Oh, yes, Muffy and I roomed together and I graduated Summa Cum Laude..." Okay, I tell them the real truth, which is no, I've never even set food in the state, let alone on Harvard's campus. And most people seem to be either happy about it (I'm not such a big shot after all) or disappointed to learn I'm a fraud.

The last person to ask was the chubby, curly-haired young guy working the deli at the nearby grocery. He was a friendly fellow, and I was the only one waiting for cold cuts, so he felt unhurried and entitled to chat. "You said a half-pound, right?" I nodded. He went on: "Did you go to Harvard?"

"No, I bought this at a thrift store."

He was one of the disappointed ones, perhaps looking to meet that one Ivy League person walking around the Shop 'n Save. "Yeah, I guess if you'd been there, you wouldn't be shopping here."

"Well, maybe I would be. Those people have to eat, too," I replied. He handed me the package and we parted ways.

But I thought about it. What are the chances of my meeting a Harvard grad of any kind in my local deli? Would I be buying ham off the bone somewhere in the North Hills of Pittsburgh if I'd walked the halls of Harvard Business School? I only know one person who went to Harvard, and I don't know if she actually attended the school—only that she was accepted. And if she is studying there, will she come back to Pittsburgh to practice whatever she's practicing, or will she likely flock to a bigger, more citified city? If she does live here, will she choose a simple, very affordable neighborhood in the 'burbs, or purchase some mansion nowhere near me? Will she shop for lunch meat, or send a minion? Or are we all really pretty much the same, even the very bright and well educated?

One has to wonder.

P.S. I'm wearing the shirt today. Inside out. I like to get double my money.

P.P.S. This one's starting to look pretty ratty, too... Short-armed sweatshirt donations will be shamelessly accepted.

Crusade against the cowbird

2011-05-16T10:31:00.000-04:00

There seem to be limitless examples of how nature takes advantage of changing environments in order to exploit smaller, weaker, more easy-going members of its society. I'm sad to tell you that it also happens in the bird world.

Meet the cowbird—a species I was happily unaware of until a few years ago, when we set up the feeders here in our yard and began to enjoy the beauties of our winged neighbors. This plain, sour-looking fellow showed up, and my son and I were curious enough to find his picture and read about him. We did not like what we read: this bird is a parasite.

Used to be, cowbirds hung out with the buffalo and followed them around, taking advantage of the insect explosion stirred up by the wandering herd. Since the big beasts moved around a lot, so did the cowbirds; in fact, they never stayed in one place long enough to build nests. So what did they do? Why, they used other birds' nests as their own little incubation system. And they still do it.

(If you don't believe me, you can read about it here or here. Appalling, isn't it?)

You can see why we aren't big cowbird fans; we know what they're up to, laying their big, nasty eggs in the nests of smaller, unsuspecting birds, to the detriment and even death of the host birds' own young. And when those cowbirds show up at our bird feeder, we scare them away. We clap at them, shout at them, even open the door and run at them until they flee in fear, their annoyingly high-pitched call echoing behind them as they vacate the premises.

But honestly, how much good does it do? They keep showing up. They've found a way to use and abuse the good, upstanding members of Birdville, and they're going to keep at it until somebody is defeated or disappears. Worst of all, the cowbirds aren't going anywhere because the constant destruction of forest and opening up of more woodland edges actually exacerbate the problem; that's just the sort of surroundings to which they flock.

We'll keep on fighting the good fight. And yet... it's feeling like a lost cause, because even as I type, Mama Cowbird is out there laying roughly an egg a day, invading as many happy homes as possible, dooming the rightful members of the family.

The worst part is that our own society is looking a lot like nature these days. Sigh.

Deep thoughts in the middle of the night

2011-05-09T23:45:00.001-04:00

My son knows I am a light sleeper. And he knows, too, that I'm a sucker. Every now and again, he summons me to his room at 3 or 4am to help him find his missing teddy or other stuffed creature. The infrequent bad dream is also a reason for him to call me; the soft but definitive "Mom!" always brings me right out of a sound sleep.

The other night, though, we had a completely new conundrum.

The telltale "Mom!" came to me, quiet but insistent, at around 3:15am, and I hurriedly threw back covers and stumbled around the circumference of the bed and through the short hallway to my boy's room. I had to flip on the bathroom light (which is in the next room) so I could see what I was doing without blinding both of us with unwanted brightness.

There sat my son, upright at the head of his twin bed, in camouflage PJs, rubbing his semi-awake eyes and looking both weary and suspicious at the same time.

"What is it, Honey?" I asked.

"Mom, who took my sheets?" he countered in an accusatory tone.

What an odd thought. Why would he conclude that someone else had taken them? We were the only two in the room, yet this was his first assumption.

I was also half-awake, you recall, and my sensitivity was not at an all-time high as I gazed at him through squinty eyes and replied, "No one." I pointed at the foot of his bed, and there were the offending sheets and blankets, scrunched up into an unrecognizable mass... where he'd pushed them with his own restless feet and legs.

"You kicked them down to the bottom, Babe," I explained sleepily, and I helped him pull the bedclothes back up and rearrange them correctly over his soon-to-be-prostrate form. He snuggled down and was already halfway there, and I tucked him in and exited quickly before our interlude could become a full-fledged conversation, which I was mostly definitely not interested in pursuing.

But I thought about it a lot as I tried to get back to sleep, and on into the next day. How strange, that my little boy's limited exposure to the world, or me, or human nature, caused him to look for the guilty party who'd taken his covers, instead of grasping that he'd pushed them away from himself. How often have I done the same thing? Not just while sleeping, but also while fully awake? How often in my life have I sought the covers thief, instead of accepting responsibility and seeking to make it right so that I am "covered" from here on in?

See, I warned you these were deep thoughts...

How I became more stupid

2011-05-05T11:38:00.000-04:00

Forrest Gump always believed that stupid is as stupid does... or at least his mama felt that way. I think Mama was right, but I'd take it a step further: Stupid is as stupid says. I spent a good many years of my life showing, through my words, that I wasn't very wise.

Growing up in a rather small pond, in a family of people like me, it was relatively easy to pass those early years believing that I was pretty smart. Kids can be obnoxiously confident anyway, can't they? And finding moderate to noticeable success in a school or home setting can lull a young person into feeling pretty darned special. I tried to be humble, but in my heart I didn't buy it.

I chose a less-than-large state school as my undergrad alma mater, and this experience continued to feed the fantasy that I was all that. I had to work a little harder, granted, and I had a little too much fun that first year-and-a-half and watched my grades suffer (much to my parents' chagrin and annoyance). But truthfully, even when I slouched and lazed along, I still didn't do that badly. It was more challenging, but still manageable.

Even my first professional job fell into the same camp of making me believe I was on top. I moved to a little, inbred town near Erie, and taught a variety of kids there. A few of my students were rather brilliant, but many were average; more than a handful were counting down days until their 16th birthday, when they'd proudly file their "outta here" papers and flee to the family farm. So, in comparison to the norm there? I considered myself to be somewhat intellectual. No one told me otherwise. (They were too kind, I see now.)

I had to move to a larger city, and rub elbows with some truly smart people, before I began to figure out I had quite a lot to learn... and that there was plenty I'd simply never learn. I remember this dawning of realization at one of the firms where I worked, while I watched one of my bosses work through an extremely complex piece of information. He sketched it, he explained it, he fleshed out the physics behind it. And I took it all in, gleaning simultaneously that I could never have made it so clear and easy to grasp. I simply did not have that sort of brain power.

There were others at that company, and many since, who have left me with my figurative mouth agape. Great artists and performers populate the group, of course, but more often it's made up of that rare breed of person who oozes grey cell greatness—the people who really understand the stock market and can simply explain why the housing market collapsed, the folks who truly comprehend world economics and the shortcomings of every proposed solution, the people who can describe with perfect verbiage how one splits a cell or creates a new combustion system or safely constructs a tall tower. I have learned, by shutting up and listening, just how much I really lack.

The longer I live, the more I get it: I am not so smart. Actually, I am quite dull. And the more I look for the strengths of others, the more I find them. Even when a strength isn't uniquely intellectual, it usually still has great merit. I know one guy, an everyday guy who isn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but you know what? He is absolutely fantastic at getting people to feel close to each other and open up; he is great at sensing when a person needs a community around him. And there's one lady who seems so fluffy and flighty, but who can deliver a word of truth in such a way that the recipient actually listens and considers the point instead of taking offense.

The list goes on and on: A neighbor's daughter who is mentally challenged but knows instantly when she confronts a lie; a fellow who is jovial and somewhat goofy, yet can tear apart any machine and put it back together better than before. One of the smartest guys I knew was my dad's mechanic, who repaired engines by ear, and also worked beautifully with wood; I believe he even made his own knives. When I cleaned houses for that awful two weeks last fall, the guy who was training me was a fantastic cleaner. He knew how best to do it, how to work quickly and efficiently, how to keep track of every tool and spray bottle... it was awesome. My husband is great at planting and cultivating things, and not because he studied it exclusively but just because he loves it and learns a tip or two from every gardener he meets. Some people are just born problem solvers, and we all should learn whom they are and admit their prowess and our own shortcomings.

The last time I had this overwhelming feeling, I was attending a luncheon with Todd for new employees at his current university workplace. We listened to a speaker talk about his superior, and how she'd created a new type of missile; we learned that a fellow employee had been the creator of the strange little code word system that I use every time I leave a comment on someone's blog. The other fellow at our table mentioned how he traveled a lot to train others worldwide to use the school's software. I sat unobtrusively, hoping no one noticed my sad state of brainlessness.

It's amazing how stupid I became once I stopped telling everyone how smart I was. It's also pretty embarrassing. To anyone I've ever bored with my own praise, I am sorry. Please forgive me.

Happily, one of the many perks of being a Christian is that my lack of impressive cells is not just tolerated, but sometimes actually welcomed. We are encouraged to do things like be still and be more like a child. I struggle with the stillness, but the childlike acceptance and questioning less? That I can handle.

Happy fruit for a dismal day

2011-05-03T14:15:00.000-04:00

I finished a painting recently. Every time I try a subject other than animals, I remember why I prefer animals! They just come more easily to me. Oh well, we all need to step out of our comfort zones and challenge ourselves periodically, right?

It's available for purchase in my Etsy shop.

P.S. I'm offering free shipping on all items through May! Happy spring!!! See the Etsy store for details.

Late April in my world

2011-04-28T13:35:00.000-04:00

I ventured to the nearest Target store earlier today, and was highly entertained by the different outfits that fellow shoppers sported.

I followed a woman from the outer parking lot where we were parked near each other, and I couldn't help noticing that she was wearing her winter coat. A real, quilted, white coat with a hood. The hood was down, not over her head, but still, there it lay in all its fur-edged glory. This made me chuckle to myself because as I followed her in my light jacket, my feet made the telltale slappy-slappy sound of my slip-on plastic sport sandals, which I adore. I proudly donned them without socks this morning. Ah, ex-toe-sure.

It got better: as we neared the entrance, we passed a younger woman who was standing by her mini-van and attempting to wrestle her toddler daughter into a jacket. Which would fit neatly over her sundress with spaghetti straps. The child was fighting the extra layer and insisting it was not necessary—this as a brisk breeze further chilled the air to high-50s. A middle-aged couple scurried past, the woman dressed in heavy hiking boots with thick socks hugging her ankles over some leggings.

There were we all, juxtaposed in the strange and seasonless world of Southwestern Pennsylvania in springtime. Two days ago, it was 82. Two weeks ago, I was pelted first with hail, and then with wet snow. Nature doesn't even know what to do with a month like this. Over-eager daffodils leap out and are often flash-frozen into wilted brown blobs with hanging heads; lilacs take the chance and either amaze or depress admirers, depending on whether or not the buds were adequately shielded by a larger, tougher neighbor. The grass in our yard and most others is a strange blend of brown patches, mad dandelion growth, and tall spindly greens...with a less-than-scenic swamp lurking in every low spot around.

Sometimes I ask myself, Why do we live here? Then I watch the news, and see that we've been spared awful tornadoes thanks to our crazy hills and valleys. I hear of desert droughts and wonder why construction continues there. I remember that farther north, some folks go months without sunshine; I recall giant bugs in tropical places, higher concentrations of poisonous creatures, hurricanes that hurl things, cities that get so cold their sidewalks lie underground...

Southwestern Pennsylvania: my own little chunk of soggy, blowy Heaven.

Sunrise memories

2011-04-18T14:19:00.002-04:00

My childhood worship place sat upon a tall, round hill surrounded by ridges and high meadows. It sits there still; my cousin was married at the church several years ago, and I was stunned to see how crowded the pews felt now, how dark was the interior. Was there really only one little bathroom? Around back, where many church dinners had been served out of the basement kitchen, the patio by the door didn't seem as spacious as I'd pictured it in my mind. Growing up ruins things sometimes.

But the view from outside the church? It was every bit as astounding and awe-inspiring as it had ever been.

The church is rather old, with a requisite cemetery situated next to it. Those graves stretch across the hilltop quite a ways and a small road runs through them. All around you, as far as you can see, are similar bluffs and high places, some distant buildings, a variety of fences, and occasional stock grazing; you feel atop the world. It's a perfect place for walking, for thinking, for simply pondering the awesomeness of our Creator. When you're alone, the only noise is the wind, which depending on the day could probably seem lonely or friendly. When you're there with others, voices are lost on the breeze, and it's necessary to speak up or shout when you're not near to the person you're addressing. It's a really peaceful place for pondering.

What I've been recalling about that church lately, though, is one particularly early morning attendance. The church used to feature a real "sunrise" service on Easter morning, and my family attended that sermon on several occasions.

We'd rise before daylight, and my sisters and I would first check our Easter baskets to make certain they held goodies, even sampling some sweets (always at least one bite more than we'd been granted!) Then we would don our Easter dresses, which had been laid out the night before or had hung temptingly in our closets for days. Over the pretty dresses went heavy jackets, of course; Easter weather is rarely warm, and churches perched on hilltops are colder still.

We'd climb into the family truckster, usually a station wagon, and off we'd ride, down our road and then upwards on twisting, sometimes lurching single lanes. At last, our stomachs turning from the drive, we'd see the red brick building rising up ahead of us, and we'd ascend the driveway to park with all the other simpletons who'd chosen the same pre-dawn path.

Easter was especially fun because the songs we sang that day were joyful and uplifting, which would not be my adjectives of choice to describe some of the more traditional hymns of a typical childhood service. Our church was stoic and serious, and the hymns could take on a dirge-like quality at times...or perhaps it only seemed that way to me, being young and easily bored. Two songs that were nearly always featured on Easter morning were "He Lives" and "Up from the Grave He Arose" (or at least I think those are the titles). We'd sing out the powerful phrases with increasing vigor, and by the time we got to the end, that little building was as close to rockin' as it would ever get:

Up from the grave He arose
With a mighty triumph o'er His foes!
He arose a victor from the dark domain
And He lives forever with His saints to reign!

(Another song that's stayed with me is "Rise Again," but I think that was mostly sung on Palm Sunday.)

Just as we were rounding out some verses celebrating our resurrected King, the stained glass windows in the church would begin to glow, and light would shine through them with steadily increasing strength. On a cloudy day, it still lit the place gently, but on a sunny day, those colorful, translucent images came to life.

Afterward always involved chatting, happy Easter wishes, a leisurely exit into the bright day. Sometimes the air would have warmed a bit, and heavy coats could be shed so that fancily clad kids could be admired and teased. Then homeward, for a once-a-year diet of candy and ham.

They are sweet memories, those early Easter mornings. It's still easiest for me to picture Jesus stepping out of that tomb when it's new morning and the air is chill, and especially when I'm singing about that incredible moment. I truly hope that this coming Sunday, Resurrection Sunday, will be a day of joy and gratitude for you. You know which songs will be playing in my heart.

Tough decisions

2011-04-14T14:08:00.001-04:00

I'll bet you think I'm talking about something really important when I say tough decisions: where to live, what to do with my life, which job to pursue, whether or not to adopt a child, etc.

Well, I'm not talking about anything that serious. I spent some time this morning going through my closet. I was trying to determine what still fits, which garments can live happily and well beyond their decade of origin, etc. But what I was really trying to see is what still feels right on a 41-year-old's body.

I got rid of some items. I ended up devising a short list of checkpoints to help me decide which pieces just don't work anymore. Is it more than an inch or two above the knee? Ditch it. I have short legs; I don't need to be fretting about whether or not my chubby thighs are hanging out. Is it an unflattering color that I could get away with ten or twenty years ago, but now looks desperately youth-driven? Toss it. Is it apt to move around too much, thus requiring constant adjustment (pull-downs, straightening, pinning of straps to bra straps, etc.)? If so, lose it. Life is too short to spend it re-adjusting and tugging. There was a time when I was willing. Now? Not.

Then we get into the simple, common-sense checkpoints. Is it comfortable? Do those cute jeans dig into my belly and leave strange hieroglyphs on my skin? It's time for them to go. Does any part of my lower undergarments show? It should not. (Undies shouldn't show on anyone, really; I've never bought into the mentality that finds a glimpse of skivvies charming in any way. But on an over-40 person? Most definitely unforgivable.) Do the shoes or boots cause immediate foot cramps? Then they must walk away.

I don't have to spend much time pondering any sort of gauzy material. Must I wear a camisole or some similar item in order to get away with the rest of the outfit? Sorry, those days are over. I don't want to bother. Into the "out" pile it goes. Any top with a band around the bottom? Gone-zo. I don't even think I had any of those to begin with, thank goodness.

I guess what I'm trying to avoid is making a mockery of my younger self. I want to steer wide and clear of becoming one of those women at whom I used to snicker. You know the ones; I won't even bother to give specific examples because I don't want anyone I know wondering whether I mean them. Just imagine a middle-aged woman who is trying in some (or several) aspects to look younger than she is. It matters not the means she uses; it's just not wise. We can tell she's not 25 anymore. The plan is not working.

I will cling to the classics, the styles that stubbornly refuse to identify themselves as "stylish." The way I look at it, I'd much rather try to have style than simply be in style. Fashion comes and goes; style remains.

Maybe it's motherhood that's caused me to confront my true age. I long ago stopped worrying about whether I embarrass Todd (tee hee), but I really don't want to make my son feel awkward. I have to shake my head at the moms who show up for classroom parties with cleavage bared; what are they thinking? And when the kids are teens? You don't want to try to compete with your daughter or her friends, and you certainly don't want to try to attract your son's pals. That's just wrong.

Anyway. Motherhood. Below is my latest creation. If you need a Mother's Day gift, check it out here! And if the mother in question cooks or bakes, you can even get the same design on an apron. How's that for original? Okay, now I'm finished hawking my wares.

The great thing is that if you're reading this and thinking I'm a fuddy-duddy, it's a free country and you are entitled to think whatever you want. You can even go put on a completely inappropriate outfit and parade around the street in it. Isn't America awesome?

Must you be my neighbor?!

2011-04-12T13:55:00.000-04:00

Mr. Rogers would not be proud of me this week.

We've been having some minor neighbor issues lately. Someone a few doors down from us spent last summer constructing a giant, 2-story, multi-car garage. The family already owns a professional garage not even a mile away, on the main business road below our neighborhood. Guess what they specialize in? Hot rods. Antique ones. Yep, the super-loud, throaty-engined, characteristically fussy and high-maintenance cars of the ever-immature. Oops, there goes my opinion sneaking in there again... And the grown son drives these boisterous beauties past our home at all hours; I'm not sure what he does for a living, but it often requires a 5:30am start and/or a near-midnight arrival. Rumble, rumble, growl, putt-putt.

But anyway, the eldest family member is now much more immobile, so I figure the family is doing all they can to bring the garage to him.

Which is nice. For him.

On the first beautiful, warm day of the year, I got to watch a somewhat steady parade of beautifully manicured 50s-era trucks and cars revving their way up our street and around the block. Sometimes they drove farther, but often, the obnoxious music of over-tuned, under-muffled engine never got out of earshot before it came back to me full force.

People. This is when I dream of 40 acres, a mule, and myself planted squarely in the middle. With razor wire surrounding the whole compound.

I know that sounds awful. I guess it is awful. Because, even as I bite my lip to keep from cursing at that fool behind all the sets of wheels, I have this niggling little thought in my head: God loves that person, too.

Mumble, mumble. No, I didn't say anything.

And with that, I introduce to you my first Zazzle store attempt: a little bag to help illustrate why I can still look forward to Easter with true joy.

I do know the Good Shepherd, which is handy for me, because as you can see I need Him very, very much. Do you know the Good Shepherd? If there were ever anyone to know, it is He. This sheep knows him, too—which is why she is pleading with her eyes for you to think hard about this.

Everyone keeps telling me how easy it is to create Zazzle products. That has not yet been my experience, but I did finally get this one set up, and you can buy it for just under $10 if you go here. Zazzle also has a huge number of other products, like mugs, keychains and T-shirts, to name a few. If anyone has a sincere interest in getting this image and wording (or some other wording) on a product like that, just email me and I can try to set it up. You purchase right from the Zazzle site, I get a cut of the cost (I think it's 10%), and I put the cut toward Todd's upcoming missions trip to Kentucky in July. Mostly, the cost will be to cover his lost wages while he's out of town.

In the meantime, I'll try to eat my humble pie while the hot rods roll past. I'm finding that it tastes a lot like crow.

Climbing out of a funk

2011-04-07T12:05:00.000-04:00

The best ways I've found to escape a bleak funk? Painting and singing, without a doubt. Cleaning and organization are also effective methods of escape, but they require infinitely more effort, energy, and motivation to begin. So I've chosen the more artistic outlets of late, and I think I'm finished with the funk now.

This little sheep makes me want to own sheep. Don't worry, that's not an easy impulse purchase to make, so I don't think I'll be picking one up anytime soon. I'll enjoy the pictures of Granny Miller's sheep* (that's who this little lovely belongs to) and I'll find some good music to keep me moving.

I think we're finished with snow... so I am planning to attempt an outdoor cushion retrieval from the attic. Wish me luck, and if I disappear for a few weeks, you'll know I stepped through the floor and into the living room below—thus resulting in traction. I'll be careful.

I hope, at some point, to make the sheep image into some cute items on Zazzle, a reportedly awesome site that lets you place your own images on products like shirts, bags, etc. So far, I'm having no luck getting my items onto the products... but I'll keep trying. Stay tuned.

* I did ask Granny for permission to paint her sheep, which she granted; otherwise, I would not have done so. Thank you, Granny!

Kisses are Y-U-K-E

2011-04-01T15:36:00.001-04:00

Wow, last weekend turned into a sickly one. Come to think of it, this entire late winter season has been sickly. And, in turn, it's been really expensive, since our "for-the-purpose-of-staving-off-medical-emergency-related-bankruptcy" crap plan isn't covering much. Thanks, Highmark. You healthcare people make me want to start smoking and gain plenty of weight, so I can push my prediabetes over the edge and become disabled like everyone else.

Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.

So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.

But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.

Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)

Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.

That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.

I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?

Embracing my purpose

2011-03-24T16:41:00.000-04:00

I'm becoming more and more convinced that one of my biggest roles on this little planet is to speak truth. I don't often enjoy the job, because most people don't want to hear what I have to say, seeing as it's usually bad news. Yet, I am bound by my personality to fulfill my duty.

This time, my somewhat unwilling speech is about food. The movie Food Inc., to be exact. But it's not just that movie; it's my slow, unhappy, dawning realization that the food supply in this country is really messed up.

Let me say, up front, that I am not a vegetarian. I eat meat. We own firearms. I am increasingly conservative. However, we also have a garden and grow food in it. I am an avid cook who tries to use healthy, natural ingredients as much as possible. I love animals, while also realizing that we are superior to them in our intellect. I believe that God made us in his image, and that animals are wonderful companions that are here to help, teach, and serve us.

It seems logical to me that, if we are more intellectually capable than any other earthly living thing (that we know of), it should be our goal to treat all of creation with respect and gratitude. (Within reason, of course. Respecting nature doesn't mean we never chop a tree, or that we move an entire city because its existence threatens the life cycle of an owl, etc.)

Anyway. This movie, Food Inc., is disturbing. If you're not thinking seriously about where your food comes from, you ought to. It's sort of a companion piece to King Corn, another eye-opening flick, plus one of the commentators in Food Inc. is Michael Pollan, author of The Omnivore's Dilemma (which I have yet to read but very much want to).

In the same way that the phrase "throw that away" has somehow turned into a mammoth floating garbage dump in the ocean , the idea of "going to the store" has morphed into a weird, utterly dependent system of unhealthy consumption that feeds our twisted, tightly controlled agricultural economy.

Even if you don't live in a city, it's still quite likely that you don't know any farmers. Why is that? If not, where did they go? Food is coming from somewhere... so neatly wrapped, in pretty packaging, it just magically appears and we buy it and eat it and ask no questions.

People: WE SHOULD BE ASKING QUESTIONS.

I need to keep this short because, lo and behold, my little guy came home sick from school today; he's feeling pretty lousy and I need to be attentive now that "Arthur" has ended. But seriously, I hope you'll watch the movie. I hope you'll ask some questions. I hope you'll see, as I am seeing, that the terrorists of this world won't even need to bring us down, because we're doing it to ourselves with ignorant and bad choices.

Over and out, for now. Next on my public service messages? Buying American. Then, we'll tackle the abandonment of plastic bags.

Ancestry—avian, and otherwise

2011-03-18T15:04:00.001-04:00

I was outside earlier today, enjoying the late morning sunshine and comfortable temperatures. I took some paperwork onto the patio, to try to lighten the load of record-keeping by surrounding myself with nature.

It worked. The load was quite manageable and even rather pleasant. Of course, I was not as productive as I likely would have been in the darkness of the dining room. I became rather distracted by the many birds who flew in and out of my midst to dine at the feeders I'd filled yesterday.

The chickadees are definitely the most bold. They swoop in without apology, lighting nearby and chirping insistently. A titmouse showed up, more timid, and didn't stay long. A few sparrows stopped by, some munching right there, others taking a seed in their beak and fluttering back to some safer locale. Lately, we've even been graced by a big, pileated woodpecker. Nuthatches visit the suet feeder, and the funny mourning doves with bobbing heads trip around beneath the feeders, feasting on what would have been wasted.

I clearly recall my youthful days at home, when my mom would address the birds. "Hello, Birds," she'd say. Sometimes she spoke to the sky on a particularly beautiful day, or her many flowers, and I think I may have heard her recognize the big maples in the backyard. I can't tell you how many times I giggled at her when she did this, gently poking fun at her fascination with nature and all its winged beauties. I was oh-so-worldly, you see, and much too cool to participate in such silliness. I would never speak to birds and plants.

And now, sitting out back of my own home, some 30-plus years later, I see how you always come back to your heritage. You can deny it, you can run from it, you can try to train it right out of yourself, but it's there. It's in you. Maybe it's in your face, when you look into the mirror and one of your parents stares back at you, or an aunt or uncle. You might hear it in your voice, when you pronounce a certain word, or speak a turn of phrase you swore you'd never repeat, such as, "I'll give you something to cry about." (That was my uncle's phrase. It still makes me chuckle.) Perhaps you'll recognize the way your thighs look in jeans, or the bump on your foot just under the big toe (that's from my grandma, Ma-Ma).

All those people who made you, are in you. They shaped you, and eventually, they will emerge from you in all sorts of ways.

It'll happen. It's happening to me. Now, I speak to the birds. The wonderful thing, though, is that now I understand the other side of the quotient: my mother was only holding up her end of the conversation.

Thanks, Mom.

Blog lite

2011-03-15T15:22:00.002-04:00

Watching the television coverage from Japan lately has certainly helped me kick my self-pity habit.

Those poor people.

I'm not emotionally ready to grasp what is happening there, let alone to write about it. So, I'm offering a "lite" blog entry, a la Cute Overload.

I present to you baby varmints. Groundhogs, to be exact. I know that in a few months those very same darling beasts will be trying to break into Todd's garden, gnawing at every tender new vegetable they can reach.

But for now, gazing at their small fuzziness, I can forgive all the damage to come.

Meantime, I hope you'll join me in praying for the people of Japan. I cannot imagine the devastation, to structures and roadways, families and co-workers. They need our prayers. And our support and assistance.

This is the end (of winter)

2011-03-10T10:06:00.000-05:00

It's almost over, folks. Let me tell you how I know.

I know that winter is waning, because I have officially become my ultimate cranky, coughing, Vicks-scented, mean-girl self...and that happens every year around this time. We're on the cusp, and I am crawling toward that cusp, biting back curse words every time the wind blows my hood right off my head. We're on the cusp, and our entire household is enjoying an intimate relationship with our many boxes of Kleenex with Lotion (hey, I'll scrimp on clothes, furniture, and discount foods, but even I have my standards). We're on the cusp, because if this winter lasts much longer I can pretty much guarantee that injuries will be suffered by some poor person, at my hand, after said person has uttered the phrase (or thereabouts) "Spring is just around the corner!" You see, I am beginning to suspect that the only thing around that corner is a nasty sleet storm. Another nasty storm.

So, all of this means winter is nearly finished.

The only time I averted this horrible yearly phase of my psyche was the year that Todd and I had the good sense to book a long weekend in Florida in mid-March. I can't describe the bliss that came over me as we exited the airport in Tampa, looked around us at palm trees, and breathed the essence of living, green warmth.

I can't bear to think about it. Must plod on.

I have other things I'm planning to post about, but I'm not ready to stop feeling sorry for myself quite yet. Hope you'll check back in a day or two. That's assuming, of course, that the dastardly north wind doesn't blow so hard that it knocks out everyone's power.

Inquiring minds want to know

2011-03-03T15:18:00.000-05:00

(Notice I spelled inquiring with an "i" because I do not in any way want to be associated with the National Enquirer, the classless rag that first made such a statement. Frankly, I'm not even sure that it merits the italics used to indicate a publication...)

I have an inquiring mind, and I want to know. I want to know because I need to know. How bad is it going to get in America? In the world? Situations are unraveling faster than the newspeople can address them. You'll notice the local news-givers have simply refused to acknowledge any serious news outside of an invisible 60-mile radius surrounding our city. Another local fire? Robbery? Shooting? Demonstration? Quick, find a barely literate, clueless person to interview!

Anyway. Obviously, no one's getting the truth from the liberal, purchased national media folks, either. What I do manage to learn, (mostly via web sites which merely visiting could earn me the label of militant troublemaker,) is all bad. Economy and employment=bad. America produces very little and is controlled by thugs. Food? Bad; it's controlled by giant conglomerates like Monsanto who force chemicals, additives, and dependency on its unsuspecting consumers. Housing: bad for most, unless you had the sense to purchase a tiny, cheap home in a decent market for a fair price, and you've somehow managed to stay employed for the past 3 or 4 years. The youth? They're the victims of all this degradation and sadly, a lot of them don't even realize how unbalanced (not to mention immoral and sleazy) our world has become. Hope and change? Fading fast. Leadership and government? They're in midair now, having already driven off the cliff. (Did I mention you were in the cart they dragged behind them?)

So, what's a poor, flustered, concerned suburbanite to do in the face of all this madness?

Go off grid. Actually, go off off-grid. Just being a survivalist and removing yourself from the so-called "grid" that our culture has slowly plugged into the back of your head, Matrix-style, is no longer sufficient. Now, apparently, you must branch off from the off-grid lifestyle.

Or so I'm guessing, based on the talk about a book that becomes available in force via book bomb tomorrow, March 4. The author is a full-fledged, real-life off-gridder, and I for one am quite interested in any insights he has to offer. The intelligent, informed people over at the Granny Miller blog had some good things to say about it, and they've piqued my curiosity. I might have to bite the wallet and order one.

I love being near the city for many reasons. If someday Todd and I decide to remove ourselves from its midst, I will miss the culture, and the availability of odd and wholesome foods, and the diversity, and the dazzling array of amazing manmade creations, and the opportunities and events and seemingly limitless re-sale options. But at the same time, I can clearly see the rapid deterioration of our easy, effortless lifestyle, of the freedoms that we take for granted daily. I can see that the entire country, and most of the modern world, is teetering on the brink of some really difficult times that will make the depression look mild. It's not going to take a super-human shove to push us over the edge. Unpayable debt, overloaded systems, a majority of citizens that rely on government assistance in some form, unhealthy agricultural monopolies, pollution and corruption and—well, you see my point.

Not to mention the cost of gasoline. The refusal of our figureheads to drill at home, thus our reliance on knuckleheads. The absolute breakdown of everything when there's a disaster, natural or otherwise. Can you even imagine this country if we all lose power for any length of time? Or if some evil person gets into some major water supplies and fouls them up? Can you envision what will happen if some major roadways are disrupted for any reason and become impassable for a length of time? What if (gasp) the dollar is replaced as global currency?

I try not to picture these things, but I still do. I can't help myself. I am grounded firmly in reality. I don't like confrontation either, but I prefer it to walking away while peering with trepidation over my shoulder.

I have to think it's better to address these looming possibilities, and what I can do if they come to fruition. I wouldn't be nearly as concerned if I weren't so bloody dependent on all these faulty, flawed systems. That's why I keep eying this whole off-the-grid idea with such focus and fervor. I like the idea of being a self-sufficient unit. I enjoy the pleasures of our culture, the entertainment factors, the modern conveniences, the exotic choices in every realm. But I could live without most of it pretty easily. Could I live without all of it? What would it take? Where would it need to happen? How much money, knowledge, and preparation would it require? How much work would it be?

I know it's a lot to think about. But I do believe it merits a ponder, or two or five. Because truly, the good thing about being such a darned pessimist is that after thinking of all the bad things that could happen, the pessimist is empowered to then move forward into the preparation and planning stages.

I hope you'll check out Granny's site, or the book's website (the link is there).

Meantime, anybody want to sell me some remote land and livestock cheap?

P.S. Sorry if you find more typos than usual here; I'm hurrying, because I want to get this live so my two readers can check out the book by tomorrow...

Springtime in Mel-ville

2011-03-01T15:18:00.000-05:00

It's been a long stretch of sick days here in our house. First the kid, then me, then husband complained of scratchiness in the throat. The others shed the bug a bit earlier than I did; in my relentless stint, a completely unrelated infection cropped up, the meds that were required were strong enough to turn my stomach (and did), and finally my chest cold flirted with the idea of becoming bronchitis or pneumonia or some other debilitating thing. Today, for the first time, I feel human. Hot showers, Vicks Vaporub, and much prayer have helped me crawl out of the abyss that is an unwell February.

As I ran errands (yes, actually ran instead of dragging my exhausted, hacking self from place to place), I began to think about how emerging from a stretch of poor health is sort of like coming into your very own springtime. Suddenly, there is life where once there was nothing. There is energy, light, hope and promise. Just as stepping into a sunny spot on a breezy day can remind you that there really is such a thing as being too warm, waking up and feeling decent can remind you of your own potential, your own plans and dreams. It's hard to dream about anything happy when you feel sick. It's hard to even focus, to deal with everyday chores and necessary tasks. I've found it quite challenging of late simply to climb out of a sleepless, uncomfortable night and face the day.

I am very, very thankful to feel more like myself again. Not 100%, but tremendously improved from a week ago. I feel a little bit reborn. I can think clearly. I can look forward to things. I can stop my ceaseless petition to God for healing, and start to feel genuinely grateful again.

And speaking of spring, I've posted a couple of spring bird note cards at the Etsy shop. If you're looking for a good gift idea, especially for someone who loves birds, these will earn you some points for sure!

Wishing you good health, an early spring, and bright hope for tomorrow.

The cost of convenience

2011-02-23T15:19:00.002-05:00

In my ever-present dilemma of whether to stay near a city or unplug completely, I've discerned a disturbing pattern.

It occurred to me as I sat in my really great parking place at the local Shop 'n Save store. I'd been so happy to find it! On a busy day, the day of the shop's crazy-good specials, I'd managed to land a spot right by the door. I couldn't believe my luck. This awesome spot would allow me to run in and get the three little items I needed.

Ten minutes later, five of which had been spent at the bustling check-out (stop chatting and move it!), I hurried to my car. Except I couldn't drive away. There was a big truck parked behind me, blocking me in along with two other cars. Of course it would stop there, with blinkers blinking; it was right by the entryway. As was I. Except now, my spot wasn't so perfect, was it?

I pondered my realization as I watched the truck's blinkers continue to mock me. Yes, every time there's a convenience, there is a price. Even if that truck weren't hedging me in, for example, the parking spot close to the door is also the spot most likely to feature runaway carts. I sought the pattern elsewhere. Cars? They're great. Except now that I depend on one, I am lazy and don't combine errands the way I would if I had to ride a bus, or walk, or bike. And, cars (and airplanes) have allowed people to move far away from jobs, schools, extended families, etc.—which seems convenient until you consider all the traveling hassles—not to mention the extra money we spend going to those places frequently, even daily. Plus the pollution.

I love my washing machine, clothes dryer, and the dishwasher. Love them. However. The price? Now it's too easy to be clean, to toss a shirt or a drinking glass into the ever available receptacle for dirties. I don't need to be careful, don't need to be mindful of whether the item is truly dirty, because the solution is right there. Waste, and waste more. The same is true for indoor plumbing and a seemingly endless supply of hot water at the ready. Now? We're all obsessed with cleanliness; God forbid we smell like people instead of perfumes. The Europeans don't seem to have been sucked into this illness; perhaps we should find out how they remain immune to the lures of scentlessness...

Easy, breezy communication? I've already touched on that one, and how I truly believe it's cheapened and weakened our interactions, to the great detriment of our language and relationships. Prepared foods? They're often very unhealthy for you, and use more energy to prepare and deliver than locally grown or slaughtered. Fast food? Same thing, plus all those convenient foods cost you more money, too.

Disposable goods are so convenient, aren't they? Paper plates, napkins, little zip-lock baggies, plastic cups that no one bothers to recycle, plastic tablecloths for parties, etc. I'm just as guilty—I've used them, too. Although I do recycle the cups, and we certainly don't entertain much... But I digress. The point is that since all this stuff is as close and cheap as your nearest dollar store (filled to the gills with imported garbage, no offense to the stores intended), we have an insatiable hunger for junk just because it's there. It's so affordable. We forget that we'll never use it all, that we never needed it to begin with.

Easy entertainment via TV, movies, and games? Well, now we've forgotten to think for ourselves, and we're getting less exercise than ever before. Health costs continue to skyrocket, not just because the health care and drug companies are the new mafia, but because collectively we're in worse physical shape than pretty much any nation in history that I can think of.

The best part? We're teaching our kids to require all these conveniences. So they, too, can be slaves to big corporations and foreign countries. So they can also have lifelong habits that kill them softly instead of infusing their lives with meaning and purpose.

It seems to me that everything intended to add convenience to our lives actually costs us considerably in some other way. Does anyone else see the pattern? Is anyone else starting to question our culture?

Upon closer inspection, the remote countryside is looking pretty good. Harder, yes. But infinitely better than the squishy alternative.

Good thing I seized the brushes

2011-02-18T14:46:00.000-05:00

Thankfully, I did seize the brushes yesterday, and accomplished two painting tasks: finishing this robin painting, and slapping a couple of coats of green paint on a newly acquired (gently used) bench to extend seating at our dining table. It's a good thing I took care of these jobs when I could, because I'm accomplishing nothing today: Marcus came home from school with a flush in his cheeks, and it morphed overnight into a croupy cough. He's home with me, feeling well enough to want to do all the fun things that healthy kids do, but he doesn't sound great, so I'm trying to squelch his activities as much as possible. Not easy on a breezy, spring-like afternoon.

I'm an artist but not a painter; the bench looks terrible, on not-so-close inspection. If you visit us? Please don't check it too carefully. It's slightly better than the stark white coat it recently wore, BUT...

I'm a bit happier with the robin (Robbie). He's for sale at my shop. Next week, I hope to turn him and his sparrow friend into note cards. Stay tuned!

And yes, the lovely sun and less-than-frigid temps are just a ruse; don't fall for it. Keep the boots and salt handy, but rest assured—soon, we'll be seeing much more of my pal Robbie.

My love/hate relationship...with Legos

2011-02-11T13:45:00.000-05:00

Here are some facts which you may already know about me, and which will help you to better understand the rest of this post:

1. I am a slightly obsessive neatnik.

2. I love order, despise chaos, and fight clutter everywhere I go.

3. I might be slightly weird.

3. I have a young son.

4. The young son has amassed an impressive collection of Legos.

Legos are awesome. I had them when I was a kid. They inspire creativity and flexibility in thought. They teach design and also give ample opportunities for re-design; they encourage children to explore their engineering tendencies, and they nurture the need to build stuff. They might even help kids develop a better understanding of spatial relationships.

Let's not forget, too, that Legos make a splendid gift for a little boy. They're the fail-safe idea, the sure-to-go-over-well item. Even duplicate sets don't really pose any problems, because everyone knows that after the initial construction of the prescribed toy, all those carefully assembled blocks will be torn apart and re-used over and over again, never in the same way twice.

But it's the dead of winter, the temperatures have been downright bitter, and we've spent way more time indoors than I would like. Which means that the Legos have barely had time to rest in their big plastic bin before some hand has been riffling through them roughly, searching for just the right piece.

Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I've been experiencing some PMS moments worsened by little daylight and even less fresh air. Maybe. All I know is that lately, the sound of Legos, and the sight of them filling the living room floor, is enough to make me want to run away and hide somewhere. Honestly, it's mostly the noise they make. When the Legos are still, they're silent—but they're rarely still. They're usually being moved quickly and often, which means they're exceptionally loud and unsettling to a freaky person such as me. I can handle the mess, because we pick up the worst of it and store it at night, but that rattling sound of brittle plastic being raked repeatedly against more brittle plastic... sometimes, I can barely endure it.

Please don't think I am too strange. Some days, I am the one responsible for that very sound as I'm poring through the piles of blocks, searching for tiny tools or miniature propellers or such. Then, I hardly notice the noise because I am so involved in the search. Other days, I'm completely immersed in some other activity and immune to that annoying racket.

And then, there are the times of which I am speaking right now.

Can I get an Amen, Sister?

The S A D day

2011-02-07T09:57:00.000-05:00

"We came here to win the football game and we didn’t do that."

We know that football is a game that's played by mortal men,
And that to go to Dallas in itself was quite a feat.
We know our team will reach that final bowl game once again,
And yes, we understand that sometimes games will bring defeat.

And if we had to lose, well, Green Bay Packers are quite good—
And Rodgers, glad to say, resembles Brady not a bit.
He's got a cannon for an arm, and does the things he should;
That Packers team plays fair and well—they surely never quit.

And yet, it makes no difference, viewed through stinging, sullen eyes;
Our hearts are weighty things filled with regret for our mistakes.
We were so close, we reached for that Lombardi in the skies
Then saw it, firmly held by those in green who live by lakes.

Thanks to our team for all the thrills, a season filled with fun.
The ride was good, my friends, but watch that last step—then, it's done.

The B I G day

2011-02-06T13:23:00.000-05:00

Here are my two boys, cheering on our favorite team at last week's Heinz Field send-off for team.

I know you'll be watching, too.

Go, Steelers, go!

I'm a fool

2011-02-04T09:32:00.000-05:00

A painting fool, that is. It's my only escape from winter! Doesn't this little feathered pal make you think of spring?

It's in the Etsy shop; I plan to make blank note cards out of it, also—maybe early next week, after the Steelers victory.

Soak up the sun while you can, and look for beauty in the little things around you today. See what you can find to help calm and soothe you when the air is nippy and your mood is chippy!

P.S. "That boy sure is a runnin' fool!" Can you name that movie?!

Extremes

2011-01-31T15:17:00.000-05:00

The Bad

I need to get some things off my chest:

Why doesn't the snow melt?

I am so sick of being cold all the time.

My skin is flaking like a snake's because of the heat overload.

I need about ten of those lamps that imitate sunlight, and then I need to strap them to myself and chant a sunny mantra.

I can't handle winter clothes anymore. They itch. They constrict. The only good thing about them is the fact that they hide my pasty, plump flesh. And that isn't good, either, because then I stuff my face and get more plump, all of which will be revealed on the first warm day.

Everything takes so stinkin' long in winter: getting dressed, finding and donning proper footgear, getting the car prepped, driving somewhere in slush/snow/ice, walking from the car to the destination without slipping and becoming a winter-broken-bone statistic.

I hate socks. Detest them. Yet need them.

I feel like a caged animal in this house. And even when I'm out? I'm running to another cage, from my temporary cage (car).

Can't. Take. Much. More.

The Good

The sun is shining, and has been shining for several hours. And the bathroom is finally clean.

The Beautiful

My little boy will be home from kindergarten soon.

If you had told me 15 or 20 years ago that I'd be a mom, I would have laughed in your face. I spent the first half of my life or more telling everyone I'd never had kids. I meant it. I had no interest, no burning yearning to be a mom, no thoughts of holding a small bundle of my own.

If you'd told me that at this point, I'd consider motherhood* to be the best experience I've had yet, I would have snickered and pressed my lips together in utter doubt. How ridiculous.

But it's true. I am delighted by my son. He is such a neat little person. I still can't believe what a gift he is. He's witty, and silly, and loves to play. He likes to learn new things, too, and we can sit and talk about things now and he gets it. It's awesome. But best of all? So far, he's turning out to be a kind, thoughtful kid.

I know it might not always look like this. I know people whose kids turned into strangers in teen years, or who suddenly grew up into completely miserable human beings. There's the occasional sad story of good kids turned bad who end up in jail, or worse.

But I have today. I have this moment. I have this child whom I adore, who enriches me daily, who has shown me how vulnerable I really am and how it's possible to love someone so much it pains you.

* Motherhood only—not pregnancy (stunk), not labor (stunk more). Just motherhood.

Can't 'scape the goat

2011-01-28T13:46:00.000-05:00

Goat is finally finished! (My trusty canvas-displayer helped me take this photo.)

Prints of the goat painting are available in my Etsy shop.

Also, for you goat-loving Valentine revelers out there, my talented husband helped me turn the goat into two different Valentine's Day cards, which are also for sale at the shop. I hope you'll check them out!

And remember, there will come a day just a few months from now when snow will melt, sun will shine, and goats will once again befriend people holding cameras...just like this goat did.

Favorites, continued

2011-01-26T15:38:00.001-05:00

Everywhere I look, I'm being asked to name favorites.

Our computer saves our favorite websites when we tell it to; those URLs get their own special billing across the top of the screen. The Etsy website wants me to select favorite shops and items to share with others. My cell phone encourages me to save my most-called numbers; those are favorites, I suppose. This blog, even, asks me about favorites on the profile page (favorite books, movies, music, etc.) and the blog design page encourages me to list my favorite blogs—other than this one, of course. I talked a few posts ago about my favorite color. I have an old pair of L. L. Bean gum boots, pull-ons without laces, that I've had for 20 years now...and they remain one of my favorite shoes. A wonderful, genuine fisherman's sweater from Cork, Ireland that I lucked into finding at a second-hand shop also ranks as a favorite item.

But the truth is, I've never been good at keeping things. Friends, apartments, careers, jobs. I bought those old L. L. Bean boots I love partly because the weather where I had moved was beyond intemperate, and partly because I'd always admired them on the feet of my first college crush, who wore them with a breezy air and kept his feet dry with timeless style. That fellow has long passed out of the "favorites" category; only his footwear remains, and the boots have stuck just because they're so darned practical and indestructible. How many other shoes have come and gone in my world that were once loved and now forgotten? Heck, how many boys came and went before one of them stuck? And my favorite color used to be teal. Teal? I wore teal clothes, teal eye makeup... it was hideous. No one told me that it was a terrible color for me. Today? I stay clear of it.

Even the favorite books and music categories stump me. Should I name the favorites of yesterday? Or the current flavor-of-the-month? We don't really know which favorites will stay with us, do we? I thought about favorite bands and musicians, and immediately Led Zeppelin came to mind. I love Led. Yet. How many months have passed since I dug out a Led CD and gave it a whirl? Perhaps years have passed? Is that possible? It's the same with authors. My favorite is John Steinbeck. Of course it is.

When did I last read anything by John Steinbeck?

The truth is, I'm fickle. I change my mind a lot. Favorites pass in and out of favor like seasonal throw pillows in my world. I like different things, styles, movements, people every day. I'm really liking the band Vampire Weekend lately, but last year it was James Hunter, who could not be less like the first group. I used to love Anne Tyler as an author, and I still like her style, but I find my mind wandering as I read her words these days because lately, all of her lovable, hapless characters are so alike and slightly annoying to me. Even the favorite websites are constantly shifting in that little line across the top of our computer monitor; KDKA weather, then the weather channel. Hockey websites, then football websites. Right now, there's a link to PBS Kids in that favorites list, but for how much longer?

The word "favorite" feels as if it's been hijacked by the fast-moving, ever-accessible techie world that has sucked us into its insatiable jaws. The very term has become trendy, changeable, watery in its meaninglessness.

I think, to keep my sanity, I'll have to redefine the word favorite. In my world, "favorite" will have an unspoken connotation with "current" or "of the moment." Those are favorites to me: possibly passing fancies, the sorts of things that catch our attention and make us take notice, but are always moving in and out of our focus.

Influences might be a better word for me when it comes to my old-school favorites. Which bands, styles, genres were most influential in teaching me about music and how we relate to it? Which books shaped my appreciation for characterization? for the flow of a well-written phrase? Which artist do I still, to this day, want to emulate? Which towns, apartments, people and jobs have most affected how I comprehend and make decisions about those very things from here on out?

Influential. Now there's a word that captures it better for me.

Am I alone? Does the rest of the world have stationary favorites? Don't judge me because I'm indecisive and prone to redirecting my affection. I beg you.

Yeah, BayBeeeeee

2011-01-23T22:27:00.000-05:00

Just in case you didn't already know—

The Steelers are heading south to fight it out for #7!

Hey, we still have some fingers left, right? There are still games to be won.

Nice job, fellas. Impressive work. A true team effort. And the season's not over yet!

The kid, and the kids, have got game

2011-01-19T21:59:00.000-05:00

You'll hopefully be relieved to know that our boy had his stitches removed earlier this week, and his behemoth gash is healing nicely and now looks like any old pink, new-skinned scratch. You'd never know that his muscle tissue and grey matter were hanging out of that fissure just over a week ago. Isn't skin amazing? Especially young, healthy skin. Yeah, I'm sure we just got that cool, self-rebuilding skin cell setup by accident. Millions of years of lifeless goo somehow gave way to, oh I don't know, living flesh and bone? That makes itself, then heals itself? Yeah. Sure.

Anyway, he's on the mend. He's over it. (I'm almost over it. Can you pass me those aspirin?)

This will have to be quick, because I ended up with a temp assignment that began today, continues tomorrow, and will likely spill into most of next week—which means I don't have time to blog or paint or think of creative, healthy meals or get up off my fat can instead of sitting in front of a computer monitor for hours on end. It's money, yes...but I'd forgotten how much happier I am when I can move around freely. Sitting still makes Mel a dull girl.

The big decision at this point is this: do we dare to get up at the crack of dawn and venture into the Strip District on Saturday morning? I know I'll be glad if I make myself do it, because Penn Avenue the day before a Steelers playoff game is an experience that simply cannot be duplicated anywhere else. That said, however, it will involve early hours, biting cold, parking difficulties, crowds (which make me uneasy anymore), and the dragging along of a squirmy little kid with a huge scar on his face.

Of COURSE we'll be there. Silly. I was just teasing you. The real decision is whether to go this Saturday, or to just wait until the day preceding the Super Bowl. Because you know we're headed there, don't you. You can feel it in the air. You can smell it, like something burning.

I've got a feeling
Pittsburgh's going to the SU-PER BOWL!

Thanks for checking in!

OMG (a.k.a. Tough kid, sissy mama)

2011-01-13T12:09:00.003-05:00

When people ask me what's new, I usually say, "Nothing." And I'm usually thankful to say that. Boredom is often the opposite of chaos in my life, perhaps in other lives as well, and I'm happy to embrace boredom much of the time because I prefer it to the alternative.

We got the alternative Tuesday night.

It was a totally normal night. I was nagging the "boys" about bedtime, and finally managed to make my husband understand that the next morning our child would need to rise at the same old time, and that he needed adequate sleep in order to tackle the day with success, etc. My son ate a quick snack (pizza-flavored Goldfish crackers and water) and I herded him into my bedroom to get his clothes off and into the hamper so that PJs could be donned.

Apparently, after I left the room, the kid had an undeniable urge to run, naked but for socks, and see his father in the living room; when he didn't show up, I had to call out and remind him to stay on task and come in for pajamas and tooth-brushing. I was selecting the pajamas from a drawer when suddenly, I became aware that my child was running from the living room into his bedroom. I saw him approaching from the corner of my eye, not really registering the speed with which he came, and a second later there was a loud thump. I glanced up in time to see his feet literally flying out from under him, up in the air—and then saw him hit the floor, landing right on his back.

Now, there have been a few times when my son hit the wall—with his head, or his foot, or his back end when he was crawling around in a clownish manner. So, we'd seen similar situations before; panic did not immediately ensue. He lay there for a second, and my husband and I both scurried over from opposite directions to ascertain the damage. Marcus was still on the floor, and he seemed to have hit not only his face, but also the back of his head when he fell; our home is tiny, and the space in that little hallway outside bedrooms is quite unforgiving.

I was totally unprepared for what met me at close range: my son's forehead was gashed, straight up and down, and blood was spilling out in spurts. I thought I would be sick, and one look at his dad told me he was feeling the same. We sat him up a bit, I grabbed a washcloth and we held it on the forehead, and all the while Marcus was huddled there unclothed, red splashes landing on his bare legs, crying full tilt. Todd remembered to tilt his head back a little, to minimize bleeding, and when the washcloth did not stem the flood, we grabbed a dry hand towel to better soak up the mess.

A minute passed, I threw a blanket on my boy (can kids go into shock from a gash? no matter, it's winter and he's naked), and we worked up the nerve to take another look at the cut. This was the OMG moment, people: it was unspeakably horrific. It looked like a hockey injury. The giant slash running between my child's eyes could have come from a skate blade or a big, sharp stick; it could have been carved in with a knife. It was a perfectly straight line, because (we've since determined in hindsight and re-enactments) he hit it squarely, somehow, on the frame of his bedroom door.

Todd and I both stared at it, trying not to reveal in our faces just how awful it really was. In my head, I was screaming, "OH MY GOD that is so DEEP! I can't believe it! He needs stitches! Holy CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!" but on the outside, I was trying to remain calm and tell my son that everything would be okay. He kept saying, "It hurts," and I was thinking, no *!?# it hurts because I can practically see your SKULL in there!!! But I couldn't say that. So I murmured useless, soothing phrases, and Todd and I spoke with our eyes. Yes, we agreed, yes; we must go out on this snowy, slippery night, to the nearest hospital, right now.

We resigned ourselves to our fate, put some zip-up PJs on the wailing child, fashioned a headband made from destroyed T-shirt in order to secure the blood-soaking cloth, and got ourselves into the car, praying for safe travel, for quick treatment, for the best possible scenario. Thankfully, we made it out of our snow-covered driveway, and the roads were passable.

Let me take a moment to rave about Suburban General Hospital in Bellevue. The folks there were wonderful: quick, thorough, calming and friendly. We were the only ones in the ER, and they saw to us immediately, talking through what had happened, chatting with Marcus who had since stopped crying and was looking quite pitiful. One look at the depth of the cut and they knew it needed stitches; no skin glue for this one. To their credit, they were honest with my little guy, and told him (not all at once, but as needed) what they were going to do. There were three of them prepping him; a matronly type wrapped him in a sheet tightly, to immobilize his arms, but she talked with him as she worked, joked a little, made him as comfortable as possible. The assisting nurse, an affable fellow who was blind in one eye, was warm and friendly with all of us and put everyone at ease. The doctor who washed, gave numbing shots, and stitched was confident, very capable, and worked with speed.

Here's where I must confess that after they began to wash the cut, and I got a better look at just how horrible it was, I had to sit down and I missed most of the really gory stuff because I was fighting the simultaneous urges to throw up and fall down. I didn't see the stitching; I simply could not look. I saw the doctor's hands lifting, going down with the needle, pulling it up again, but I certainly wasn't counting; I couldn't watch for that long. (He got 5 stitches, according to his dad.)

But as much as a wimp as I turned out to be, my son was beyond stoic. The only crying he did was at home. When the doctor told him there would be stitching, and shots to numb the injury, his mouth turned down on the outsides—the telltale pre-cry face. Yet somehow, it never became full-blown. He set the mouth back to a normal line, he nodded or answered when asked a question, he allowed the nurse to hold his small, frightened face perfectly still while a man with a sharp object laced a nylon thread through his lacerated forehead. He never made a sound. Nothing.

The ER folks were impressed. I was speechless. What a tough guy. He was lying there, we were encouraging him and telling him it was almost done, and I was too sick to feel proud of him at that moment—but I knew, even as I fought the urge to hurl, that his behavior was pretty amazing.

Marcus bounced back just fine. When the procedure was finished, he stood with boots back on; since his face was still numb, he was in very good spirits. His dad and I? Both of us were sitting, ashen-faced, glad it was done but shocked it had transpired at all—and wondering which of us would be able to drive home. (Todd was; he thankfully did all the driving that night.) The amazing thing was the timetable from start to finish: On a treacherous winter night, my boy had run into a wall at approximately 8:45, and we pulled back into our driveway, stitched and bandaged, a couple of minutes after 10pm.

God is good. He put all the pieces in place, so that while my poor child had to go through that experience, it was as painless as possible. He didn't even miss kindergarten the next day (I'd been planning on keeping him home) because the weather turned very sour again, and the school district cancelled classes.

It's alarming to realize you are not nearly as tough as you would like to believe. Happily, my weakness was more than balanced by my offspring's strength. It would have understood if he'd cried, if he'd been a bit uncooperative, but it was as if he knew that his behavior would make or break the whole incident.

Thanks for listening, especially to my bragging about my boy; I try not to do that, especially here, but I feel it's more than merited on this occasion. And by the way: absolutely NO RUNNING in the house.

To quote Pulp Fiction, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go have a heart attack."

P.S. Stay tuned for a future post about the bill. Haven't got that yet... but I'm anticipating ugliness, as our plan has a ridiculously high deductible.

Creative fears

2011-01-07T09:57:00.001-05:00

I'm hoping to finish this goat painting soon, and offer prints of it in my Etsy shop. I'm pleased overall with the way it's coming along, although the minute I look at it I see things that require fixing, features misplaced, collar too high, etc. Oh, well—in time. I'll let you know when it's done.

The last painting I completed was a Christmas cactus (it's already in the shop), and the final product turned out better than I'd expected. That sounds like it would be a good thing, but actually it can be rather intimidating.

Whenever I finish something that I like, I'm afraid to start the next thing. I want to rest on my own self-appointed laurels. I don't want to risk a potential failure with the next subject. I've read some art blogs, mostly done by more professional artists who spend time creating every day, and they all seem to be of the "paint through it" mentality. I know they're right, but I still find it challenging to make myself get down to business after a success. I suppose that's why there are so many "daily painter" and general artist support groups, so all those artsy people can talk amongst themselves and get each other motivated.

(I guess an online community will have to do, because it's snowy and slushy outside, and I am rather enjoying this period of my life in which I am permitted to rediscover the loner within.)

One cool thing about this sweet goat is that I got to meet him? her? when we visited the miniature goat farm near my sister's; it's always nice to meet your subject. Another cool thing is that an artist of any medium can take liberties and remove unsightly objects from his interpretation—say, for example, wire fences. That just doesn't belong in the painting.

Earlier this week, I made myself get a frightfully white canvas from the basement, and I arranged the easel in my "studio" (our bedroom, the only room in the house that features unhindered morning light). And I began.

I guess everyone has his own method. I sketch the whole thing out a bit per my favorite college art prof's style, and then I start to fill in the major features. Nothing permanent, just scruffy colors and general placement of picture components. It's a mess at first, like a little child's crazy brush strokes, and then it begins to take form. A nose here, an eye there, no horns yet...

In most of my animal paintings, there comes a moment when I know the painting is starting to arrive. It's a moment of recognition, and I had it right before I stopped working on this one. I was putting together this little goat's face, and I mixed a color on the palette and then glanced up—and the goat was looking at me! At that point, I knew he/she was going to be fine. I had a similar moment with the little pig painting I posted a few months ago. I caught the pig smiling at me while I rinsed a brush; after that, I didn't have to make myself work on him, because I wanted to.

I'm hoping this goat keeps urging me on; that makes the process so much easier. Either way, though, I hope you won't be afraid to start the next project in your life; that clean, new canvas is much too white.

Favorites: a prologue

2011-01-04T19:33:00.001-05:00

I've been mulling a future post in my mind; it's got me thinking about all sorts of favorite things.

I've always been a color junkie. I can clearly recall, as a college freshman, flipping through the J. Crew catalog and imagining with glee my ideal job: penning the color names of the clothing items within. Persimmon, periwinkle, mango... ahhhhh. To a newly independent small-town girl, those adjectives cried out to me; they spoke of experience, worldliness, and wisdom.

(I still think it would be a fun job. I'm long past fitting into many of those swank, slim clothing separates, and I still find most of them out of my price range. Perhaps the catalog employees get a discount on the plus-sized leftovers at season's end?)

Anyway. Color. Some colors are so closely linked to an item that said item becomes the color itself, and vice versa. Think of peony: it will forever, for me, represent that rich, deep, fragrant pink of the June bloom. And hydrangea—could there be a more perfect lavender-blue shade than the amazing tint of those wondrous bushes, grown in perfectly acidic soil?

There are so many color words that are what they are. Ivory, ebony, jade, turquoise, sky, sand, moss, and coffee. Wonderful, many-layered words that evoke not just a sight but also a scent, perhaps even a sensation.

My favorite? That would be dandelion, without a doubt. The flower, the crayon, it matters not. That amazing, heaven-breathed yellow, color of midday sunshine, of amber daydreams... It is simply the best.

But I love another color, too—and this one is a more recent love. It is known by many names: oxblood, aubergine, eggplant, burgundy, raisin, bordeaux. It's represented nicely by the curvy vegetables shown above—and just as well by a pair of well-loved penny loafers. It's a distant cousin to brown, but more valuable, more rare, uncommon. It's also related to purple, but the relation is subtle, not obvious, and all the ghastly showmanship of purple has no place in the world of such a breathtaking shade. It can function as showpiece, or as accessory. It can ground a room of lighter shades, or it can own a room of dark drama. It can stand in as a neutral, can warm a corner, can hold up well under wear and tear.

And oh—by the way—it looks absolutely fabulous with dandelion. Did I mention that?

What is your favorite color, the one that makes you smile, that inspires redecoration or new outfits?

Relief

2011-01-01T11:51:00.002-05:00

That's what I'm feeling these days. Relief.

It's sad to think that relief is my primary emotion as the Christmas season comes to a close, but there it is. The overabundance of the holidays always depresses me. It's supposed to be about our savior being "with us" and yet, for all my measures to keep the event simple and reasonable, it still ends up being a festival of wrapping, foreign-manufactured plastic, silly spending (mostly other people's), and brattiness in even well-grounded children.

So, I'm thankful that my son has many nice, new things to entertain him and sad that once again we've missed the boat.

The part that really gets me down is that our Christmas is so mild compared to many other households in America. My son knows, at least, why he's being showered with gifts; he knows in Whose honor it's happening, even if the point is sometimes buried in packaging. How many homes are gifting in complete disregard? And—worse—into huge amounts of debt?

I'm looking forward to 2011. I've been reminded in 2010, over and over, that I'm not in control and that the earth is not my final destination. I will try to cherish each day, and find good and blessings even when things don't go the way I'd hoped. And I will try to remember, too, that this is not my home.

Here's to fresh starts. If the new year doesn't come soon enough, there's still new mercy every morning.

******

On a side note, during the craziness of Christmas, I opened an Etsy shop to sell paintings and prints of them. (Some of you knew this already. Sorry to repeat myself!)

I hope you'll visit me there, and share the link with others.

Christmas 2010

2010-12-24T10:02:00.000-05:00

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, Love Divine;
Love was born at Christmas;
Star and angels gave the sign.

-Christina Rossetti

Perspective, again

2010-12-21T10:43:00.001-05:00

I woke this morning feeling slightly achy; I'm trying to find the "right" pillow and I'm failing, because one is too soft and flat while the other is so firm and full-bodied that it actually causes me to slide farther down on the bed's surface until my feet are smashed. To top it off, I stayed up too late—and then the boy was coughing off and on all night, so the mom in me kept waking up to a) make certain the cough never turned into "cough-before-puke" (other parents might also be familiar with such a cough) and b) to make certain that the cough eventually halted. At one point, when I went into his room with medicine, the half-awake child burst into tears and refused to swallow the stuff...

So. Not a restful night. I was just beginning to wander down the woe-is-me path when I remembered where I'd been last evening.

A hospital nearby. In the cancer section.

I have wanted, in past years, to go caroling with members of my church choir. Circumstances never allowed it until last night. I drove to one of the big hospitals just across the river and met some other folks I know (and a few I didn't) so we could sing Christmas carols in the hallways. Our first stop was a quick one: a choir member's father was in one of the rooms, waiting to go have a procedure done. He's been sick for awhile. He's getting sicker. My friend wanted to drop off dinner for her mom, and hoped that a few of us would come with her and sing for him.

We did just that. Martin (not his real name) has no voice to speak of; his throat has been damaged by the cancer. He whispered hello to us; his thin frame was barely concealed under one of those shapeless gowns. The four of us sang a few carols, mostly hymns, and for the last couple of tunes, Martin's wife joined in with her lofty soprano. Martin listened. I think he wept a little. And we joined hands and prayed for him and that family. He thanked us. His daughter, the choir member, thanked us. We hugged her mom when she walked us to the door.

Then we set off to find the larger group of singers, gathering in a separate lobby. We were all rather shaky by then.

The others had mostly arrived, and we were about 15 strong. We took our packets of lyrics and music and made our way into the hallway. Our leader, the organizer, explained that we all needed to sanitize hands, and that if anyone had indications of a cold or other illness, he should don a surgeon's masks before going into anyone's room. We all sanitized, then soberly made our way to a cul-de-sac where a couple of patient doors were partially open.

We began to sing. One woman closed her door (we saw, then, that she was on the phone—oops!) but another fellow asked his wife to open his door a bit more. He requested "Silent Night," and we flipped through pages until we found it and then set off. We found out his name, sang another couple of songs, prayed with them. He was younger than I am. There they sat, smiling with red eyes, a few days before Christmas, in a cancer ward.

We moved down the hall to a different section of the floor. Another patient stood and came to her doorway, then asked if she could sing with us. "Of course! Please!" we said. We launched into "O, Holy Night," our new friend's mouth hidden by a protective mask, her hair shorn to just a centimeter or two. She had a beautiful voice, clear as a bell; she said she missed singing and that this was the first year she hadn't been able to lend her voice to a choir—but here she was! She could still join in and sing with a group.

It's difficult to be in a place like that for an hour or two, let alone to stay there. My eyes were stinging when I left, but at least I got to leave. I wasn't being held captive in a room, or keeping watch over a loved one, or trying to extract information from a doctor or nurse.

Yet, even in that sterile, hushed place where bad news is all too common, there was joy. Many of those people were sincerely thankful, for singing and family and hope. Even in the face of horrible illness, there is always hope. I came away feeling blessed, not just because I love to sing and the patients seemed appreciative, but also because I witnessed people who, in their darkest moments, have come to grips with the truest understanding of what matters, and Who we can rely upon.

Riches come and go, romance can fade, jobs can disappear, and health can fail. This is a fallen world. Our bodies are temporary, weak vessels. But it's Christmas. We have a savior. We have hope, and salvation if we merely ask for it. We are loved and forgiven.

My prayer for you is that you would know in your heart what matters most, and Who loves you most. Those people who are facing disease and death? I'm sure there are some who are bitter, but I glimpsed others who are clinging to Hope. I'm going to think of them, and choose joy. Even when my neck aches and I'm sleepy—especially when that's all that is wrong.

Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown.

Balance in a world of agonies

2010-12-13T15:26:00.000-05:00

I've been reading a book I borrowed from my dad: My War by Andy Rooney. Yes, the same Andy Rooney who's on 60 Minutes, or used to be—I haven't seen that show in ages so I'm uncertain as to whether Andy still offers his curmudgeonly commentaries there. Anyway, it's an interesting, sometimes funny, often brutal and upsetting account of Andy's time as a war correspondent during WWII.

A first-hand account of what someone sees during bloody wartime makes for some pretty awful stories. I wouldn't say the book is fun to read, because it's not. Parts of it are fun, parts are entertaining (his opinionated reports on George Patton and Ernest Hemingway are downright laughable), and parts of it are stomach-turning because they include factual accounts of death scenes I couldn't imagine in my worst nightmare.

Why am I reading this book? Well, I need to know more about American history, for one thing; I seem to be the member of my family most lacking in general historical knowledge. For another, I like Andy Rooney's style; I admire his succinct and sometimes caustic delivery. Lastly, I live in such an innocent little suburban bubble that I feel the need to expose myself to reality. Unpleasant, messy reality.

That sort of reality doesn't exist only in the past, as you well know. It's all around us. You can't turn on the news without hearing of death and destruction, fire and floods, murders and terrorists. Our world is a scary place. I can tune out and live in my bubble, but in order to exist in our culture, I have to expose myself to news coverage at least somewhat, especially if I want to know when the snowstorm is coming.

I guess if we want to live a balanced life, we need a little bit of both worlds: the dangerous place all around us versus the good place where most of us are blessed to be regularly. I read a book like the Andy Rooney account, and then I read an easier, happier, more escapist novel that gives me a little boost. Recently, I re-read The Secret Garden. That's a feel-good kind of story, and pretty much the antithesis of a war memoir.

I try to take the same approach to daily media consumption. Do I need to know that there are people in the world who are capable of burying a child alive? Is it necessary to hear that another drug deal went bad and someone was shot in the face? Must I be advised of a deadly dog attack, see pictures of a vandalized cemetary, or know the details of a little boy's drowning in a septic tank?

I don't know. I certainly don't want this information. Yet neither do I want to live so blissfully and ignorantly that I'm unaware of the fallen world around me. If I don't hear the bad news, perhaps the video of a soldier's homecoming won't touch me as deeply. If I'm never reminded of the evil that surrounds us, perhaps I'll forget to teach my child wariness of odd strangers or unfamiliar dogs. If I don't read the stories of tremendous casualties during combat, I might never truly appreciate a serviceman's duty done well, or the scars that service leaves.

We have to find balance. We have to be careful, because what you put in your mind stays there. If you fill it with gore, violence, and hatred, it will consume you. Likewise, if you fill it with mindlessness, with too many new cars and fashion and man-made fluff, it's probable you'll lose touch with real priorities. Lord knows it's easy to do that, with our silly, selfish, overly-comfortable lifestyles. It's important to read the comics; it's also important to read the headlines, the features stories.

I filter everything that comes into my world—books, papers, magazines, television, movies. You can't take something out once it lives in your mind. Be selective. Be perceptive. If something feels disturbing and wrong, walk away. I will forever be haunted by a taped 911 cell phone conversation I heard on a news show years ago: the last words of a woman who'd mistakenly driven off a bridge and into water, where she foolishly called 911 for help instead of getting out of the car immediately... That's a phone conversation I never wanted to hear, and it will never be out of my head.

Balance is difficult to achieve. I don't think I'll ever get it exactly right. I'm trying. Meantime, we watched It's a Wonderful Life the other night; it was nice to go there, and take a break from liberating the French countryside.

(Sorry—this is about as far from a light, Christmas-y post as you can get. But hey, Christmas is still almost two weeks away! Plenty of time left to be jolly! Now, where are those jingle bells!?)

A cold-blooded bunch

2010-12-08T14:48:00.000-05:00

Recently, my little guy and I read aloud The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. (If you haven't yet, I highly recommend taking a couple of hours to enjoy this little book.) I'd read it years before, but while revisiting this gem, I was reminded just how amusing and unattractively truthful are the events the story details. There's the narrator's mother, trying to conduct a Christmas pageant that's always been led by another woman who unfortunately has injured herself. And there are the various "church" people who pretty much exemplify why so many folks steer clear of organized religion. By and large, though, the most entertaining characters are the story's antagonists, The Herdman kids: a band of troublemaking near-orphans who've never set foot in church until they hear about the free refreshments served therein...

One thing that stuck with me was the outrage some of the Herdman children felt when they heard that King Herod had gone unpunished for his evil (but thankfully unrealized) intentions to murder the Baby Jesus. Herod apparently died many years later of natural causes, and one Herdman kid was flummoxed and thought that the pageant should feature the hanging of King Herod instead of peaceful manger scenes.

I thought about that a lot, how we as a pop culture are fascinated by murder and murderous thoughts, and how we want justice unless it falls on our own heads. I pondered the history of men, even the Biblical history, and how often murder shows up. There's David, lusting after some babe, and he has his way with her and then has her husband killed in the front lines of battle. Yes, he was sorry, but still... And there were other murderous kings, not just Herod; many earthly kingdoms have been won and lost based on which king has been murdered. Women have been murdered because of their aspirations, or just because a younger and sexier woman came along; brothers have been murdered because they were the favorites. Children have been murdered because they were a burden, or the new girlfriend or boyfriend didn't like them.

I like to believe that we as a people are not so base, so cruel and selfish. But we are. I spoke with a friend recently who detailed how her elderly neighbor had died recently, and she explained point by point why she felt certain his children had given him an overdose of morphine. You know what? I think she's right. This wasn't an elderly man on his deathbed, or suffering from terminal illness. This was a man my friend had just visited, who'd been in good spirits, who'd received a pacemaker and was feeling quite chipper. His daughter won't let people see him, he dies suddenly, and the day after the funeral the daughter's ex-husband, which whom her father had not gotten along, suddenly shows up at the house again. Coincidence?

My own neighbor down the street a few homes? Her sister died mysteriously—drowned in the bathtub. A few months later? Her widower husband remarries. Nothing can be proven. But it surely makes you wonder, doesn't it. I don't know if any charges have followed because I'm afraid to ask the neighbor; it's not the sort of topic we feel comfortable broaching. "So, was your sister murdered?" God forbid we call it what we think it truly is; that would be so unpleasant, so morbid and sordid and all those other unattractive adjectives that we'd rather not have to use when we describe human nature.

But I suspect this sort of thing happens much more than we realize. It's not just on television. There's a great movie, one of my all-time favorites: Crimes and Misdemeanors. It's a Woody Allen film from the 80s, and yes it's a tad dated, but mostly it holds up beautifully. (Even though I think Woody is a perverted near-pedophile weirdo, I also happen to think he makes great movies.) This film is a thought-provoking piece, mostly because it twists together a series of bad, somewhat-related events, and leaves the characters (and the viewers) to decide which of those events constitute real crime—true sin in its most base form. It shows people at their very worst: evil, selfish, thoughtless, unkind, cheating, stealing, even murdering. It's a disturbing idea, but it's done so artfully that you are left feeling rather somber and disappointed—in people, generally, and that so much crime goes unpunished.

We really are a murderous bunch of cold-blooded killers, deep down. I'm very glad we have a savior, and that nothing can separate us from Him. Even David, that killer, was still a friend of God. Still, it's a pretty unflattering and humbling history to bear.

Without warning, winter

2010-12-02T15:12:00.000-05:00

OK, tell the truth, now—was I the only one who woke up yesterday, looked out the window, and muttered, "What the—?!"

That was really pretty unfair of nature, to throw that at us after the three-plus inches of rain we'd received in the previous 24 hours.

It's funny how we all react to the first snowfall to actually stick. I know that even as I bit back the rest of the phrase above, I felt a little thrill in my chest. Now, I had an adversary again. I had a reason to allow some extra minutes—for starting cars, or walking in mincing fashion on what might be slippery slopes, or driving among throngs of panicked people who'd been forced by circumstances to climb behind the wheel that day. I had to consider, beyond comfort, which shoes to choose that day.

There's a briskness about, not just in the air when it snows at first, but in the manner of folks around this area. Suddenly, we all grasp in very concrete fashion that we Western Pennsylvanians must unite once again to withstand this foe; we must embrace our shared spirit of survival. We need to start checking on people again, just as we did when it was 90 degrees, but for entirely different reasons. We need to find the gloves and mittens, extract the scarves and toboggans from their out-of-sight, out-of-mind locations. We need to keep more gas in the tank, and a blanket in the trunk.

Shovels and salt will be unearthed once more. Spare kerosene (or fire wood) and toilet paper will take up more space than they have of late. Bed times might move back a tad (they will at our house, anyway). The Crock Pot will make more frequent appearances, and I'll spend many minutes each day organizing piles of boots that drip icy, dirty water (hopefully into the proper repository, the boot tray).

Here we go again: Suit up and stand firm, friends.

Paper or plastic?

2010-11-24T19:38:00.001-05:00

I feel as if I've been away for weeks. Sickness struck us, and I'm still blowing my nose and listening to my son cough. We survived, though.

During the hubbub of sickness combined with Thanksgiving preparations, I recently found myself waiting to check out at the nearby Giant Eagle store. Busy shoppers were pushing carts around the store, looking frantic, checking lists and store flyers and then plowing forward. I stood in a self-checkout line behind a tall, willowy blonde woman with a rather low-cut shirt on.

I didn't notice the shirt at first; I was looking at her cute little boy, maybe 18 months old, who sat in the front of the cart but tried more than once to stand until the woman instructed him to sit. "No, no, sit," she said. while she tried to unload items from her cart onto the belt.

I watched this exchange, thinking that she ought not to wear such a low-cut shirt to the grocery store, thinking that 13 years from now, all her son's friends might want to gather at his house in hopes of getting a glimpse of cleavage. I mentally shook my head at her (I'm not a nice person, really—I know this—and I admit without hesitation that I most definitely need a savior so I have a chance), and I thought about changing lines. I always change lines—it's an impatient behavior that I firmly believe is inherited—and for that moment, I was contemplating switching lanes. Perhaps I could skip over to the 15-items-or-less line, and I could drop in behind that old lady and zip right through...

And then another woman pulled in behind me. Oh golly. Now I was kind of stuck, unless I was willing to ask the new woman to move. (I wasn't.) And I felt, too, an inexplicable urge to just stay put. It was fine. Stop being so rushed all the time, the urge said. The little boy in the cart was trying to climb out again, and this time the woman spoke to him in a foreign tongue. I'm terrible with languages, so I'm not certain which language it was: Swedish? Norwegian? German? Are those all Germanic? Oh, I should have paid more attention in linguistics!!! I felt a twinge of annoyance, partly at myself (because I couldn't begin to identify the tongue) and partly at this slim, pretty, blonde creature in her low blouse with her darling boy who reminded me of my darling boy. The one who spends his days in school now. Sigh.

I looked at Ms. Low-cut, and the urge to stay put in line became a voice. Why don't you help her out? said the voice.

Me: What? Her? Low-cut?

Voice: Yes, of course.

Me: What if I insult her? She's foreign! What if she gets mad at me and starts swearing at me in another language?

Voice: Then let her. So what? At least you will have tried. Everyone in this store is in a hurry, but you all stand here watching people struggle. How pointless is that?

Me: Yeah, but, but... Oh. Okay.

And then, with my face feeling a bit warm and uncomfortable, I asked her (I had to speak twice because she didn't hear me the first time): "Excuse me, could I bag those for you?"

She looked at me, doubtful, a bit surprised, but after a pause she replied, "If you don't mind, that would be great." Slight accent, but clear English. I had no trouble understanding her.

I slipped past her and began putting things in bags, then into her cart. The little boy watched me with big eyes, not smiling but not unfriendly either. She commented that he was a busy little boy who could not sit still for long, and I agreed that kids get bored when shopping. I shared that I was missing my little guy, who was in kindergarten now; I couldn't believe how quickly it had gone. She agreed; she had two older girls, and she understood quite well that the years flew by. She scanned, I bagged, we chatted, and it was such a better use of my time than standing behind her judging her. At one point it crossed my mind that my purse and wallet were sitting back in my own cart, and that the woman behind me in line had overheard the entire exchange and could right now be casually sneaking her hand into my giant bag and stealing my identity. That would be just the sort of thing that would happen, right when you're trying to do a good deed, right?

But it didn't happen. No one stole my identity. No one swore at me in another language. In fact, we got the order checked out much faster and she thanked me as she left. And that was that.

Why have I never done this before? Why do I feel more comfortable standing around huffing at someone and thinking unkind thoughts than I do offering to help them? We're all in this together. I doubt I'd be moved to help every shopper, because some of them are downright inconsiderate and obnoxious. But honestly? I should probably try to help them, too. I never know what battle they're fighting, right?

I'm going to try to remember how much better it felt to reach out to someone instead of condemning them behind folded arms. I'll need to hold onto that feeling, that desire to serve, as I move through this holiday season. I'll have to remind myself daily that each one of us needs grace every morning.

And sometimes, that grace is delivered in an unexpected way.

Who was that girl?

2010-11-13T23:53:00.001-05:00

My somewhat recent forays into downtown reminded me of the first summer I worked there, so many years ago. I've been telling my son about that experience. My stories amuse him—and honestly, they amuse me, too.

I was such a young, small-town girl that summer. Coming from a safe, protected little college where the tallest building was an 8-floor dorm, the 'Burgh was incredibly "city" to me. I temped my way through a few warm, blissful months, living with an older sister, finding my hesitant and clueless path one day at a time.

Riding the trolley was worrisome; would I get on the right one? Could I get on a wrong one? How safe was this thing? What if I ended up heading the opposite direction? Thankfully, the system was pretty fail-safe even for a greenhorn like me. I can recall the first time I saw the underground platforms, how amazed I was. Coming up from those stations, sounds of traffic mingling with piped-in classical music, I had never felt like such a sophisticate.

The first time I temped at the Steel Building, I emerged from the largest subway plaza, confused, turned around... I asked a fellow passing by where I might find my destination, and the kind man stifled a chuckle as he informed me I was standing directly in front of it.

Arriving at the right floor in those days was a whole new challenge. Security was loose pre-September 11, but getting oneself to the proper bank of elevators provided a whole new obstacle. If a person has never been in a building more than 10 stories high, then how is that person to know that there are different sets of elevators to serve different groupings of floors? I distinctly recall having to ask someone about that system, too; thankfully, Pittsburgh is full of humble workers who clearly recall their own bewilderment when first faced with similar situations.

Eating alone was awkward as well; I'd managed to avoid that scenario as much as possible in the college cafeteria. I knew no one downtown, and as a temp I didn't stay in any office long enough to meet anyone; yet, I was so desperate to break away from whatever desk I was occupying that I made myself head out to little shops or parks or courtyard benches at mid-day to take in some nourishment. I was shamelessly self-conscious then (silly me, still thinking that everyone was watching my show). I became more accustomed to the solitude as the summer passed, began to frequent the bagel and sandwich stores that offered free newspapers, learned to stow a paperback in my purse at all times, because God forbid I sit at that table and look at my food or other diners or out the window!

Somewhere along the way, in the past 20 years, I've become more comfortable with myself; I've been liberated by the knowledge that, all along, no one was noticing. I've also been denied free time for large chunks of my adult life—which has helped me to realize now what a blessing an unscheduled lunch block really is. I've learned my way around our little city, and have even managed to maneuver myself through some larger cities as well.

I'm not the girl I was. Most days, I wouldn't want to be. But that girl? She had bright eyes, and a smile on her lips, and she carried sincerity and frivolity side by side in her heart. I wish, sometimes, I could keep my liberated old self while still maintaining that girl's energy and expectation. Is that possible?

One man's nightmare is another man's reality

2010-11-10T12:34:00.005-05:00

I've been having more bad dreams recently. It happens mostly when I'm awakened an hour or so before my usual rising time, during the fitful sleep that comes after premature wake-up/before real wake-up. That half-awake state must breed strange, troubled thoughts. And why do I keep waking up prior to the genuine wake-up? Well, I might have touched on one canine reason here. It also does not help that stupid, rule-breaking *@!?*&# Verizon borders our backyard and sometimes decides to off-load trucks around 5am. Plus there's our neighbor down the street who owns a car repair shop and has a nasty habit of "un-muffling" antique trucks and then switching around the business's classic-car license plates so he can take turns driving all of said trucks to and from the repair shop and home again. (He gets up at the crack of dawn—did I mention that?!)

Oh my, I'd better change the subject or you might think that all these factors cause me stress. How silly! Of course I love all my neighbors. Just like you do. Right?

Anyway. Bad dreams. The one that's sticking in my head most was from several nights ago. In that fitful, almost daylight hour of trying to fall back to sleep, my semi-conscious mind took me to work in a high-rise building downtown. There had been terror threats recently, and we were all gathered in a large room for a meeting, and the woman in charge was explaining there was nothing to worry about. And then, in my dream, the building lurched and the woman nearly lost her balance. We all did. It was a big lurch, as if something had exploded below us.

At that point the dream became rather unrealistic—because amidst the screams and shouts, the whole room tilted, as if the building had been struck with such force that the top of it had been knocked off. I could feel the entire room falling sideways; it was like we were in the top of one of my son's Lego structures that had been hit from the side until the upper portion flew off and landed on the ground. Except in my dream, we were falling in what felt like slow motion; we all had far too much time to process what was happening. Also, strangely (because it was a dream), no one had been knocked of his feet even though the entire room was tilted on its side and we were hurtling toward the ground below. That was handy, because since we were falling in slow-mo, and since miraculously none of us had fallen down, I had sufficient time to remember that I should make arrangements for someone else to meet my son's bus. I was preparing to dial my cell phone in the dream when I woke up.

I was very relieved to wake up. Albeit completely unrepresentative of the conscious laws of physics, the dream was disturbing. Mostly, it disturbed me because in my dream, I had not known whom to call. Now, in reality, I do know whom to call. We have a couple of options, neighbors and various relatives. Still, the whole thing got me thinking: What if I have a heart attack during the day? What if I'm involved in a bad car accident while my son's in school? What if I'm at a temp job downtown and a crazy person does a terrible thing to a building there? My building?

I know we don't like to think about this stuff. But it happens. A lady at my church lost her husband, younger than I am, because he suffered a brain aneurysm at home while caring for their children. The little kids sat next to his unconscious body for over an hour before anyone checked on them...and even then, people only checked because the wife had a weird feeling while at work. One of my son's schoolmates became father-less last year because the fellow fell from a building he was working on. Horrible as it is to consider, I am certain that there were at least a few kids waiting for a parent after the 9/11 tragedy. There had to be at least a handful of situations where the child was left without a back-up plan for a couple of hours or so. Don't you think? When that many people vanish in our busy and over-committed world, the ripples go out a long ways and affect many people.

It's scary. It gives me nightmares (literally). I can tell my child whom to find in an emergency, how to call 911—I can write down crucial information and stow it in back-packs, in wallets. But if he leaves the pack at school? No help. If I'm in a fiery crash and my purse and phone burn up? My careful preparations are ashes.

The whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies and makes me short of breath. I guess I'll just have to make whatever plans I can, and pray that God protects my loved ones. (Would it be wrong to pray that the stupid pre-dawn disruptions cease, so I don't wake up, then try to sleep once more and have nightmares instead?)

Just a little pinch

2010-11-05T14:24:00.009-04:00

This post might make some people angry. I'm not even sure how I want to say what I'm going to say. I guess I'll be blunt (since that's really all I'm capable of being). Here goes: I'm tired of free programs to help the needy, especially needy children.

I love children (well, most children). I love the potential in every child. I love how each one was created by our Maker to be unique and wonderful. I also realize full well that I had a great childhood, a blessed upbringing that continues to bless me in adulthood. I am very thankful. I realize I was shaped hugely by those young years.

I did not have a luxurious youth; I had a youth where my needs were met. I was given the necessities, a few luxuries, and love. I was supported by a married couple who also happened to be my parents (that's a bonus, isn't it?!) and who had no problem reminding me—frequently—that I was the kid and they were the adults. The adults who also happened to be in charge.

So I didn't have everything. But I had the essentials and a few extras. It's a big difference. Giving a kid all the physical tools for success, instead of giving them what they most need (which may or may not be a kick in the pants and some chores,) makes for a kid who gets a lot of stuff... but misses out on the most important building blocks of life. And it can happen in needy families, for sure. Those kids often run wild, with little to no parental modeling and supervision, and no matter what "stuff" they get from society, it's not going to make up for what's missing.

Maybe it's the recent election that has me thinking about helpful programs in general. Maybe it was today's book fair at my son's school, where all the children will receive a free book from the PTO. (I think that's awesome, though, because a few of the children at the same today couldn't buy a book and looked rather downtrodden. Plus, the government did not purchase said books; the PTO did.) Maybe it's just the fact that I'm beginning to realize that I, my little family, what we value—I fear we're the minority. We're becoming even more of a minority every day.

And I'm wondering who is populating the country. Who's having all these kids? Based on the countless help programs out there, and on increasingly alarming recent statistics, I'm guessing it's mostly the uneducated, unmarried, unstable, too-young or unprepared population. And I'm thinking this awful but true thought: I'd rather give money for birth control than keep on supporting kids who are not getting, and won't get, the basics.

Before you call me a monster, please hear me out. I spoke with a friend who subs for the City of Pittsburgh. She explained how it's a jungle in many of the schools. She explained how even the regular classroom teachers, often seasoned educators, have to address the children in short, loud terms instead of kind, soft tones because the kinder, gentler voice goes unnoticed. The kids are so unaccustomed to hearing that sort of language that they don't even notice, let alone respond. She shared, too, a meeting where she'd gotten a good look at the curriculum for elementary students. "What they want to teach them," she said, "is wonderful. Teaching it to kids who don't even know how to sit down and be quiet? That's something else."

I feel as if we're trying to arm these kids with advantages, with free meals, with new books and classroom aides. Yet I believe, truly, that none of those things will make a dent if the children aren't first taught the most simple skills of sitting still, listening, focusing, and showing courtesy. If a child can't stop shouting, how will he or she learn anything? If the kid doesn't know that some words are inappropriate, then how can he/she be expected not to use inappropriate words?

And the ball continues to be dropped, so many times, because it seems to me (just IMHO, of course) that so often the very nature of helpful programs is rooted in a well-meaning, liberal-minded member or members of society—people who want to help but would feel quite uncomfortable putting a foot down with their own families let alone strangers, people who want to believe in the innate goodness of mankind. Perhaps it flies in the face of the good they're trying to do, this unwelcome idea that good can't happen until order happens, that change can't occur if it's unlearned the minute a child leaves the helper's presence. Or perhaps these kind-hearted folks just cannot be the heavy hand.

But a heavy hand is much in need. Self-control is learned, not innate; to boot, it's often learned through suffering. And my guiding principle? People are basically bad news, not good. (Again, that's my opinion.)

This is why I say Yes, teach love for others, teach tolerance, teach abstinence. Give to good causes, help the little people of this world who don't have much, who need square meals and their own books and a warm bed and coat. But first, address the behaviors that make improvement impossible. And if you're not willing to go there? Then please, tell me where I can give money for those hormone shots to be administered to any and every young woman who isn't willing to go there either. Especially the ones who already have a child or two or five. For the love of God, let me give to that fund instead of watching us all try to play catch-up in a flawed and feeble system that, by the way, is failing miserably.

It doesn't "take a village." It doesn't require nearly that many people, at least not in this country. We need to start being honest about what it really takes to be parents.

See? I told you I'd make some people mad. Now, please excuse me while I go establish the "Free twice-annual BC shot if you opt out of other child support options" program. *

* Think about the money we'd save: the cost of shots twice per year, compared to the thousands upon thousands of dollars expended in raising a child—especially a child who is more or less supported by the taxpayers.

Big day!!!

2010-11-01T14:17:00.008-04:00

Tomorrow. November 2. Election Day!

You're voting, of course. Right? Especially you women. I got an email forward today, reminding me that less than 100 years ago, women were being imprisoned, beaten, and tortured because they had dared to stand up to the political big shots of the day and demand the right to vote. Don't let that fight have been in vain.

Of course I long to tell you for whom you should vote. But it's a personal decision, and we all live in different districts or townships or areas so our choices won't be identical, anyway.

Of course, I want to tell you to vote for people who represent freedom, and hard work, and common sense. Decency is nice, too. I realize that a lot of people are sucking off the government, and letting go of that free teat will be hard. But it's good and necessary. People need to work; people need to be thrifty, to feel a sense of accomplishment by actually accomplishing something. The innate human nature requires purpose and effort; we all feel better when we are spent, NOT just when we spend.

Of course, I hope you'll vote for folks who respect life. I'd love it if you found candidates who loved God and weren't afraid to say the name Jesus out loud (and I don't mean as blasphemy).

The people in charge today seem to enjoy, for the most part, our growing dependence on them. However, that dependence brings with it the assumption (a correct one, I think) that the provider can dictate how you use your allowance. I support that way of thinking; I'm with Michael Bloomberg. I'm tired of food stamp recipients being seen purchasing lobster and steak. I can't remember the last time I bought either of those things with cash. That doesn't seem right. (Well, we bought steak a couple of weeks ago, actually... but trust me, it doesn't happen too often.)

I honestly don't know why we don't have separate shopping posts for government programs. Why can't WIC have its own outlet? Why can't welfare checks be redeemed at a healthy, necessities-only shop? If the government is buying your snack food, then you can settle for the store brand like I do. Oh, and limit the government-funded junk food and soda, or cut it out altogether. That stuff is bad for your health, and since the current government wants to pay for everyone's health care, perhaps they should restrict nutritionally bereft options. Yes?

Anyway. Please vote. Please do your homework if you're still undecided. Find and select the candidates who will help preserve this nation instead of further chipping away at its foundations. Let the people help the people, by taxing less and giving away less; let's support those who work, try, sacrifice, and create. I don't think overfed inactivity ever did much to foster genius in any culture. It's okay for America to suffer a little bit, but not the way we're suffering now. I'd much rather cut spending in my home than receive a check with strings attached—and I feel the same way about our country.

Remember: eventually you run out of other people's money. Especially when you keep punishing the successful earners.

See you at the polls.

P.S. For your inspiration, enjoy some quotes from Americans:

If we lose freedom here, there is no place to escape to. This is the last stand on Earth. And this idea that government is beholden to the people, that it has no other source of power except to sovereign people, is still the newest and most unique idea in all the long history of man's relation to man. This is the issue of this election. Whether we believe in our capacity for self-government or whether we abandon the American revolution and confess that a little intellectual elite in a far-distant capital can plan our lives for us better than we can plan them ourselves.
-Ronald Reagan

If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.
-Will Rogers

"[N]o arsenal or no weapon in the arsenals of the world is so formidable as the will and moral courage of free men and women."
-Ronald Reagan

He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.
-Benjamin Franklin

We don't have a trillion-dollar debt because we haven't taxed enough; we have a trillion-dollar debt because we spend too much.
-Ronald Reagan

Hollow mom

2010-11-01T13:51:00.003-04:00

I run errands by myself these days. Each morning, I take a too-small child to a bus stop, where he climbs on a big, yellow transporter with a bunch of mostly older kids, and we wave and blow kisses at each other until he's out of sight... Then I make my lone way back home, or to the store, or to the bank, or wherever the day demands I go.

It's not the same. I feel adrift, un-ruddered, nostalgic for days past. I'm wondering what he's doing while I shop, thinking of what he'd say if he were with me, envisioning how I'd turn a sign into a teachable moment. I'm talking to the radio, to myself, casting sad and envious glances at other moms or dads with their little one still in tow.

I know it's not bad for him to be away from me now, and that he needs to be around other kids his age; I am certain that he'll benefit from professionals who are trained to work with small children and who are far more patient than I. But must he be away for so many hours every day? He's still so small; he still needs his mommy.

I'm at a bit of a loss, even two months into this separation. Staying busy, working, will not fill the void left by his advancing years. When he climbed onto that bus, he took some of my purpose with him.

While he was an infant, a toddler, I longed for time by myself. Now, I have it and more—yet I find I am not nearly as interesting as I once was.

Sittin'

2010-10-29T10:06:00.004-04:00

I mentioned in a previous post that we are dog-sitting this week, for a neighbor. The folks live close by, the dog is small and sweet, and he's able to stay in his own home and get by with visits and walks. The occasional field trip to our home is exciting for him at first, and then he realizes that we aren't hiding his people there, and the same dismayed expression comes over him before he sighs and lies down with chin between paws, looking pitiful.

Pet-sitting is good practice for us. My son is delighted when we dog-sit for these friends. He adores the dog, at least until he's bored with him, and it's nice to have a warm, fuzzy thing around again. (We lost our elderly kitty just over a year ago, you may recall.) We even did some fish-sitting earlier in the fall for a different neighbor while they vacationed at the beach, but I figure that somewhere in the word "pet" is a history of being able to actually pet and stroke the creature in question—and I don't see how that's possible with a goldfish, which in my mind eliminates the fish from any list of potential pets...

Anyway, not only is the sitting good practice for us, it's also a realistic reminder of what pets entail. For example, most of them have a distinctive animal odor. Sometimes they like to scratch and dig at things: themselves, you, the furniture, the floor. Our borrowed dog has the itchiest snout known to canines, and he loves to rub it on any and everything he can find. And some dogs (this one, for example) tend to regurgitate meals that are taken in too quickly, or when the pup's stomach is already upset from heartbreak over disappearing people.

Then there's the whole issue of following the furball around with a scooper and a bag. Just like cats who must eat soft food, I'm sad to share, the dogs on soft-food diets also have what must be the most squishy, malodorous waste in the world. Put a few bags of those treats in your garbage can (the outdoor one, of course) and you'll swear a couple days later that there's a dead body in there.

I realize dog-sitting someone else's pooch is not the same as having your own. Your own pet would rejoice at your presence, instead of eventually rebuffing you in sadness. Your own would have a different schedule, and you could fence in a portion of yard or control whether the dog was bathed frequently.

But I would not be able to control that the dog has favorites, and that it may not be me. This dog, searching madly for a replacement Alpha dog, is not happy unless Todd is around. The little guy will run around the house, searching for Todd. He'll bark at the top of the steps if he suspects Todd is downstairs (he's not), and will resist going back into his own home if he hasn't ascertained that an Alpha dog is still in the vicinity and still in charge.

I also would not be able to control the need for a dog-sitter in our home if we had to be away. We don't travel much these days, but it still bears considering. Are we able to cover days and nights away? Would we simply exchange favors with the neighbors? What if they get rid of their dog, or he dies, and the debt can no longer be repaid? What then? Kennels are expensive and traumatizing.

Additionally, I can see that if a dog should join our family (or even another cat for that matter), the bulk of responsibility would still fall on my shoulders. Am I ready or willing to take that on at this time? Not sure. Maybe when my son is a bit older, this will be a more attractive option.

Right now, I think I'm happy to borrow. Last evening, I was walking with my boy and this little neighbor dog in a howling, frigid wind, holding a make-you-want-to-retch bag of poo as far from me as I could, and I was undeniably immersed in the true meaning of dog ownership. Fuzzy companionship, loving eyes, and so much more. Maybe this isn't the season for us yet.

Please, remind me of all this if I start romanticizing pets come springtime. All it'll take is one whiff of puppy breath, one squeaky kitten mew, and I'll be foolish again.

Train your child up...tight

2010-10-26T09:18:00.005-04:00

It was a typical morning here.

First, let me explain that in my home (and in my mind), I am the Time Nazi. Being an undeniable type A-ish person, and having married a Type Z, I am relegated to being drill sergeant—especially in the mornings. Even when I'm not the first one out of bed, it still falls upon me to wake the little boy, wake him again, pack lunches, encourage the child to get dressed, force him to the table to put some sort of edible into his mouth, remind him of the necessity of shoes and a jacket before departing for the bus stop, do a perfunctory check of his brushed teeth and washed face to make sure he's presentable, etc. (I honestly don't know how parents of several children do this every day. I guess the older ones are enlisted, sometimes unwillingly, to help round up and prepare the younger ones. But still. Wow. My respect and sympathy go out to you.)

Anyway, all the while I'm going about my morning business, I am clashing with the Type Z who wants to wrestle with his son, eat breakfast just after I've put all the food away, and have meaningful conversation about his job performance while I'm hollering for the kid to put on both shoes, not just one.

I get a bit resentful at times, being the "driver" of the family, the one who must always be "un-fun." Sometimes we un-fun folks are not happy about our recurring role. Sometimes we feel stereotyped, and bitter. Mostly we just feel uneasy because we can't turn off that un-fun gene, and no one else seems to notice our approach to impending doom in an unplanned, untimely world.

I digress. I am the Time Nazi because I want my son to be aware of schedules and deadlines. I realize there are worse things than being late for school; I mean, he's in kindergarten for crying out loud. If he misses the bus, so what? I'll drive him. I'd honestly rather drive him anyway. But it's the principle of it all, the precedent that is being set. If we fool around and miss the bus now, I'm looking at 12 additional years of fooling around and driving him to school.

I often choose a course of action based on the principle of the matter. For example, why do we bother keeping the kid at the table even when he's finished eating? Because that will be an expectation for the rest of his life. There doesn't seem to be much point in letting things slide now when I know down the road that the sliding must cease; it's a lot easier to learn it right initially than it is to un-teach the wrong way when he's older.

Still, my uncertainty remains: How much uptight is too much? I can see and feel sometimes that I cause stress in my son. Not much, because he's wired a lot like his dad, too, and can drift happily and aimlessly for hours. He's five. But the facts remain: we need to get to the bus stop on time. We need to have enough presence of mind to remember to grab the backpack with all its papers and possessions. We might need to allow a few extra minutes to let out the dog we're dog-sitting.

I don't want to build my offspring to be a monster like me. Yet, I see how my child is already more responsible than many kids his age. It doesn't seem like a crime to foster in him a sense of awareness, an understanding that the world will not wait for him when he dawdles. High blood pressure? Stomach ulcers? Those are bad. But a comprehension of the daily timetable and how to function within it successfully?—that's my goal.

How do I walk that line? Do you, too, walk that line? Or are you the Type Z who is funneled and herded into formation?

P.S. I was slightly annoyed this morning when I got the boys out the door, walked the borrowed dog, and came back into the mess we'd left only to spy my husband's lunch box, full of healthy and paid-for food, sitting on the kitchen counter. Damn.

Down time is good

2010-10-22T14:46:00.005-04:00

The temp job I've been doing is on hiatus while the client is out of town this week. I've been taking full advantage of the down time: painting (hence the piggy above), blogging, filing and tossing papers, taking stuff to Goodwill, etc. Chris over at Writing by Ear reminded me of the joys of reading, so I actually headed to the library yesterday and got—are you ready for this?—some grown-up books instead of children's books! I'm pretty certain the librarian looked at me askance... she was probably eying my history of check-outs and wondering where I'd hidden my child... OR she phoned the police upon my exit to report a stolen library card.

However, I am proud to say that there are now three real books on my dining room table. A classic (Twain short stories), a favorite (Anne Tyler), and an author I've yet to read who came highly recommended by a good and literate friend (Richard Russo). I am really hoping to crack open one of those beauties this weekend.

I need to make a deliberate effort to unplug and clear my mind instead of filling it with static. It's funny; I've talked to different pals, and most of us suffer from a sort of guilt when we have unscheduled moments. We want to tell people what we're doing, even people we barely know. We don't want to appear lazy, or shiftless, or unmotivated. It's a shame, really, because I am a firm believer in boredom for children; I think kids need to be permitted to achieve boredom in order for them to become self-sufficient and able to entertain themselves. If that's true for kids, wouldn't it also be true for adults? How can I ever think an original thought, or work through a tricky problem, or hear God's still small voice if I am constantly filling every minute with busy-ness and white noise?

It's a difficult state to achieve, inactivity—and even more difficult to maintain. Yet, it's worth the effort, or lack thereof in some cases. I'm going to try to make more unplanned, guilt-free time. Maybe I won't even read those books for a couple of days. Maybe I'll just sit, or stroll, or lounge with a cup of tea under a fuzzy blanket.

I'd better hurry up and do it, though... clothes need to be folded, dinner needs to be planned and made, and I'll be meeting that school bus in less than an hour. Once again, life intervenes.