THE COLD

We moved to Chicago from New Castle, Indiana when I was eleven and a half years old. I add in the "half" because at that age it makes a difference. My sister was just past seven. You might think that we would have suffered culture shock, but we accepted the newness as part of life.

Our interim home was a hotel on the corner of North and State streets, right across from the beginning of Lincoln Park. It was March when we came into the city so we got to see spring and summer unfold in Lincoln Park that year. It was 1949 and I remember most of it scene by scene. The Lincoln statue, the Lincoln Park Lagoon, and my favorite -- Bushman -- at the Lincoln Park Zoo. We went to school, we walked the beaches. In the fall, just before Thanksgiving, we moved north to the Western and Foster area, went to school, found a church, made mistakes, got confirmed, all the normal stuff.

Accepting. That is the word that comes to me when I think of how we managed in this big city atmosphere that was probably VERY different from small town New Castle. I went to college, got married, moved east. EAST is different. It took twenty five years to adjust and even now I think of myself as a New Castle/Chicago girl.

And how often during these years did I have a cold. "Have" a cold. "Get" a cold. Pretty much the same in Indiana as in Connecticut. But in Chicago, you get THE cold. I don't know how that differs from the common cold except that you are the one who has it. "I have 'the' cold." It was as if there was ONE cold going around and it was being shared by everyone. Whoever had "a" cold, had "the" cold. But the information stopped there. Nothing about how to treat "the" cold. It was just "the" cold.

Well, folks, now I have "the" cold. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Itchy eyes. Runny nose. Post nasal RUN. Tickle cough. Reflex gag. Heavy chest. Can't sleep. THE cold....

CORNBREAD

The bone and leavings from the Thanksgiving spiral cut ham were going to be thrown out as we did the cleanup. NO! says I. I'll take it. And so I brought it home and put it in the vegetable drawer of the frig and almost forgot about it. Soup for Wednesday night church supper reminded me.

Bean soup and cornbread are part of my childhood. When I go to Indiana, my sister always makes it for me. When it comes to making the cornbread we peruse all of her cook books and recipes on the Internet looking for the one that comes most closely to that childhood taste memory. Mom's best friend, Mildy, made it by look and feel. Handfuls of flour, bigger handfuls of corneal, salt, baking powder, an egg milk. It was the best cornbread ever, made in a cast iron skillet, not sweet, not too raised, but not flat either. It is my standard for corn bread.

At the grocery yesterday there were little corn muffin loaves. Looked good. Bought them and took them to church with the bean soup. YUK! Too much sugar. Tasted like a cupcake. Had the texture of a cupcake. I was appalled. Ruined my already not great soup.

There was soup left over which I brought home. Got out my smallest cast iron skillet, took from the frig the bag of Aunt Jemima self-rising white cornmeal mix, which I had purchased shortly after Thanksgiving, and read the recipe. The cast iron skillet just fit into the toaster/convection oven and so I put the oil in it and set it at 425. Mixed milk and egg into the mix -- NO SUGAR. When the skillet and the oil were really hot, I swirled the oil all around to coat the bottom and the sides and then poured it into the batter. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle. Then back into the oven for 17 minutes.

When I took the skillet out, it was corn bread. Slightly rounded and golden on top and pulled away from the sides. Turned it out on a cooling rack to cool without getting bottom soggy. Perfect! It is the cornbread of my childhood. Perfectly even, dense-ish, texture, NOT sweet, golden on top, perfectly golden on the bottom. I have found the recipe! Now if I could just learn to make the bean soup of my childhood the way my sister does ......

THE GIFT OF FAMILY

It's a big one this year, you know. Seventy. And it's Thanksgiving so we can make the time.

And so they did. My Connecticut son, my Pennsylvania son and his wife, their three sons and one daughter. My sons in their forties. Children ranging from nine to nineteen. And me, turning seventy. And my spouse not yet seventy.

We all spent a joyful Thanksgiving dinner with all the step children acquainting and Reacquainting themselves to one another, and all the cousins and step cousins running amok and generally enjoying the day. It was the treat of a lifetime -- all of us together -- laughing, remembering past events, telling of new happenings, learning who did what and when. What a gift!

Back at "Mom's" house we tended to congregate around the dining room table; the generations gathered to read, compute, play board games, crosswords, Sudoku, or just chat. There was no one taking off for work, or the mall, or to pal around with friends, or whatever young people do these days. They could have, actually, gone out for a walk or found solitude in another room of the house. But they chose to gather together. What a gift!

The sibling banter was brutally honest, accepted as such and responded to in kind. It was wonderful to hear this give and take among them. There was acceptance for who/what each one was and love for one another all the way round inter and intra generational. What a gift!

Midday on Saturday we all came to table together for the celebratory and farewell meal. Cards and gifts were received. And then the question: "Grandmom, have you accomplished all that you wanted to accomplish?" Great long pause while I mulled that one over, but the reply was obviously -- NO! We can never be done. There is always more to learn and accomplish. I'm not done yet. Maybe they will ask the question again at my eightieth gathering and hopefully the answer will still be the same.

The joy of family -- What a GIFT!

THANKSGIVING PREP

Three more days of preparation for Thanksgiving guests, food, generous and gracious hospitality, and I am in a state of UNreadiness. There is no way I am going to make this happen. And I am NOT doing any of it this evening. I am going to just sit here, do my blog, get a note off to my sister, then go to bed and read.

I love holidays. I love family. I hate the cleaning up and getting ready part. So I guess they will have to love me as I am. In all of my clutter. Dust under the couch. Maybe a cob web or two. They will have a clean bathroom, fresh sheets, warm blankets, hot coffee, and a lot of love.

Planning ahead has never been a priority for me. I am big into being and doing in the now. This is a really good place to be most of the time. If you think about it, NOW is the only time you can be in touch with God. That is probably the best part about now that I know of. If I have it in me to manage to just be in the moment, it is wonderful. I am successful a lot of the time. But there are times when I might have enjoyed the moment a lot more if I had planned ahead a little better.

The now times of planning and preparation can be Godly times too.....

IT IS WHAT IT IS

Acceptance. Accept it because there is nothing I can do about it. Accept it because -- it is what it is. Well, yes, maybe. Accepting what is because we REALLY can't do anything about it is one thing; but what if we can? Do something, that is. How to decide.

There is a cancer that is going to kill the husband of my friend and co-worker. Accept. There is nothing to be done. Prayer, yes. But for healing? I don't think so. This is in the liver and probably the pancreas. Death. I can accept this "what is." I can pray for the family. I can pray with the family. I can pray for courage and strength and quality of what life there is left. It is not in me to pray for a "miracle." I have a hard time with miracles. But I digress.

Iraq. Now there is something I cannot accept. On many fronts. It is what it is, but I don't accept it. AND there is nothing that I know of that I can do about it. Prayer to end it, maybe. Prayer for courage and strength and hope. And peace. Yes, prayers for peace. And that isn't in the miracle department. It is in the possible department. Well, I know, all things are possible with God. It's just that somethings are more possible than others.

So that's the big stuff. What about the little stuff. Accepting one's self. Accepting who I am and what I can do and what I can't do. Trying to figure out the "is" of "what is." What do I accept and what do I change -- and how do I decide. I can accept white hair -- it is what it is. I could color it or just let it be as who I am. I am right handed. I could probably change that, it used to be done all the time, but I am naturally right handed. Accept. I am a natural clutterbug. Clutter has a way of gathering around me. My "stuff" is always in disarray. It is what it is but I can't accept it. This is one thing I have the ability to change -- and frequently try, it just doesn't seem to last. I keep trying.

I keep trying on a lot of fronts and frequently wonder if it is good enough. Then I wonder how much good enough is. Today I am going to give myself a B+ bordering on A- for just thinking about all this stuff. I'll keep praying. And I'll keep trying.

STUCK

I'm stuck. Stuck in a mire of inertia. Don't know how I got here. Don't know how to get out. I think I have been getting here for a while. Maybe a long while. For years I have been trying to do things the "right" way -- the way I think they should be done -- the way other people have decided that they should be done. I think it is finally time to just do things in a way that comes naturally.

Early on I trained myself to write in the upright loopy script that was the distinctive style of my mother. I learned it well. Then a few years ago I began to write "Morning Pages" in the style of Julia Cameron as suggested in her book "The Artist's Way." SO, for a few years I have been feeling guilty because I cannot just roll out of bed in the morning and write off three pages of stream of consciousness. I can do three pages but it is after reading the morning paper with my cereal and while having coffee. Here I am doing morning pages in a way that isn't sanctioned and in a loopy upright script that is not uniquely my own. I think this might be indicative of the way I have lived/am living my life.

Time to be me. And I don't really know how to go about that. Some weeks ago there may have been some unconscious bubbling up when my hands began to cramp as I wrote my pages and I decided to attempt the script that I learned in second grade. Surprise, no more cramps. AND at about that same time I decided that the three pages of stream of consciousness was getting boring, even to me. Time to write the stories of my childhood.

Why, then, am I feeling these pangs of stuckedness? Maybe I am in a place of between. A place to wait. A place to observe. A place to renew. A place of grace to comfort me and let me know that whatever is, is okay.

NEWSLETTER

I had forgotten what an angst this was. I edited the church newsletter for a few years several years ago. It got to be a tremendous burden, caused me all sort of agita, and became a dull and lifeless publication. It has gone through a couple editors in the time that has passed and here I am again.

This has added in yet another learning curve. I did some research and discovered that newsletters can be done with text boxes and columns and imported graphics and pictures and all kinds of new stuff. Fortunately, I am keeping it simple this first time around. Also, fortunately, people are getting their copy into me on time. Unfortunately, the deadline looms.

A newsletter is really an important communication piece for a church. Also good evangelism. It is also a very heavy responsibility. But, I really wanted to relieve our priest from such a time consuming task. I feel that her time is more productively spent in other pursuits. This is something that I can do -- for now.

The goal is to get the newsletter in such a format that I will be able to teach the church secretary how to manage it. I have projected six to twelve months to accomplish this. This is the first month. The format is going pretty well. I am learning about those quirky little text boxes and relearning the idiosyncrasies of columns. I can do this.

HIATUS

I seem to have been on a hiatus from exercise, dietary regime, housework, church work, dog grooming, maybe even life. So what is going on here? Could be that my "self" needed a rest from my "self." Let the body and the brain have a break, get outside of my routine. And all of this is okay if the consequences are not dire. But dire was beginning to happen.

When I noticed that my right hand was reach around to support my lower back every time I got up from a sitting position, I realized that something wrong was developing. Two causes, actually. Lifting things that are too heavy and not doing the back exercises. Secondly the digital numbers on the scale were beginning to increase. The accumulating dust was beginning to be noticeable. The pile of church related necessaries was growing. And Gabriel was a yukky mess.

Back to basics. Sanoma Diet Wave 1and plan the meals ahead. Morning treadmill for thirty minutes and then floor exercises for back. Vacuum a little -- very little, this is a very boring job. Get Gabriel's coat brushed and eyes cleaned. Finish up the Vestry Minutes and get them e-mailed.

I became sluggish and introspective during the hiatus. Introspection is good if it produces new insight. Sluggish is not good. The routine of healthy and productive living seems to energize me.

SURPLUS

It is October. This is the traditional "stewardship" month in the Episcopal Church. We cajole and plead, quote scripture, relate our individual faith stories, and hold up the needs to maintain the physical plant that "God" has given us to care for and protect. And then we hope for the best as we Vestry members struggle to form a budget around what has been pledged. In these days of dwindling membership, dwindling interest in the church property, and even dwindling interest in the church mission, it is a struggle. Some of us get it. Some of us do not.

I would suggest for those of us who do NOT, that we should look at out surplus. It was pointed out in today's sermon that self storage units are popping up all over the place. And why? Because we do not have room to house all of our belongings. Not all of our NEEDS, all of our belongings. We have so much that we have to pay to store it someplace other than where we live. One wonders why we need it then. One wonders why. Why do we have "stuff" that isn't necessary daily, isn't necessary to be in our home. Why? Think of your attic as the storage place. Same questions. Why?

Then there is this word "abundance" that church people like to throw out at us. Giving from "abundance." Is that the same as surplus? Somehow it seems different to me. I tell myself that I give from abundance. Do I? Surplus seem to me like excess. What is left over in great amounts after what has been necessarily used. Abundance seems to me an amount that is enough to satisfy the immediate needs. Surplus goes way beyond that. I want to give from abundance. So what do I do with the surplus?

THE ROAD

I have just finished reading Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" -- for the second time. I read it the first time because is was recommended by a member of our Book Club. I just finished reading it again because same Book Club decided to use it as our October discussion.

It is tortuous reading. Especially if one has a beloved son. Also tortuous because it is so bleak and hopeless. But even in that there is love, a love beyond comprehension. And trust, a tust that comes from nowhere and everywhere. And God? Is God here? A long ago remembrance that, yes, there was a belief in a God who cared. Where is that God on the road?

Reading the book has kept me in a glum almost depressed mood for some days. Bill is not happy with this mood, but there it is. I become inordinately immersed in the books that I read and this one has effected me more than any in a very long time. I am now very much aware of the food that I discard. When I remove the leaves and core pieces of my cauliflower, that by the way are going onto the compost pile, I am thinking how much nourishment there is and how much the boy and the man would have derived from it. And so I cut sparingly and eat more of the core and the stem. The inside pith and seeds of my red peppers are becoming acceptable too. Banana peels? -- compost. But there must be a lot of nourishment there too. We are a wasteful people.

The water that goes down the drain is also a despair. And the clothes that I have in abundance, the shoes, sweaters. And blankets. Surplus. So much surplus. We want more closet space to hold our surplus. If we had to carry the necessities on our backs, what would we pack. Similar to the question of what one book would you choose to have on a deserted island. But in this case, no book would do. If subjected to the lowest of basics, what would we really choose?

BELLY ACHE

I have a "green apple" belly ache. Actually it is NOT a green apple belly ache, it is a raw cauliflower belly ache. And this is opposed to the raw broccoli belly ache. All are painful. All result in a lot of gas -- translate that as pain in the gut and shshsh... "farts." Could that be farts, or fasts or whatever. Pain nonetheless.

The Sonoma Diet is big on these raw first tier vegetables. Free food. Eat as much/many as you like. Great fiber. Low calorie. Broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce, celery, Nothing is ever said about the abdominal gas OR the abdominal pain. The pain is almost unbearable. Doubling over pain. Hard to get through the afternoon at work. Hard to get through the evening at home. What is going on? Don't know. Just know that there is pain, there is gas, and maybe, luckily tomorrow the scale will register minus at least a pound. Maybe.

STASH

I have always thought of the word "stash" as a noun. As in the fabric stash of a quilter -- piles of rich wonderful fabric in all colors and patterns just waiting to become part of the next quilt, or at least some future quilt. OR the yarn stash of a knitter -- groups of wooly threads in a variety of textures and hues begging to become the next sweater or hat or mittens or at least some soothing, warm garment in future.

Now I am looking at the word as a verb -- as in "to stash." The dictionary tells me that it is a putting away into a secret place for some future time/use. Hmmmm. Today's declutter was just such a stash. A heart wrenching, meandering into the past. The newspaper used to line the box was dated November 19, 1963, two days before the assassination of President Kennedy and two days before the closing for this house I still inhabit. Forty four years. Doesn't even look like the box was ever opened, or if it was, just to peek in and then put away again.

Inside the box there are three tiny shoe boxes: one contains the soft, delicate, white, leather shoes from my husband's infancy. Just think, his mother kept them for all her memory years and now here I am opening them up again, the memories having died with her too many years ago. And yet I have the shoes. The two other boxes seem to be the first and second pair of shoes from our first son. The sales slips remain in the boxes with the well worn, high topped, many times polished, white, lace ups. All those memories of first steps and first falls.

A white sweater, still new, in its original wrapping. Kimonos made by my grandmother and her sister for this first grandchild. Stained, but neatly pressed and folded before being packed away. First birthday outfits. Buntings, some well worn, one still new and unworn. Bankies. A hand embroidered quilt done by my mother when she was awaiting my birth. Embroidered carriage robes done by my mother-in-law for her first born.

I keep the shoes, the quilt from my mother, first birthday outfits. The rest can go to babies who really need them. They certainly are not very serviceable stashed away in box on a shelf to be opened one day when all the memories have passed on with me.

THE 24 HOUR RULE

Once learned, the 24 hour rule has served me well. I'm not going into the embarrassing/hurtful experiences that taught me this rule; suffice it to say I have learned. Well....for the most part....I can be pretty hostile and vehement with words and it is easy for me to get carried away with myself

Following the rule was pretty easy when I was dealing with snail mail. Just don't put a stamp on the envelope for the waiting period, then if it's a go, apply stamp and mail. With the onset of e-mail I had to learn the lesson all over again. Hitting that "send" button can be automatic. Now I do not put in the address of the recipient for the 24 hour wait period. It has been a live and learn experience and thankfully most of the people on the butt end of my indiscretions have been forgiving.

Now that I am sorting and tossing through this DEcluttering process, the 24 hour rule is serving me well again. The bag "to go" needs to sit for the wait period. I have changed my mind about a few of the items that were going to be tossed. They may be tossed the next time around, but not this time.

BRUGMANSIA

We are enjoying the most wonderful weather -- sunny, dry, warmish, coolish at night. The brugmansia are giving forth their final blossoms of the season. They are breath takingly astounding in their size and abundance. And their fragrance is unbelievable. If I could bottle this delicate trace of gingery, rose I would wear it exclusively.

These flowers are all pot grown this year. Soon I will be taking cuttings to root for next year's crop. I still have the "mother" plant that I brought from my sister's as a cutting several years ago. There have been many generations since then. And she now has a new brugmansia in a pinkish color, a cutting of which I hope to bring back with me this trip out at the end of October.

The brugmansia pots were part of what I have named Pakki Island. For some unknown reason an area in the center of the back yard is an island of pachysandra. A couple of years ago I stuck in a couple of hosta transplants at the back edge. Then last year I planted one of my royal hostas in the center of the island. This year, hoping to draw some humming birds, I started experimenting with some perennials and two buckets of impatiens AND my brugmansia pots. I added a bird bath which the robins have enjoyed. And hummer feeders. But, alas, no hummers. I am ever hopeful.

It is time now to bring in the hummingbird feeders and scrub them up for next season. Come mid April or the beginning of May I will hand them out with newed hope. Barbara Crafton finally realised her dream of hummers last season after a few hopeful years, so there is precedent for hope.

EXERCISE? -- NOT!

Almost two weeks since I have been on the treadmill. Weights are gathering dust. And me? I am as happy as a moth in wool. I have given myself permission to relax into each day as it unfolds before me. Attempts at the morning crossword; morning pages which have segwayed into mostly autobiographical snippets, decluttering, some picture taking in the garden, perusing my favorite blogs -- and some new found ones too, discovering "being" and not doing.

I am approaching the end of my seventieth year. Exercise is good. I'll pick it up again next week. A healthy food regimen is good too and I seem to have found that in the Sanoma Diet. SOoo, I've got the "body" part together.

As to the mind, I have always been curious about a variety of things. I so deplored the disappearance of the library card catologue system because in looking for a something, I frequently stumbled over something else. I have followed so many branching topics and developed interest in a lot of strange things. Goats, for instance. I remember reading up on the raising of goats, milking, breeding, cheese making -- it went on and on. Never really wanted to DO it, but throughly enjoyed the knowledge of the doing. The Internet has taken the place of my card catalogue perusing. If it exists, its on the Internet in one form or anther and so aside from books I shall always have challenges for my mind.

So, I have pretty much established a body program that I can live with for the next seventy years, and the mind is always working on something. I am never at a loss for an Internet search or figuring out how to build a something from unlikely materials -- styrafoam bookshelves was my latest inspiration. Always something challenging.

That leaves the continuing quest to further develop and nurture the spirit.

CREATING SPACES

Sorting and tossing is creating space, make that prural -- spaces. I am even thinking of them as "sacred' spaces. So sacred that I am filling them in with empty boxes so that another in this household doesn't try to fill them up with his stuff.

The buh-byes are not many. I came upon a box filled with shells, beautiful collected stones, smooth and artistically mishapen pieces of driftwood and, wonder of wonders, ingredients for potting up indoor plants. Now, why in box? How can I appreciate these lovely things in a box hidden on a shelf in the cellar? SO, out they come. The shells and stones are dispatched to corners in the gardens; the driftwood I will use on the dining room table to enhance flower arrangements, The miscellaneous ingredients for potting are beiing gathered from the seven corners of the homestead into one giant Zip-Loc. Ah, space.

And the empty space can now be filled with an empty box and I can move on to the next box, then the next, and then the next. Is the goal here to have shevles full of empty boxes? No, the goal is to be rid of unused, unneeded "stuff." The goal is to organize into like boxes the stuff that needs to be kept -- and I am thinking that there is less and less of that.

A box of yarn, not used for twenty years. My color preferences have drastically changed in that time period. I am now into softer colors, no browns or yellow ochre, no bright reds. Buh-bye. A two foot stack of Cloth Doll magazines. I am never going to make all those dolls -- buh-bye. More space. I am loving this. I am freeing myself from unwanted ties to the past. In fact meaningless ties that have been hanging around. For why? Those rocks and shells were collected over many, many years from a variety of shores. I cannot put a name to any of the shores or even remember the time of wandering and collecting. Let it go. Move on. Go forward unencumbered. Life is good.

GOD DOESN'T CREATE JUNK

This is the message from today's sermon. "God doesn't create junk." I am not junk. Straight Barbara is not junk. My son Jeffri is not junk. Gay Jeffri is not junk. My straight son, Scott, is not junk. My deceased gay husband was not junk. God doesn't do junk.


Taking this to the next level I must accept that ++Peter Akinola of Nigeria who detests and defiles gays, is not junk either. This man, this Anglican Primate, this Christian leader who wants nothing to do with any gay or lesbian person, who would have them disappear; this man is also not junk.


As a Christian, I have a hard time with this. To accept that such a person is created by God in God's own likeness as am I, is almost unacceptable. But accept it I must. BUT I do not have to like him. I do not have to like him and all those that stand with him. And I don't. I don't like any of them. They are an abomination to me. If this is one of my sins, then so be it.

HOB -- HOUSE OF BISHOPS

This afternoon I have read way too much about what is and what is NOT being said during the meeting of the House Of Bishops. For any of you who are interested, Jeffri has a variety of sites referenced so that you can maybe get the gist of what is going on.

Or maybe not. It is such a convoluted, confusing thing. What the bishops say that they are about may be in part what they are about. But are they publicly acknowledging the main issue? I don't feel that they are. The issue is basically will our gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered brothers and sisters be equally and unequivocally accepted as full members of The Episcopal Church (TEC). That's it. Is our brother our brother? Is our sister our sister? We drink from the same cup but we are denied the same rights. We are baptized into the community of Christ but denied full and equal membership. We are baptized into the community of Christ but are denied the equal rights and benefits of that baptism.

I remember the first time I had to explain to my children that life was not fair. That was a very hurtful thing for me to tell them and for them to hear. That some people would judge without thought or reason. That some people would act without thought or reason. My children are grown now and it still is not fair. And that this can happen in the Episcopal Church that I so love is hurtful, painful, agonizing.

Last week Jeffri offered prayers for our bishops. I pray for the church.

BLOGOSPHERE

I was over reading MadPriest this morning, as I do every week or so, and decided that I would count the number of blogs that he has listed as his "Heroes of the Blogosphere." Two hundred six. Yes, I counted them. Some of them are familiar, although very few compared to 2006. When does he have time to check this stuff out? I feel like I am pushing it to follow the ones that I do.

Of course, I took the time to count the heroes, didn't I? Still in all, I feel that I'm pushing it to read the blogs that I do follow regularly plus peruse a couple of new ones now and then and keep up my own blog meanderings. Plus continue the declutter project, plus the other daily stuff and a part time job. Maybe I just don't organize my time very well.

Maybe I just enjoy what I enjoy and take the time to do it and fit all the other stuff in around it.

DECLUTTERING ANGST

This process of decluttering is a continuing struggle with who I am and what I was. True that who I was has a cumulative effect on who I am. But is it necessary to keep all these remembrances of what was? Like college year books. I have four of my husband's and three of my own. I hated college, hated being away from my family, hated being in the college situation, hated dating, hated having roommates. Hated the whole thing. So why keep these remembrances. Is anyone else going to care? NOoooo.

But the angst of actually letting them go is troubling me. It isn't as though it is like throwing away a part of myself. The only part of me that is in there is a class picture. I was not a "belonging" type of person -- no sports teams, no hobby groups, no intellectual organizations. Maybe it is the what might have been that bothers me? Don't see how that could be. I don't do groups very well. In any group situation I feel like an outsider, always on the fringe, not important, not necessary. How this came to be, I don't know. I have felt this way since our move to Chicago in 1949. Never fit in anyplace after that.

SO away with the year books.

DIFFERENCES

As I struggle with my clutter, Bill seems to be struggling with his own issues. I see things differently than he sees them. I see CLUTTER, he sees unfinished chores that need doing. The thing is, my younger son and his family are coming for Thanksgiving. They have not been "home" since Bill and I have been living together, and have not been "home" since we renovated the house.

I am seeing my clutter as a negative reflection of my personal comptence . I finally realize that Bill is seeing certain aspects of the house/home as a reflection upon his capabilities as my partner and soul mate. I want the clutter of my studio area organized, he wants grass growing and the driveway sealed; I want the cellar dejunked and straight and ready for workshop projects, he wants the shingles/shakes cleaned and stained.

It has been really hard for me to understand these differences. My inability to see them has resulted in many an argument. BUT, I'm learning.

DECLUTTERING BEGINS

Some progress was made today. I cleared off the table. Doesn't sound like much, but any is some. The mental preparedness is probably the first big hurdle. Deciding that it has to be done is tough. I have lived in this house for going on forty-five years. I came here as a child of twenty-six with two young boys, Jeffri was four, Scott one.


When we did the renovation is 2001 there was quite a bit of sorting but mostly schlepping. I am a saver. My dad was a saver. His mother was a saver. I have some stuff that HE saved. And this is the sentimental stuff that tears at the heart to discard. Somethings just belong. Do they get passed down forever? No! Eventually it will mean nothing and get tossed. Better I make some decisions now so that the boys don't have to make hard decisions later and struggle with guilt. I can do the guilt now.

CLUTTER

This is clutter. A lot of clutter. MY clutter. I spend a lot of time in this corner of clutter and it is cluttering my brain and hindering my creativity. I really believe that if there was some order here in this corner, I would be more productive, more creative, and maybe even less tense. This is getting me down. It is making me crazy. I have become a motiveless, goaless, slovenly individual.

Am I a little down on myself right now? You bet. Am I frantic in my clutter? You bet. Am I doing anything about it? Nope.

This is more clutter. My clutter. This is my corner of the "studio" so no one is responsible for this mess but me. I am setting it out here for publication in the hopes that I will be motivated to DO something about it. Shame myself, so to speak.

There are a few problems here. One, I am a saver. Two, I like to work on more than one thing at a time. Three, I never seem to put anything way. Four, there isn't an "away" place for all of the "things." Five, I would rather play that work. Six, I have tons of of UNfinished creations. And that's another thing -- I LOVE to start things. I have an inspiration and be gung ho that creation for a while only to lose interest and then the chaos of it is left behind.

This is my mess; the other half of the "studio" is filled with Bill's mess whch is in probably a worse state of cluttered chaos than mine. Between the two of us...... well, there it is. Double clutter, double chaos, double frustration.

PULLING WEEDS

Summer may have ended, the heat has not. I do not turn on the AC because it does cool off at night. But the heat of the day is pretty yuk. This morning as I finished my thirty minutes on the treadmill, the sweat was dripping off my chin and running into my ears. Heat and humidity. And the percent of rain expected today -- 30%. Not going to happen.

Being overcast, and being damp, and maybe the ground has been misted, I think I will run up to church and pull some more green growth out of the curbing of the driveway. Really! We need for the church to look like we care for it. I mean really care for it. Care enough to toil, to sweat some more. I want to get this stuff pulled up so that I can repaint the yellow stripe along the curbing. Won't that be nice. A crisp yellow line that says we care here. We want you to see that we put our time and effort into preparing for your presence here. Come!

MOURNING SUMMER'S END

School has resumed. Bill is back on the school bus driving schedule. That means I am back on the schedule too. Summer is really over. I don't know whether I am mourning it as much as I am resenting it being over. I feel as though I am missing something. Something important and I don't know what it is or where to even look for it.

The only get away time we took was the four days in the Berkshires. Perhaps I am regretting that we did not take more time to just be away from the responsibilities of the house. The thing is -- I love being home. I love this house. I love the yard. I love the feeling of being able to be whatever I want to be and do whatever I want to do -- or not.

Ah, maybe that's it. I didn't DO. Didn't write. Didn't do color pencils. Didn't work on my icons. Didn't knit. Didn't practice anything at all whatsoever. Maybe I am feeling the guilt of time gone by without accomplishment -- something to show for the time. Perhaps, though, this is my own way of renewal. No pressures, no time constraints, no meetings, no obligations. Just allowing time to flow around me and through me and slow me down enough to let me be me.

CRISIS CLEANING

Crisis cleaning is really not a good thing. For one, it reminds me that the crisis should not have happened in the first place. Two, I am frantic and probably not very sane during the cleaning process. Bugs. Little tiny black wheat bugs. In my upstairs bathroom. Hmmmm, no wheat here. Everything comes out of the bathroom cupboard, scooped haphazardly and quickly onto the floor. And left behind? Yuk, tiny, little, black wheat bugs. EWWWWW.

I don't know if they are really called wheat bugs. I just know that they turn up in wheaty things that have been around too long -- pasta, cereal, 'wheaty' stuff. In this case, dog biscuits. I have run up against these things downstairs in the kitchen cupboards when they have caused crisis cleaning there. I have learned to keep track now. Perhaps I should augment some of the sorting and tossing that is going on over at Jeffri's. My sister routinely goes through every drawer and cupboard in her house so she doesn't ever do the crisis cleaning of my ilk.


Sometimes I think my life needs some crisis cleaning. I let things go. They pile up. I get crazy. And then the crisis energy starts. Meeting deadlines, downloading and filing a kazillion digital photos, organizing my desktop -- again, making phone calls, returning e-mails, and on and on and on. Maybe if I were more methodical in my housekeeping and in my life activities, there would be no crises. But then, would I be me?

POST TRAVEL

Safe Home as the family informs one another upon their return from a trip. And I have even done the dreaded unpacking so that now I can actually enjoy the memories unencumbered. I took very few pictures. I seem to have to be in the mood for picture taking. Or have some plan in mind for their use. Lacked that motivation this time.

The Monet exhibit, Drawings and Pastels, was a good fill in for other Monet exhibits I have seen. And the display of many of his sketchbook pages gave me new insights for Moleskin usage. In fact later that same day in a Borders outlet I came upon the Moleskine sketchbooks for $2.99. Grabbed some of those suckers.

From Monet at the Clark Institute we went down to the Norman Rockwell Museum. Much different than when the museum was down the street from the Red Lion Inn. This museum is quite put together, paintings nicely spaced, audio clear and interesting. I remember as a young, young girl going to my grandmother's house and sorting through the stacks and stacks of Saturday Evening Posts looking for Colonel Stoopnagle's. And, yes, we appreciated the covers too. Rockwell was a genius at catching the meaningful moment of life.

Gabriel survived the night at the Animal Inn. In fact we were told that he was a quiet and enjoyable guest. I may take him there again on another trip.

And discussion on the way home was enlightening and hopeful. Yes, we can change our attitudes and our behaviors and make better choices for ourselves to make all relationships better. Life is good.

LOST IN BERKSHIRE COUNTY

It was a simple miscommunication. Can't even say misunderstanding because I understood perfectly. Thought I did, anyway: I came out of the vet's and repeated the instructions to find the Animal Inn. Bill pointed to a spot on the tourist map and said, "Oh, there." I made note of that spot.

That was yesterday when we were searching for a place to board Gabriel for the day. Today, I located the "there" on the tourist map and co-piloted toward that point. It was not long before we were both thinking that we had never been over this route before. BUT "there" was still further. And on we went. After a l o n g a time we both admitted that we were not where we wanted to be.

Turn around? Find another place for Gabriel? I didn't have his papers with me so that necessitated going back. But to where? Finally, it occurred to Bill to have me call information on my cell and get directions. We were miles out of the way. An hour, at least. But we did get Gabriel to the Animal Inn, two hours later than planned, and made arrangements to have him stay overnight so that we could finish the day without time constraints.

Back to the miscommunication: The "there" was a Walmart on the tourist map. The only Walmart on this map was not the Walmart landmark that was on the way to Animal Inn. This was a new Walmart that hadn't made it to the tourist map yet.

Neither of us was right, neither wrong. Just miscommunication. We were both able to apologize and move on. Sometimes relationships work.

VACATION REFLECTIONS

I'm still trying to decide if it is really worth leaving home. But maybe. The pace is slower. There are no time limitations. A wrong turn is a wrong turn not a catastrophe. There is time to relax and not "have to" be or do. I like that. I could get used to the drifting along in time just picking up and doing what catches my fancy and being whatever I feel like being.

This is what time outs are for. To rediscover what it feels like to drift in time. To not have to make decisions in a time frame. To not even have a time frame. I guess I should do this a little more often.

While away we received pictured of my young gand nieces on their first day of school. They look so precious I wanted to share them with the world. And I almost did. Then I thought better of it. There are a lot of bad people out there and I just didn't want to take the chance of exposing these two darlings to any of it. Isn't that a sad comment on life as we live it today.

On a brighter note we found a place to board Gabriel while we see the Monet exhibit tomorrow. It is so wonderful to find helpful people who are willing to go out of their way to accomodate a request. This is a joyful comment on life as we live it today.

We toured the back roads of Berkshire County for most of the day. It is very similar to our part of Connecticut with the addition of the background of the mountains. It is relaxing and actually soothing. I found that when we stopped at the Shaker Museum, I really did not want to trample the way through the dust and in the sun so we opted for the gift shop and went on our way to tour the back roads some more.

PRE TRAVEL

Travel requires planning. What to take. More importantly what not to take. I always forget something important but have too much that is unnecessary. Books. More books that I can possibly read. Not enough tops. Another time not enough bottoms. Always plenty of books, though.

Art supplies. Who knows what fancy may strike. Color pencils? Drawing pads? What size? How many? Always too many, but better more than less in this instance. I'd rather do without deodorant. Well, maybe not.

Spare glasses. Spiral "pages" notebook, pens, ink. Color Prayer Moleskine and color gel pens. Computer. Can't manage without the computer. And that means cords and cables and the mouse. Stuff.

And then there is Gabriel. Dog food, bowls, comb, brushes, scissors, cotton balls, and now eye drops. This little eight and a half pound Shih Tzu requires a bag of his own plus his crate. But, can't leave home without him. And this time am taking his rabies certificate and immunization record, just in case I have to board him for a day.

Upon the return home we just have to unpack all this stuff and disperse it back to where it all belongs. Sometimes wonder if it is really worth leaving home.

GABRIEL PROBLEMS

Upset in the family today. Gabriel is our six year old Shih Tzu. He is eight and a half pounds of love, spirit, and joy. I have noticed the past few days that his left eye was blood shot. This morning the light caught it just right and the cornea looked cloudy. Panic, of course.

This afternoon at the vet's he was checked for glaucoma, cornea checked for ulcer, and then sent home with eye drops for irritation. By the time I got in from work the redness had already started to clear.

This is my second Shih Tzu and he has captivated my heart the same as the first. He is small and soft and lovable. Gabriel does, however, have a few quirks. Like chewing on Bill's hearing aids when he finds them on the night stand. That's the worst -- but I can't really blame Gabriel. We have responsibilities too. The only toys that he plays with are small, stuffed squeaky creatures -- no balls or hard ropes or Frisbees. He loves red peppers, tomatoes, bananas, and peaches, which he gets with his kibble. No canned food, no table scraps.

We give our hearts so freely because they ask so little.

RELATIONSHIP

"There was a fine line between love and hate, you hear that cliche all the time. But no one told you that the moment you crossed it would be the one you least expected. You'd fall in love and crack open a secret door to let your soul mate in. You just never expected such closeness, one day, to feel like an intrusion." -- from Jodi Picoult's The Tenth Circle.

These words jumped right off the page and hit me between the eyes. Smack! I feel like that sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Why is that? Because I let someone in, gave too much of myself away, allowed the crossover into intrusion? Scary. And even more frightening is the fact that the other person doesn't know. Doesn't understand the change in attitude. The backing off. The silences.

Yes, I feel the intrusion. Sometimes. Maybe he feels the same thing. Hmmm... I wonder how we correct this. Or if we even need to. Maybe couples need some space. Sometimes. Maybe we also need to take a look at what and who we are to one another. What we hope for ourselves. What we hope for the other. Do couples have these conversations?

We are going away for a few days. Away from the routine of every day. Maybe we will look at some of these questions. Maybe there won't be answers but we can acknowledge the questions.

WAKE UP CALL

Yesterday I left Bill at the eyeglasses counter at Costco and went off meandering on my own. I completed the circuit, saw what I wanted to see, and returned to the eyeglasses counter. Bill was not there.

Knowing that he was probably looking for me, I stationed myself in the center of two main intersecting aisles. This always works because I frequently meander off not paying attention to which way he has gone and I need to be "found." And he did find me.

"I thought I saw you before," he said to me, "but I was pretty sure you didn't have on a red top." And, of course, I didn't. Don't have but one red top -- rarely worn. Red is not my color.

"Look," he said, "there she is down there." And he pointed down the way to the woman wearing a red top. She was about ten inches shorter than me, she looked a lot thinner than me, and I am fairly thin right now. She had short hair like me. She had white hair like me. She was a little stoop shouldered, NOT like me. And she was old.

......like me?

I was stunned. Do I really look that old? Guess so. Don't like it very much, but there it is. Barbara is getting old. Getting? Hmmmm. Maybe is. I am sixty nine. I think of eighty as being old -- not sixty nine. My aunt Mary is ninety nine and that is old. Somehow I just don't think of myself as being old. And, guess what? I'm going to continue to not think of myself as being old.

A MIRACLE(?) HAPPENS

Late yesterday afternoon as Bill was about to get into the shower, he discovered that one of his hearing aids was missing. After his shower we drove over to the work site and looked. An impossible situation -- he had been mixing and pouring cement for fence posts so there was no clearly defined area in which to look. To say nothing of the poured and hardening cement and surrounding piles of dirt from the post holes. ARGHH! Hopeless.


He called this morning, about fifteen minutes after he left for the work site. "Guess who has two hearing aids?" he said. He went on to tell me that last night he "dreamed" where the lost hearing aid was, and when he got to the work site, he looked, and there it was. Then he said, "And I already said 'thank you.'"

Ask for what you want;

Believe it will be given;

Let the process happen;

Say 'thank you.'

SUNDAY'S GOSPEL -- August 12

Unless I am reading the lessons as part of the Sunday service, I do not read the lessons ahead, that way they are heard fresh with my current situation in life. Usually I am the acolyte that retrieves the Gospel Book from the Altar and carries it to the Baptismal font and holds it as the priest reads. Sunday it was Luke 12:32-40. The only thing I heard was "Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out..." I immediately thought COACH -- a Coach bag is forever, or so acquaintances tell me. Pick one you like, pay the exorbitant price and Coach will keep it going forever.


This is a sad commentary on what secular knowledge does to our thinking. I do NOT have a Coach bag. If I pay twenty dollars for a purse, it is a lot in my mind. I am frugal, frugal, frugal. In fact we went to Clinton Crossing on Saturday and, for the first time, I walked through the Coach outlet. I was appalled at the prices -- even in the outlet store. If it were "forever" there was nothing for which I would have paid such a price.


Obviously it was still with me on Sunday, these "Coach" prices and promises as I held the Gospel Book and heard the Word.

IMAGES OF BARBARA

We are still working on pictures. However, I do not take a very good picture. I close my eyes, I open my mouth, I look wide eyed and weird; my mouth is open in a gaping, gasping, guffaw; I am sallow and worn and hopeless; I am gesticulating and ranting and ugly. Nothing looks natural -- what is natural? I am a person of many moods, attitudes, and places of being.

I am thinking to take some pictures of my Shih Tzu, Gabriel, and use him as my "marker." He doesn't like to have his picture taken either, however, and photo shoots with him usually result in blurs, a bowed head, or even a back view. We will keep the cameras going and see what we can do. In the meantime we have this, and then there is the serious one that I chose -- mainly because of the color that matches the blog page. Somewhere down the road there will be a picture that seems like the real me. The real me? There are so many. Which one shall I choose? And who IS the real me?

AMERICAN PIE

We have just returned from the Don McLean concert in Stamford. This is the last Alive at Five Concert for the summer. Bill and I had half a CostCo spinach salad each that we ate after we had settled in at Columbus Park.

I took a book and read for a while. Watched as people gathered. Families with young children, the young twenties bunch, teen agers, boomers, and then the sixties crowd, and older even. As time went on the young children became restless and began tossing around their freebie plastic balls and squealing and falling all over one another and their parents and anyone else nearby. I watched one ignored four year old pour Sprite and Heiniken from one can to another and then another and then drink the mix. A group of five or six twenty somethings were sitting around on the grass in a circle smoking gross, fat cigars. YUK!! Young couples, singles, parents became more animated in their conversation. And the decibels increased. Finally, it was a strain to even hear the music -- the beat, yes, but not the lyrics.

Too much noise and too many people. I began to feel a little panicky. And then AMERICAN PIE. This caught the attention of most of the crowd who sang the lyrics and gyrated to the beat. Bill said that we could go. And that was fine with me as long as it didn't take away anything from his enjoyment of the concert. Hey, he said, I listen to this stuff all day long (ITunes) I don't need to stay.

They were singing American Pie as we folded up our chairs, while we struggled our way through the crowd, and all the way down to the car. The walk to the car away from the loudness and the throng of so many bodies was calming. The drive home was further calming. Being home in the quiet is peaceful and wonderful.

THE GREAT SHAMPOO SCAM

The last bottle of shampoo was in the shower when the brand went on sale again at my super market. Same brand, same flavor, BUT -- "30% MORE," in big red letters on a yellow swatch just above the brand name White Rain. Yes, the volume was 30% more. The price was still the same sale price as the previous (30% less) bottle had been. So, what a bargain I got, right?


WRONG! When I opened up the new, "30% more," bottle and tipped the shampoo into my hand, I discovered that the 30% more was obviously -- water. Instead of plopping onto my palm in a nicely mounded glob it went running out between my fingers, onto the shower floor, and down the drain. So now I have to use, you guessed it -- 30% more to get the same lather as I did with the original.


I feel duped. I am a frugal person, very careful with how I spend my money. And I really don't like being cheated or taken advantage of. And, of course, in this instance, there is no recourse. Well, there is an 800 number to call. Perhaps I'll try that tomorrow. I'll let them know that I haven't been fooled, that I've got their number, and that I don't like it. But will I be heard? We like our grievances to be heard. We want the satisfaction of knowing that our concerns are taken seriously. Actually we want reprisal, vengeance, compensation, and apology.


What I really want is to be treated with honesty and integrity. I guess that is just too much to ask for in today's world.

Martha and Mary

It has been over two weeks since the Martha and Mary lesson:

(Luke 10:38-42 "As Jesus and his disciples went on their way, Jesus entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."


I am still sitting with it. It has always disturbed me because I have always identified with Martha and the lesson is that Martha is wrong. I really don't like being wrong. This time around I got a one on one lesson from Lois+, our priest, telling me that being with Jesus is the only important thing that we can do. Hmmm... new thought.



Okay. I can deal with a new thought. So I try a different approach. One of the Bible Study approaches is to be IN the story. BE a character in the story. So I am Mary. I am sitting at the feet of Jesus. Jesus is sitting on a chair? a couch? a something, and I am sitting on the floor at his feet. He is talking/teaching to the others who are sitting around -- on chairs, on couches, on something. I am sitting on the floor at his feet.


Martha has just poked her head around the corner from the kitchen to see where I am and why I am not helping. She isn't mad. She is listening to Jesus. She wants to be a good hostess, but she also wants to hear the Good News that Jesus is telling us. She is trying to be the good hostess and the good disciple. Jesus is asking an awful lot of her. I am sitting on the floor at Jesus feet.


I am sitting on the floor at Jesus feet. I am leaning against his legs. I am "touching" him. He is talking to all the others -- the ones sitting on chairs and couches. He does not even acknowledge me -- I am sitting at his feet, on the floor. I am like the invisible person. He doesn't even know that I am there. I feel outside, not part of the group, not important. I am hurting because I want to learn and understand these new teachings but they are directed at others, not me. I am NOT part of this "in" group. I am alone. I should better be with my sister, being the good hostess.

There is no learned lesson here. I will continue to struggle with the story. Maybe the next time around I will be in a better place of understanding.

LOGO REFLECTIONS

Sunday's sermon was the "vanity" sermon. "...all is vanity and a chasing after wind." (Ecclesiastes 1:14) which was translated for us as the toil and effort we expend for tomorrow is hopeless. Appreciating the present, we were told is all that really counts.

Well, I have a few thoughts on this. AND, I may have received the lesson differently than it was intended. First, I know that the only time that I can touch God is now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow, just now, in this very moment. Having accepted that, I have learned that it behooves me to pay attention to the past -- like births, and weddings. If I don't remember these past events I am not likely to acknowledge them in the "now" in which they occur; because for this to happen there needs to be planning for that future "now." I know that I have allowed myself to be too much in the now for that planning for the future and I have disappointed any number of people by missing the anniversaries of wonderful events. I am trying to be better but there are still major lapses. My sister, Jacquie, is wonderful remebering important events and remembering them in sufficient time so that we, the recipients of her adcknowledgements, feel loved.

Yesterday was a good lesson for me in this appreciate the now scenario. I spent a good bit of the day working on the church logo. This has been a long and arduous project. Mostly because I am working in unfamiliar territory and each step is a new learning process. I began with a photo of the Pentacost altar frontal. John Sutton took the photo and e-mailed it to me. I brought it into Photoshop. I think this was in June -- the past. Since then I have taken out the flames, turned it black and white, printed, hand outlined, re-photoed, retooled, tweaked. It has been a long process. Yesterday I got it the best that it has been and transported it into a mock Service Bulletin, and the Welcome Leaflet we have been formulating. All of this "now" activity, being enjoyed and appreciated, and still in contemplation of the future. Is this "..vanity and a chasing after wind?" I hope not. I hope I got the balance.

On the left is the altar frontal on the right is the current version of the logo. Refinements are in the offing, I'm sure.

FROM THE "For What It's Worth" Department

So now ya'll know -- I can by a trusted, loyal friend.

You scored as Ron Weasley, You often feel like second best and as a result don't have an awful lot of self confidence, but a truer more capable friend would be hard to find. Ron Weasley 90% Draco Malfoy 80% Ginny Weasley 80% Remus Lupin 75% Hermione Granger 70% Albus Dumbledore 65% Sirius Black 60% Harry Potter 55% Severus Snape 55% Lord Voldemort 10% Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...? created with QuizFarm.com

Notebooks and Tablets and Pads, OH MY!

Every morning I write three pages of stream of consciousness. I have been doing this for several years. I write in sprial notebooks. When one notebook is filled the beginning of another elicits a strange emotional experience. Opening the new spiral, I frequently will run my hand, lovingly, sensually, over the new, pristine, blank page. This page is an open invitation to all the new thoughts and gripes and longings that are coming into being. And so begins the next set of my pages.

I address sketchbooks and drawing pads in much the same way although I have done very little sketching or drawing of late. But I do have many awaiting pads. I especially like the ones with perforated pages because it is like the first new page each time one is opened

A brand new passion is my infatuation with the Moleskine notebooks. In fact I am among many who feel the same way over at the website dedicated to Moleskines. I began my involvement with them by purchasing the small cahiers. These come three in a package, blank, lined, or gridded and have an open pocket in the back. I have designated one to keep track of my "projects." I keep notes and glue in pictures as the project progresses. Another one I keep in my purse to keep track of sizes, shapes, and names of things: varius table sizes for tablecloth purchases, names of plants that attract hummingbirds, dimensions of a wine glass to complete a set, all the stuff I can't carry around in my head anymore. And the third one is in reserve, awaiting a purpose.

Emboldened by the success of the cahiers, I purchases an 80 page sketchbook Moleskine. These have the pocket in the back , a page marker ribbon, and an elastic band that holds it all together. In fact I splurged and bought TWO. The one that I unwrapped began as my "praying in color" notebook. Pilot G2 GeI pens are my color medium. I have added emotional thoughts along with the color prayers. But, of course, the really charged emotion was opening the Moleskine up to the first new page. It was almost like God, waiting to hear from me.

It seems that I have had this weird fetish since -- well, forever. New school notebook fillers, drawing pads, little note pads, anything with a fresh, new page. It is waiting. Just for me. An opening for my heart.

Crossword Puzzles

My dad did crossword puzzles. In ink. My sister, Jacquie, does them too. Don't know whether she does them in ink yet or not, but she does them. And she finishes them.

For some reason I was prompted to do the crossword a week ago Monday. I worked on it and I finished it. Monday's are easy. They get progressively more difficult as the week goes on. This Monday I was pulled to the crossword also. I cut it out of the local paper and worked on it and finished all but three squares. Tuesday's crossword I cut out also. I finished most of it, leaving the bottom left corner. Today? Forget it. I have a few words here and there -- and that is with the help of Google and the dictionary.

So why do I push myself to do this? Do I want to measure up to Dad? Do I want to compete successfully with Jacq? I hope that it is neither one of these things. I hope that it is just a digression from the routine. I hope that I can be content with being who I am.

Segway to Dad

This was to have been my Father's Day tribute but I was having a hard time figuring out the picture thing and an even harder time trying to formulate the sentiment.

My Dad was always interested in the innovative -- be it a new way to do something old or a new way to do something new. Of the former, he once built a vibraphone using aluminum bar stock for the sounding boards and paper towel tubes as the resonators. Genious! Real genious!

Dad was my hero in many areas. He was my original "outside the box" thinker. My first real teaching was "never the same river." I don't even remember the name of the book now, but the lesson for me at age ten was awesome. Dad learned about computers early on and was into e-mails when his old poop peers were doddering to their pill boxes. He did crossword puzzles daily.

When the first leaks about a new and innovative means of transport were first heard, Dad was on it -- before it was even named. He tracked down some of the early schematics and subsequently followed its progress. I don't remember if he lived to see a picture of a proto type, but he KNEW that it was going to work. And it has.

The point of this whole thing is that on Father's Day this year there was an "old car" show at our local park AND the Segway people had their models there for trial runs. Well, here I am. Here's to you, Dad. You knew.

OW

Some years ago, maybe twenty plus, my duaghter-in-law, Maureen, introduced me to the term "oh, well." I didn't like it then, I don't like it now. What it says about an issue is that it is out of my hands. There is NOTHING that I can do about it.

My sister, Jacquie, has initialized this phrase to "OW." Our e-mails to one another about friends, family, and social encounters are splattered with OWs. Somehow, that translates to me as the ow of ouch. Which pretty much says how I feel about it.


Our priest has introduced me to yet another term: "it is what it is." I don't like this either. Both of these terms call upon me to accept what is outside of my comfort field as something over which I have NO control -- and further that I need to accept that.


I think we all, yes, me too, want to have some control over what is happening in our own realm of creation. BUT, there are some things that just ARE. Like it or not, there it IS, or there they ARE. Much as I might want to offer a remedy, however much I want to make things better or 'right' it is just beyond my control.

Acceptance of the obviously uncontrollable is probably God's greatest challenge for me. I want things to be "right." But I also want them to be MY "right." Soooo, I am disappointed a lot and I am hurt a lot AND I am constantly humbled.

Garlic

Garlic is great! I love it ! I love it!

On a recent trip to CostCo, I discovered a fairly large container of dried garlic slices. We have tried the chopped garlic bottled in water and did not like it at all. I have seen jarred, peeled garlic but I would rather peel my own. I was really intrigued by the dried slices.

Last evening we made pizzas. I liberally sprinkled dried garlic slices under the sliced tomato and top layer of cheese. It was soooooo yummy. Howsomever, Bill was just on his way out and stopped by to give me a kiss and said that I smelled of garlic. BIG TIME!

What to do? I have to be at work in a couple of hours -- working very closely with others. What to do? Bill suggested mega mouth washes before brushing. Is that going to help? I doubt it. I seem to be one of those people who ooze the scent of garlic out of my pores. Yuk.

07-07-07

Couldn't let this day pass without acknowledging the number reiteration. I love these dates. Remember last year's -- in June of course. Looking to the future I hope to witness five more. That will take us to 12-12-12. Then the next one will be 01-01-01 and it will be the year 3001. I cannot even imagine the changes.

Will we be any closer to the Kingdom of God? Or will we still be fighting among ourselves? Will we have migrated to other planets? How will we have mutated? And how do those mutations fit being "created" in God's image. My own theology holds that creation is ongoing and therefore, mutation will be a part of that. So as creation continues in ongoing changes, so does the image of God.

OOooops! 122 Pounds

The scale hasn't hit 120 since March. Maybe the Philly Cheese Steak last evening did me in. OR perhaps it was the two Blue Moon beers. Hmmm. Beers. Doesn't look right. One beer, two beers? Seems like the plural of beer should be beer -- no "s." Oh, well, I digress.

I whipped out my Sanoma book and copied out the Phase One food lists. Will stay on the Phase One program until I get back down below 120. Weight Watchers strongly discourages checking the scales more than once a week. For me, this is just stupidity. So maybe the extra IS water. So what? Get rid of it. The weigh in every day works for me.

AND, this is the important part -- this works for ME. May not work for you or a kazillion other people. I am just saying that daily weigh ins keep me on track.

My mother was an inveterate dieter. Also an habitual exerciser. Mom was attractive, took good care of herself, and was proud of her looks. And rightly so. BUT, and here is the real stickler, she was always at me to be thinner. I got to believing that she would love me more if I was admirably thin. And this is stretching into my fortys and fiftys. I wasn't obese but I was always twenty to thirty pounds overweight. When my husband died in 1992 I weighed in at 175. Well, I guess that is a little more than twenty or thirty pounds. A few months of dinners consisting of vodka and popcorn brought me down to 135. I have since passed on the vodka, and with Sanoma, pass on the popcorn except for very special occasions.

Achieving my ideal weight AFTER Mom died was kind of a waker upper. Did I care? Initially, I said that it didn't matter. Then, after I lived with it for a bit, I realised that it DID matter. A lot. I wish she could see me the way she thought I should be. I wish she could see that I'm not any smarter and not any prettier. I wish she could have loved me for ME.

Sanoma Dieting

I started on the Sanoma diet May 1, 2006 at 153 pounds. I was a real stickler and adhered to the first ten day regime. On the eleventh day I started adding in the allowed foods. The nutrition plan is set up so that any idot can follow it. Works for me.

Along about mid-July Bill and I went on vacation to Tennessee. I weighed in at 142. I followed the breakfast and lunch guidelines but relaxed on afternoon beers and bread at supper. Wine too. Potatoes once or twice. Upon our return ten days later I was at 144.5. Not bad. And cutting back to the eating plan was easy with an occasional beer and hamburger on a Friday evening.

By October when I visited my sister, Jacquie, in Indiana I was at 127. This was almost the six month mark. I had dropped from squeezing myself into size fourteens to a size 12/10. The twelves were comfy, the tens fit nicely.

I could never have done this without the participation and support of the people in my workplace. Diane started on the diet that March and when we began to notice her weight loss, asked how she was doing it. "The Sanoma Diet" by Dr. Connie Guttersen, R.D., Ph.D. was purchased and read by several of us. In fact we joked about buying a case of them to hand out to patients who came into the office who were obviously in need of some sort of nutritional guidance -- translate that as being FAT.

Diane tried some of the recipes in the book and raved about their ease of preparation and marvelous taste. I was too lazy and stuck to plain food. But then, Bill and I were eating separate diets and we needed to keep it simple. The one thing that I did try was quinoa (keen-wa). This is a very tasy little grain that is high in protein and easy to prepare. Bill likes too.

I am happy to report that I am now into a size eight weighing in at between 121.5 and 117. I wiegh myself daily and keep a record on graph paper taped to the bathroom door. If I go over 120 I know to cut back or portions or food choices, if I get to 117 I know to relax a little.

It has been a wonderful journey. It is a good eating plan. It is my intention to follow the plan for the remainder of my life.

Look it up; try it out; be healthy.

Happy Birthday, Heather

The youngest of my sister's children was born on my husband's birthday. This made it easier for a forgetful aunt to remember the day -- although I haven't always. Now she is all grown up, a single mom, struggling in the world to make a place for heself and her two lively, young daughters.

I am extremely proud of this young woman. Heather has grown through some outrageous stages that her mother and I despaired of her surviving, let alone the two of us. But she is much the better for the growth and the experience. Her life is still a struggle but when I visit I am uplifted by her spirit and her determination.

Here's to you, Heather. And may you have many, many more.