My Two Cents

Men of consequence

2009-11-07T11:40:00.006-05:00

Vincent Barrett and Ronald Axtell died without friends or family there to wish them well on that last journey. They left this world without fanfare and would have been buried in a county-owned site by those paid to do the job, but for the efforts of one woman in the Kern County, California, coroner's office. Marsha Dickey found out that these two men were both Air Force veterans. And once she knew that, she also knew that an anonymous burial in a county site was not the way to honor these veterans for their service. The county coroner agreed. Just because these men were indigent, he said, did not make them inconsequential.

Friends of Fallen Heroes got involved and a joint funeral service was planned at Bakersfield National Cemetery. Folks at the coroner's office told their friends. The local paper ran an article. On the day of the funerals, people arrived to honor two men they did not know, had never known, two men who were left at the end of their lives with absolutely nothing and absolutely nobody.

Absolutely nothing but the pride and love and thanks of those who stepped up when there was nobody else to do so.

Bakersfield, California, you did us all proud. Approximately 125 people arrived to say a last thank you to Vincent and Ronald. Flags waved. The honor guard carried the remains. And at the end, taps played the hauntingly mournful final goodbye. And those who grieved for men they had never met whispered their thanks and quietly left.

I suspect it had been a very long time since either Vincent or Ronald had heard anyone say thank you for their service. And even though neither of them were present to hear it, I think they knew that while they might indeed have died alone the memory of their lives and their service will live on.

Because I believe there is no time limit on these things, I'd like to add my own thoughts.

Vincent Barrett and Ronald Axtell, thank you for your service. May you now rest easy in a place where the value of your possessions or your status on earth matters not at all compared with the value of your heart and your soul. You gave this country something of yourselves when it was needed. It is only right and proper that we give something back in return.

Adjusting the sails

2009-11-06T14:19:00.004-05:00

We cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails. ~Dolly Parton

Today is a fine example of blustery fall. Charlie Dog and I went out for a noon walk around the neighborhood, simply because the blue sky and whirly-twirly leaves were too appealing to resist. Sometimes the wind made our promenade a bit challenging, particularly when it blew from behind and gave Charlie one of the dreaded wind wedgies. Not much we could do to change that, except adjust our course. And doing that reminded me of this Dolly Parton quote.

It does no good to curse the wind, even when it seems to be working against you. You can, however, navigate towards your goal in spite of it or take shelter in a calm port or...or...well, heck. Come up with your own sailing analogies. We all know that I only appreciate boats from the dock. The point is that challenges require creative thinking and that you really are in control of your own sails.

Sometimes we don't like what life brings us. My sister does not like living with diabetes. I don't like living with chronic pain. But while we don't have a choice about what the wind blew our way, we do have a choice about how we handle it. If my sister chose to ignore her diabetes, decided that she didn't need to eat properly and regularly and to get some exercise and to monitor her own health, she would find all the wind taken out of her sails rather abruptly. (and I'm sorry...I can't seem to step away from the sailing metaphor) Not only would she suffer from that poor decision, those who love her would suffer as well. She could not change what life brought her. She could change how she lived, though, and she could adjust her sails to keep right on going. No poor me victim attitude there.

So life is not always easy. Wind happens. Square your shoulders, adjust your sails, tuck your tail (that one is for Charlie Dog, who hasn't yet figured out how to prevent wind wedgies) and keep on going. You can hunker down with your challenges and keep each other company forever more, or you can regroup and keep going. You might not lose the challenges along the way, but what you gain in experiences will more than make up for them.

I'd rather adjust the sails than loll listlessly in port.

Flag waving

2009-10-15T10:55:00.004-04:00

"Are you going up on Main Street tomorrow?"

A friend asked me this last week. I paused and pondered what might be happening up on Main Street. First I had to pause and ponder what day it was and whether some major holiday had sneaked onto the calendar when I was not looking. I finally had to ask.

"Some wounded soldiers from Walter Reed are coming through town on their way to the country club," she told me. "They're having some kind of event out there. Someone thought it would be nice to get people on Main Street with flags and signs and stuff."

Someone was right.

The next morning I stopped by to see Mom and then, clutching a handful of small flags and wearing my USMC sweatshirt, I walked up to our fine example of a small town Main Street. Nobody was sure how many of us would be there. After all, this was being done at the last minute through emails and word of mouth. Would there be enough to make an impact?

I'd say three hundred or so people could be considered an impact.

Children lined the court house steps, clutching Welcome Home signs. All around me were people bundled up for the very chilly fall morning, holding flags or "We love you" and "We're proud of you" and "Thank you" signs. We waited for some indication that the bus was heading our way. Walter Reed is right in DC, so over an hour's drive through morning traffic. But the police escort was keeping our police force notified as to their progress and since one officer was standing nearby we got prompt updates.

"They're entering our county!"

Meanwhile, people were finding the just right spot to wave and cheer. One little boy walked by with his mom and sister. He stopped and looked at my USMC sweatshirt. I looked at his USMC t-shirt. He nodded. I nodded.

"My grandpa is a Marine," he told me, waving his flag.

"My son is a Marine," I replied, waving mine.

Yep. We had a moment. Then his family moved on and I stepped back into my spot with my friends on either side of me. I looked up and down the street. All the stress of the week and the worry about my mother eased for a bit. Being part of something a good bit bigger than yourself has a way of making that happen.

"They're coming up Winchester Street!"

And there they were. First, a police car with lights flashing and sirens sounding. Then an impressive motorcycle escort. Fifteen bikes, leading the bus through our town. And the bus? Nothing fancy, just a school bus painted white with the hospital name on it. But it might just as well have been a chariot, for all the reaction it generated.

We cheered. Jumped up and down. Waved our flags. Yelled our thanks at impressive volume. And the troops cheered right back, leaning from the open windows to return our waves. Someone in there must have been a Marine, because I heard a deep "Ooo-rah!" as the bus passed our corner.

It was all over far too quickly. When the bus was gone, there were hugs and tears and then a slow meander back to work, cars, houses. Nobody really wanted to leave. We would have stood there in the cold and cheered more, waved more, cried more, because even though we didn't know these troops personally we all took their presence in our town very personally indeed. They were ours, for that moment on that morning. They were ours to cherish and encourage and thank. All of us were determined to show our pride and our love and to make sure that no matter how anyone feels about the war, it is very clear how we feel about our troops.

We support them, unconditionally. We love them, these men and women doing their country's work. And we will gather on any day in any weather to raise our flags and cheer in celebration of their courage and our pride.

God bless our country and those who serve it.

There's been some question...

2009-10-05T22:05:00.004-04:00

...about where I've been and why there are no new posts here in Blog Land. My mother fell last Tuesday and was badly injured. Broken neck (6th vertebra), cuts and bruises, acute lower GI bleed, pneumonia. She's doing amazingly well considering the issues, but there is a lot of work ahead of her. I'm her patient advocate and head cheerleader for the Mom Team. Life, right now, revolves around her. And you know what? It should.

Hail to the Birthday!

2009-09-22T07:57:00.003-04:00

There were secrets sneaking around here for days and days. Weeks, even. Phone calls and whispered conversations and probably emails as well. Something was going on. Birthday plans were being concocted, all without my knowledge. That makes sense, of course, because guess who was having the birthday?

Me!

Eventually I was told that Something Special would happen on September 20th. My birthday is the 21st, but the 20th...a Sunday...was the day the surprise would be revealed.

"That's all you can know for now," Daughter Dear (the Planner and Chief Instigator) told me. "You'll be busy all day on Sunday."

Eventually I was told what to wear. Something comfortable. Jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt. Sunglasses.

"And that's all you can know," my PCI (Planner and Chief Instigator) told me. "Mwah ha ha."

I'm not sure she actually said "Mwah ha ha," but it was definitely implied. After that little tidbits of teasing came my way. One-line emails. Knowing looks. Reminders that they knew something I didn't know and they were decidedly smug about it.

The night before the Something Special (that would be Saturday night, for anyone not keeping track of the timeline), the Young Marine came home from college. Yay! That alone is a big present. He was in on the birthday surprise, but he wasn't talking. Gone are the days when his innocent excitement about a gift was so overwhelming that he had to whisper the details to me at bedtime. Now that boy can keep a secret.

The Something Special day dawned. Hubby and the Young Marine and I got in the car and headed off to pick up Daughter Dear. I was allowed to know that much. I didn't want to press for more information because a surprise is just as thrilling to the surprise givers as it is to the surprise receiver, so I was content to sit and smile happily as Daughter Dear guided us to the Metro station. I wasn't allowed near the ticket kiosk, so I stood in the middle of the lobby area and didn't even look in that direction. Even when hubby and DD started whispering again. Not that I knew they were whispering, mind you, because I wasn't looking. I just sensed it.

We were on the Metro a very long time, much of the journey underground. That made me feel vaguely trapped, as if we would never emerge and my Something Special was going to require a good bit of deep breathing and forced enthusiasm on my part.

"Ohhhhh! You've brought me to a subterranean experimental community where we will spend the day learning about energy efficient living without the benefit of sunshine or trees or...gah!"

But of course we did emerge into bright sunlight and left the Metro with a hoard of other people, who were all (or nearly all) clad in festive football jerseys. And then the Special Something was revealed. Hubby and DD and the YM pulled me aside and told me to close my eyes and DD placed something in my hands.

Tickets to the game! The Redskins game! The home opener, where tons of fans were already piling into the stadium and where I would soon be one of them. My very first professional football game. I jumped up and down with excitement overload.

It should be noted that I adore football. It's the reason we have a big-screen tv in our family room. And the Redskins? I've been a devoted fan through thick and thin. Lots of thin lately and not so much thick, but I'm still a staunch supporter of *my* team. Last Christmas my son-in-law (who was more accurately a son-in-law to be at that point) gave me a Redskins mug. He was likely buttering me up for his future position in our family. It worked. I like that mug so much that I won't put it in the dishwasher. It gets hand-washed and dried carefully and everybody else knows that they better not use it. It's mine, all mine.

This is acceptable behavior because football fans are notorious for their quirks. So don't go thinking I'm selfish or something negative like that. It's a Redskins mug. Mine.

And then...yes, there's more...the Young Marine handed me a bag that held a Redskins t-shirt. I nearly pulled it on right there, but that would have been a good bit less than proper given the setting so I waited until we were inside the stadium and DD and I found a restroom. I emerged beaming, properly clad to join the mass of enthusiastic fans.

Wow, wow, wow. We stood near the field for awhile and then wandered around the stadium before climbing up to our Eagle's Nest seats. It's a heck of an ascent, but once there the view of the field is amazing. Fans everywhere, decked out in appropriate attire. All rising for the National Anthem, all yelling during the kickoff.

I think that was the best thing for me. Having the Redskins win was of course the very best, but beyond that it was the experience. Being one of many, watching the personalities and stomping my feet and groaning or gasping or jumping up to determine what just happened down on the five yard line. It was a much different experience than my usual Sunday on the couch with Charlie Dog and the cats (who do watch, but aren't so much for the whole cheering thing).

But beyond that, beyond the experience and the stadium hot dog (there is something utterly pleasing about eating a hot dog while watching the pre-game activities, sun shining on your back and your favorite team about to make you proud)...beyond the exhilarating experience of my very first professional football game up close and in person...there was something more. And that something more sat on either side of me and shared my special day.

Daughter Dear planned the event, organized the secret, gave me the clues. She dreamed up a Special Something that she knew would keep me smiling for a long time. The Young Marine came home from college to be part of the day, found me the perfect shirt so my fan status would be declared to all, and headed back over the mountain to his campus that night. He knew that one of the best presents I could ever get was his presence. And hubby orchestrated his part in the event, made sure he was not traveling, helped to make the Special Something a very wonderful day for me.

Hail to the Birthday!

Desiderata

2009-09-04T10:21:00.002-04:00

In the 1920s a lawyer named Max Ehrmann wrote what he called a "humble offering". The word "desiderata" means something wished for or considered desirable. This was his wish for the world. I think the simple words are astonishingly powerful and need no added comment from this blogger. It is a worthy creed, one worth sharing with our children and holding close in our own hearts.

Desiderata

-- written by Max Ehrmann in the 1920s

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Six-legged monster

2009-08-24T13:05:00.002-04:00

It's been hot here. Steamy, muggy hot. So hot that my evening walk with Charlie Dog has to be postponed until dusk in order to escape some of the steamy mugginess. That's okay with him, as long as we do eventually find sneakers and the leash and head out. If anything, the delay makes him more enthusiastic.

This enthusiasm can translate into a rather disconcertingly noisy panting if he spots someone ahead of us on a trail. He doesn't mean anything by it and certainly does not intend to convey an anxiousness to, say, devour the poor unsuspecting person. But when dusk has settled along the path and the silence is suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a rhythmic "heh heh heh" I can understand why there is a tendency to skedaddle.

But I wasn't thinking about that the other evening. I wasn't thinking about anything, really. Just walking along with my buddy, counting bunnies and enjoying the one degree drop in temperature that dusk brought. As we headed down a short path that leads to longer path (that winds through some trees and a playground area) we were our usual selves. Smiling, happy and speedy. And that's when we saw another walker and her dogs.

She was on the winding path already, also headed for the trees and playground. Her two daschunds were trotting along beside her. I idly noted that they had short legs and that she did, too. Ten short legs moving along at a short-legged pace. Our longer six legs were going to outpace them. Charlie and I turned onto the longer path and then slowed down. We didn't want to walk right on her heels and the path narrows through the trees and over a little bridge. Not much passing space there. I thought this other walker would appreciate our considerate behavior. Instead of a little nod or a wave of thanks, though, she shot a horrified glance over her shoulder and began to run.

Good grief! It couldn't be us. We were the model of nice manners. That meant there was something coming behind us. Dusk was deepening and the trees were pressing in all around us. I didn't want to confront whatever was heading our way in such a setting. I had to get us through the trees and over the bridge to where I'd have more room to put up a defense. I looked at Charlie. He looked at me. Run!

So run we did. Through the trees and over the bridge, six legs making a rather vigorous pounding noise as we dashed to safety. I couldn't look over my shoulder to assess the threat because running and looking would mean foot tangling. My limited coordination doesn't extend to such feats (hee hee...couldn't resist that one). I kept my gaze on the daschund lady ahead of me. She seemed quite able to run and peer behind her at the same time. In fact, she kept doing it. And she kept running, so the threat must still be back there.

But wait. I hadn't heard anything cross the bridge after us. Feeling much more in control now that we could race off in any direction, I slowed our pace and whirled around. I was ready to quell a stalker with a gimlet glare. I was ready to fiercely tame the wildest beast. I was, without a doubt, ready. But there was nothing around. Not a person, not an animal. Nothing.

I looked ahead. The daschund lady was hurrying up a hill now. Her pace had slowed, but she kept looking back. Her gaze met mine. She frowned. It wasn't a gimlet glare (so few of us can actually produce one, you know), but the point was clear. There wasn't a monster out there, chasing us through the park. Or, to be more precise, there was one...a six-legged monster. And we were it.

As the truth of the situation hit me, I began to laugh. That didn't help my reputation with daschund lady at all. First I had chased her through the park and then I stood in the middle of the path doubled over with glee. I don't think she's one for appreciating the absurd. Here she was running as fast as ten short legs could go and Charlie and I were racing after her, convinced that a threat would soon be upon us. Innocently unaware that we were considered the threat and that by chasing her we only made things worse. Much worse.

I wanted to go explain the situation to her, but decided that hurrying up the hill in pursuit was probably not my best option. Instead, we meandered off behind some trees to give her time to reach her home. It wasn't until later that I realized she could see us from her top-of-the-hill vantage point and was likely not reassured by the sight. First we run after her, Charlie in full "heh heh heh" mode and then we hide behind a tree. Right. Perfectly acceptable behavior if you understood my reasoning. But daschund lady is likely retelling this story from her own point of view.

"There I was, innocently strolling towards the playground, when a six-legged monster swooped out of nowhere and chased me."

Charlie likes the notoriety. He's been practicing his big grin in case we encounter her again. So along with the "heh heh heh" he'll be baring all his teeth.

Yeah, that's bound to help.

Full days, full heart

2009-08-11T15:49:00.004-04:00

I know. There haven't been many blogs lately. In fact, there haven't been any blogs lately. I've been too busy being Mother of the Bride and Marine Mom.

When the Wandering Girlie and Her Choice announced their engagement eight months ago, the thought process became wrapped up in All Things Wedding. Date was set, various important decisions made and we were on a roll (we were butter!). Things were progressing rather neatly when the bride's brother decided that in addition to being the bride's brother he was going to branch out on his own this summer and become the Marine Officer Candidate.

And what did that involve, you might ask? Ten grueling weeks of physical training, of leadership exercises, of academics. Ten weeks of learning if he could be one of the few, the proud. I can't begin to tell his stories here and it wouldn't be appropriate even if I could. Those are his to tell. He has earned the right. He dedicated his mind and his heart to the experience. He emerged a successful Candidate. He won the right to graduate with his class.

Interestingly enough, graduation date was set for August 8th, 2009. Remember that wedding I mentioned in the first paragraph? Anyone care to guess the date?

Of course. August 8th, 2009. It was obviously going to be one huge day for our proud family.

The weekend began on Friday with Family Day at Quantico. We listened to the OCS (Officer Candidate School) commander tell us about what they did and about the reasoning behind the training. We were introduced to the group that had direct responsibility for our own Candidates. Some of them looked scary. Nick told us later that the scariest looking ones were not that bad. Apparently those with a milder appearance felt they had some compensating to do.

After the program we got to do a lot of hugging and kissing and back patting and head rubbing with our young almost-Marine. He has some time to decide if he'll accept that commission and if he does, he will pin on rank after college graduation. It's an interesting limbo stage for him right now, but he looks the part. Since we had spent the summer encouraging him, writing to him, driving to Quantico if he called and said he had liberty and could we come take him to a restaurant (where he ate astonishing amounts of food), we decided to get ourselves some official "we love our Marine" merchandise. The base exchange is filled with this stuff and we were happy to contribute to their sales.

Our shopping trip ended that part of the day. Then we dashed back to our town, an hour away, to prepare for the rehearsal and dinner. Into Wedding Mode! Got to the Inn in time to decorate before the rehearsal started, progressed through the various preparations and stand here and step there and sit there details. It was lovely to sit down at the rehearsal dinner and relax a bit...and the meal was truly delicious. Nice job, MOG! (mother of the groom, to those who aren't quite keeping up).

Saturday. Up very early for the drive back to Quantico to watch graduation. Precision marching, rifle handling, fine young men and women standing ready to continue with the training they will need to serve our country. It would be moving to watch simply as a bystander. As a parent? I thought I might levitate with pride.

Once the ceremony was over, we galloped back to our town to get ready for the wedding. Zip! Zoom! Talk about an action packed weekend. Luckily the ceremony was set for later in the afternoon. We had time to get to the Inn and relax. I sipped a glass of champagne while puttering around with my decorations, checking on the vendors, listening to the bridesmaids chatter, peeking in on the groom's party and smiling at the handsome group in their tuxes. Once my checklist was in order, I devoted all my attention to the beautiful young woman who was about to become somebody's wife, somebody's partner, somebody's future.

Any mother reading this will know the absolute and utter joy that comes from helping your daughter into her gown. Clasping the pearls around her neck. Fixing the veil over her lovely young shoulders. Watching her glow.

I've described my trip down the aisle to my seat, escorted by Nick, as one where I surely radiated joy beams. The guests, the bagpipe music, the bridesmaids, the flower girl...and then the bride on her father's arm, looking at the man she loved, ready to pledge her heart to him. I watched her, my baby girl now grown into a beautiful and talented young woman, and I felt all the happiness she has brought to my life grow and glow and fill the room.

Afterwards? Photos and food and toasts and dancing the night away. It was a grand and glorious party. It was a wedding to remember. But more than that, it was a weekend to remember.

A young Marine. A happy bride. A mother whose heart overflows.

An afternoon at the fair

2009-07-20T16:50:00.006-04:00

Summer time around here means lots of things. Dinners cooked on the grill, flowers given an early morning, coffee in hand inspection, thunderstorms sneaking up in the afternoon to chase away the humidity. It also means the yearly appearance of the county fair. Simple pleasures? It's full of them.

When you say county fair some folks think state fair, which is a much grander event. And some think large and impressive county fair, which is not quite on the mark, either. Our county isn't small, but it's still rural and the fair reflects those traits. Small and rural. I love it.

You park off in a field where guys clad in orange vests who might or might not be prisoners doing a bit of community service direct you to a spot. Then you amble down the dirt path to the entrance. A pause to watch some antique tractor judging. Lots of rumbling engines and just-washed gleam, owners perched in their seats wearing plaid shirts and a hat. Always a hat. Maybe a straw hat, maybe a John Deere cap, maybe something with military insignia proudly displayed.

I must say that tractor judging isn't going to provide a lot of crowd thrills and chills. The driver chugs his restored beauty over to the judging stand and then sits there while they evaluate. He revs his engine. The judges ponder the situation. And that's it. But still...there is something about proud old guys sitting tall in the saddle that makes me smile.

Now, then. Next thing to do is get up to the gate, pay the fee and get the schedule. This is not a big field and it's not a big fair, so a printed schedule is hardly needed. If you stand in the middle and turn in a slow circle, you'll figure out what is going on and where. But it's more fun to consult the times and consider just what might appeal first. For me, the favorite first stop is the petting zoo tent. I have a big soft spot for furry faces peering over their gates and hoping for a scratch and a handout.

There were some sassy monkeys and curious goats and doe-eyed donkeys and an utterly goofy camel. And there was one funny fellow who seemed to be lonely. The cute ones, the furry ones, the sassy ones were getting all the attention. I like misfits. He got my vote for sweetie of the day. His photo is below. Apparently he liked me as much as I liked him, because he let me rub the itchy spot between those awkward horns. I thought his name should be Harvey. It wasn't, but that didn't stop me from calling him Harvey in my mind.

You know it's never a county fair without the livestock judging. We wandered into that area just in time to see some goats lined up like in the kennel shows. Only they weren't particularly willing to stand with straight backs and legs just so. They seem quite inclined to peer about and chew whatever it is they chew and slump and slouch and cause their handlers endless frustration. Goats are good for that. The big goat and sheep and whatever else tent held some of the babies that always enchant me. One of them was so very sleepy he couldn't quite hold his head up to peek back at the faces peering in at him. Add little goats to my wish list, please.

Fair food? The best! It's so deliciously bad for you, but of course that's part of the charm. We got philly cheesesteak and sausage and peppers and shared. Oh, and then watched our plate of butterfly potato chips made right in front of us. Yummy. Fresh squeezed lemonade finished off the culinary experience. All of this, eaten on a hillside under a tree while watching folks walk by. Does it get any better than that? I think not.

And guess what? There was an acrobatics act! It was very exciting. The photos don't do it justice, though you should be able to put make them larger by clicking on them. The first act was a couple on roller skates. They were on top of a rather small circular platform doing all kinds of daring things. In the photo, he is spinning in a circle and she is twirling from a harness attached to his neck. Wowza! Later on he did some juggling of balls, batons, rings and then...drum roll please...fire sticks. Oooh! There was some bouncing around on the trampoline (two little daughters emerged from the tent to help with this) and then the lady of the group went up on the ropes to thrill and chill us with her grace, beauty and daring. No safety nets! The crowd was gasping "oooh" and "aaah" with every flourish. It was, simply put, very good stuff.

There's a sweetness and a tenderness about a small county fair. People go expecting simple delights and that is exactly what they get. And I think that is what pleases me the most. Living in the moment, sitting under a shade tree with a gooey good sandwich dripping in my hands, sipping tart lemonade and awaiting the excitement of the next show. An afternoon at the fair is one of my favorite simple pleasures.

Half-pints

2009-07-16T16:16:00.002-04:00

When I was little my sister sometimes called me half-pint. This came from the Laura Ingalls Wilder books about a pioneer family...her own family, and she was the half-pint in that series. In the books, Pa told her she was a half-pint of cider half drunk up. I guess that might actually make her a quarter pint, but that doesn't have quite the same ring.

There have been quite a few half-pints around here lately. Half-pint bunnies and half-pint birds, fresh out of the snug family home and exploring a fully grown world. Their behavior isn't always helpful to their survival, but they are entertaining to watch.

When Charlie and I walk past a particular playground on our daily rambles we'll usually see a baby bunny or two crouching in the grass. If they feel invisible, they'll stay put and we can peek at them surreptitiously and then be on our way. But if they feel startled, they'll zig zag all over the place without considering that the safest shrub could be found a few hops away, and in a straight line. I watched one such half-pint scamper down a slope towards a somewhat distant clump of greenery, only to be distracted by a tender leaf. Dinner! All thoughts of safety vanished in favor of tummy satisfaction and he sat happily by a snack every bit as big as his head. Apparently half-pint bunnies have attention spans to match their size.

Yesterday evening Charlie was investigating squirrel behavior near the raspberry bushes and I was trying to keep up with watering and trimming duties. Mother Nature hasn't helped much with the watering part, so the hose was deployed and I was just unwinding a bit more when a sudden flurry of fuzzy grayness dashed past my feet. As many of my blog readers know, I seem to have a magnetic attraction for mice. My first thought was that a mouse had just run across my toes. Hardly horrifying in retrospect, but still not something I want to encourage. It only took a moment for me to realize that it was not a mouse. It was a baby catbird and it was not at all sure what to do next. Instead of finding a good little plant and regrouping in the leafy shade, he chose what must have seemed like a much better option.

He ran in circles all over the patio, squeaking. I froze, not wanting to step on the little dude and afraid of agitating him even more. Charlie was oblivious back in Squirrel Land, so there was no danger of an inquisitive black nose getting into the mix. Junior's squeaks alerted the proud parents and both Mama and Papa came to scold me for upsetting their offspring. Junior ran and squeaked. Mama and Papa chirped and trilled and uttered things that were probably uncomplimentary. I started to feel as upset as the rest of them and flapped my hands in dismay...though my feet were still planted in order to avoid a collision with the wee one.

Eventually the Parental Bird Units picked up their volume and I realized it would be best for me to leave. They were going to have enough of a challenge with that half-pint of theirs. They didn't need my input. I slowly backed away from the patio scene and then scooted through the garden to interrupt Charlie's squirrel meditations. We got inside without causing any more alarm. Nobody said I couldn't watch from a window, though, so I stationed myself where I would have a good view of bird parenting practices. I'm happy to inform you that bird parents cope with noisy, upset offspring about the same way as human parents. They attempt to divert the energy into something a bit more positive, such as getting off the patio and over to a tree. They offer some comfort food. And finally Mama bird handles the half-pint and Papa goes in search of a stiff drink.

At least that's how it looked. But it is entertaining to see the animal kingdom bursting with the equivalent of human toddlers. Makes me think about my own parenting experiences. Little ones trying out their legs and eventually their wings. Half-pints always, I suspect, in the heart of a mother.

The mysteriously appearing rubber band

2009-06-22T11:27:00.002-04:00

Sometimes things go bump in the night. And sometimes they simply squish a bit under your bare feet. The second situation, while not as alarming, is always an unpleasant surprise. Believe me, I know.

Bare foot meets Thing That Is Not Carpet. The senses take a moment at that hour to figure out what the heck is under the foot, even while the jumping back and gasping is going on. Braced for the worst (as in: Ewwwwww!) I turn on the light. Okay, whew. Not a feline offering of one kind or another. But...what was a rubber band doing in the middle of my room?

Soon they began appearing everywhere. Not simultaneously, like an attack from some sort of alien planet where the life forms were disguised as useful office supplies in order to make their invasion appear somehow less dangerous. But every time I thought I had removed a rubber band to its rightful place, another showed up. They chose different locations. The stairs. The kitchen. Beside the collection of shoes by the front door. I began to examine them with curiosity and, I admit, caution. What if I noticed someone examining me right back?

The whole mystery was becoming a bit peculiar when I came upon a scene that gave me an important clue. Location? My closet. William Cat, blissfully immersed with...you guessed it...a large rubber band. He sprawled next to it, one big paw holding his treasure in place. He patted it. Rolled on it. Picked it up and started to carry it off...until he noticed me and promptly dropped his prize and looked as innocent as a chubby cat can be.

Which really isn't very innocent when he's sitting right next to the evidence attempting to deny any relationship he has had with rubber bands. What, this? Oh, I don't know. How did that happen to get there?"

How, indeed. William might be stealthy, but I was determined to solve the mystery. I tiptoed. I peered around corners. I pretended to be busy with my book while actually keeping track of one round feline's progress through the house. And finally my efforts were rewarded and I watched him deposit a rubber band on the living room carpet.

Once the mysteriously appearing rubber band was no longer a mystery, I realized I didn't want to spoil William's fun. So now when I find one I exclaim ("How did this get here!") and I put it back in a spot where I know he'll find it again. And I pretend not to see him sneak into the room to start the game over again. He likes it and so do I...though I am glad we have reached an understanding about the bedroom floor and innocent bare feet.

At least, I think we have.

Big Doings

2009-06-11T10:52:00.002-04:00

In between thunderstorms (one of which took out my lovely pear tree in the back garden), there has been a bit of excitement around here. Now keep in mind, excitement is relative in a smallish town. When I say that a new grocery store opened and that going to this new store was the excitement, please don't laugh.

Or if you do laugh, keep it to yourself. We all find happiness in different ways. For me, that included making an organized list of the staples I usually buy and the prices I usually pay and comparing them to what was offered at the sparkling new Harris Teeter. I had my list printed out and the prices from my regular store written down next to each item. While I lingered here and there and made sure to examine every aisle and as many of the offerings found along the shelves as possible, I did not forget the list I clutched and the data that needed recording.

There was a lady in the checkout lane that somehow found all this amusing, until I asked if she knew her price comparisons. She had to confess that she did not. Mmmm-hmm. I thought as much.

Charlie caught my mood of celebration. He couldn't come along to HT, so to make up for that disappointment I took him up to the Greenway for a long walk.

Lots of sniffings and squirrels to observe and passersby to bless with doggy grins and an extra wag if they offered up a kind word for him. And then...there she was, heading his way. Thick, glossy black fur gently waving in the breeze. Huge brown eyes gazing deep into his own. A tail wag. A head nudge. Charlie was mesmerized by her charms, even when she shook her enormous Newfie head and slobber flew. For the rest of the walk, Charlie was lost in a daydream where he and Hot Chickie Babe galloped through fields of flowers towards lovely shade trees and thirst quenching water bowls. For a moment, I think he even forgot Daisy, his erstwhile girlfriend from the neighborhood down the street. Charlie, Charlie. You dog.

Updates to come on pear tree removal and whatever structure appears to protect my tender shade garden. I'm looking forward to the creation process and to all the other big doings found in simple pleasures that fill my life. May you all be so blessed.

Remembering Johnny

2009-06-07T11:58:00.002-04:00

Yesterday's D-Day anniversary celebration brought the nation's attention once again to those who fought so many years ago. There aren't that many World War II vets around any more, and the ones who remain are not always anxious to talk about their experiences. But sometimes they will. Sometimes you get a glimpse of the memories. Sometimes you have the enormous good luck to meet a veteran like Johnny.

We lived in a little neighborhood some years ago that was filled with older homes and quite a few older residents. My morning dog walk excursion took me around and about most of the neighborhood and it was on one quiet side street that I encountered Johnny. Old guy, sitting under a large tree in his lawn chair with an extra chair conveniently located nearby. Just in case, you know, someone wanted to stop and visit. And if the extra chair didn't give you the hint, Johnny just waved you on over and patted your spot. Surely you could chat awhile.

Johnny's gnarled hands rested on a substantial belly. Feet shoved into worn old shoes and legs that didn't always cooperate when he wanted to stand up quickly. Johnny liked to position his chair so he could see the clump of peonies he grew in honor of his wife's memory. When he talked about her, his eyes filled.

"Look at me, crying like an old man," he'd tell me.

But I wasn't looking at his tears. I was looking at those peonies, carefully tended by a man who still loved with devotion.

One other topic brought Johnny to tears. He was in the Navy the day Pearl Harbor awakened from Sunday slumber to the horror of a devastating attack.

"I remember Pearl," he said. "Remember it like it was yesterday."

And then he'd tell me about it. Sometimes his bent old fingers would grasp mine. Sometimes he'd stare out across the yard and I knew he wasn't seeing the trees and flowers and passing cars. He was seeing the pain and the fear and the confusion.

When Johnny talked about Pearl Harbor, he wasn't a stout old man spending his days hoping for conversation and company. He was young and strong and was stepping up to serve the country he loved. As he remembered his friends and the tears ran down his cheeks, he told me he would never forget that day.

Johnny's gone now, reunited with the woman he loved and with the friends he lost. I think of him when World War II anniversaries are celebrated or when I see veterans straighten their shoulders and salute their flag. I think of him when I have a chance to hear another story or share another memory.

And I think this year I'll add a clump of white peonies to the garden and I'll tend them in honor of Johnny and his enduring love for his sweet lady and his blessed country.

Gone, but never forgotten.

A day of remembrance

2009-05-25T16:14:00.002-04:00

Today we're celebrating Memorial Day. Sometimes it bothers me when holidays are moved around to conveniently create three-day weekends, but really it's the remembering part that is important. More than the picnics and the games and the swimming, more than the action movies and the cooler of beer. More than the sunburn and ocean waves and packed highways. All of those things? Good stuff (well...not the sunburn). But none of them have anything to do with the real purpose of Memorial Day.

Decoration Day was the first name, and I gather that was because the graves of those lost in the Civil War were decorated with flowers. Yes, the special day was all about the Civil War initially. It was all made official in 1868. Flowers were placed on the graves of both Confederate and Union soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. It wasn't long before all the northern states joined in, but the South wasn't wild about the concept and honored their dead separately.

After World War I the holiday was officially changed to honor all Americans who died fighting in any war. That kind of organized the whole thing. For awhile, Memorial Day celebrations were quite a big deal. And then...gradually...they seemed to diminish. Maybe people were too busy planning their three-day weekends to pause a moment and to remember.

That's what it's all about, really. Remembering. We remember those who served, but more specifically we remember those who served and did not return. They gave their lives for a reason, for a cause, because their country called, because they felt it was their duty, their responsibility, their privilege.

Maybe for us it's all about hot dogs and burgers and potato chips and pass me an icy cold Coke. But for those we are to remember today...whenever they fought, whenever they died...it was about blood and sweat and tears and, yes, the ultimate sacrifice.

So at some point today, put down your loaded plate at the neighborhood cookout and remember the men and women whose crosses line the hillsides and whose spirits live on in every wave of the flag, in every patriotic tune and in every heart of every free person in this fine country. Remember the sacrifice of the fallen and the hope and the courage and the determination of those who continue to serve.

Let freedom ring on this day of remembrance.

Can you see your bubble?

2009-05-16T16:54:00.002-04:00

Good message in church last Sunday. Since it applies with or without religious interpretation, I'll do a bit of summary here. But before I do that, look around you. Can you see your bubble?

Unlikely. Don't worry, you aren't supposed to see it because it doesn't really exist in a tangible way. The trouble comes when it exists in an intangible way. Bubbles, in this particular case, are bad.

The idea is that we're born with a bubble of need and selfishness around us. That's okay, when you're a baby. If you don't think constantly about your own needs and make them known in a way that even befuddled new parents can understand (after a few desperate attempts to offer food when the diaper's the issue or to quickly change a clean diaper when loneliness or fatigue are the cause of the determined fussing), then babyhood will be a real challenge. Babies are allowed to have bubbles. Their "me first" attitude allows them to survive and thrive.

Somewhere along the line that bubble starts to stretch a bit. Eventually the baby becomes a toddler and concepts like sharing and taking turns and not hitting the tiny sibling over the head with just about anything start taking root. School, friendships, family life...all expand the bubble. Knowledge, faith, service. Yup. Definitely bubble expanders.

When the person inside the bubble thinks about someone other than himself or herself, the power of those thoughts, of the caring, of the gestures of kindness, support, and encouragement pushes bubble boundaries far, far, away. The tiny self-centered bubble of the newborn ultimately embraces the family unit, and friends and the work environment and the community and...wowie zowie...even the world.

At least, that's how it can be.

But you know, it's not a guarantee. There are plenty of adults walking around whose bubbles primarily contain their own needs. Those needs are so significant in their lives that there isn't much room for anything else. The bubbles just don't grow. How can they, when the person inside can't look beyond what they want and what they deserve and what fun they will have enjoying it all? I guess that might be fun, but I think ultimately there will be a time when the happily bubbled me-centered person wants a bit more.

The trouble with bubbles is that if you go through your whole life catering to your own needs and then finally you are ready to stop and look around and reach out to others, you might find that your bubble did double duty. It kept you surrounded by everything that mattered most to you...and it put a wall between you and everything and everyone it might once have expanded to include. The family you neglected, the friendships you failed to nurture, the connections, the community, the faith. The heart and soul of life, really, shut out for years and then suddenly remembered. But will it be too late?

Bubbles are meant to stretch and expand, to embrace a lovely life. Look around. Can you see your bubble?

Make way...

2009-05-07T16:41:00.004-04:00

...for ducklings!

It's been raining here. I'm not talking about the "oh, we had a rainy day" variety of the wet stuff. Nope, this is the rained and rained and rained kind of thing, the rains that last for days, for more than a week, and that never end. Never. The back yard is a bog, the sidewalk is a river and the trees are molding. The front steps are molding. Heck, even I'm molding.

I've looked out every window and I can safely say that there's not a glimmer of sun. Clouds, we've got. Thunder, even. It's perfect weather for sloshing through puddles and trying out a new umbrella and starting a good book. It's perfect weather for ducklings.

Many, many ducklings.

No, these aren't mine. I wish they were. Okay, that's a bit much, even for me. I wish a few of them were mine. Maybe five. Nine? How about an even dozen?

Really. Can anyone look at these darling little quackers and not feel warm and fuzzy inside?

Their current home is at Tractor Supply, that wondrous shop 0' delights filled with bird seeds and pet foods (everything from feline to equine) and useful boots and tools and...oh, the list goes on. I get to go into Tractor Supply regularly because of Wink, William, Midge and Charlie Dog. That was my mission a few days ago. Cat food, back right wall, no delays to keep me from my other errands.

Until I saw the big galvanized tubs in the center of the store. Those were interesting enough on their own (I apparently have a thing for big galvanized tubs) but the heat lamps attached to them indicated that something more was involved. Hmmm. I couldn't walk past without peeking inside. What if there were something cute in there?

What if! Cute and more than cute. All other errands forgotten, I crouched by the tubs and cooed at the fuzzy occupants. A gentleman was scooping some out and putting them carefully into a box. I wasn't sure I should ask his intent. What if he had some nefarious plan? Could I make a mad dash for the box and rescue the innocents inside? I debated a moment. Sure, I could. So I asked.

Nothing nefarious involved. He's got a pond (!!!) and an island in the middle (!!!) and the ducklings will have a fine home. My wistful expression must have been pretty obvious. "If you want a pond, I'll help you out," he told me. "I've got a front loader."

Oooh! A front loader! So now I not only wanted ducklings, I wanted a front loader with which to create a perfectly ducky home. But there was one problem.

"Thanks," I said. "But you'd have to help me out with a couple acres of land, first."

*sigh*

No pond for me. No ducklings, either, though right now a few of them would have a dandy time in my overflowing bird bath. It's all about admiration for now. And I think it was mutual. The little yellow fellow in the back seemed to be giving me a come hither look.

Anybody got a pond?

Sorta kinda famous

2009-04-25T13:59:00.002-04:00

I spent a good bit of Friday in a local elementary school, talking to 4th grade classes about the writing process. The essence of my prepared presentation can be summed up in four basic steps: get ideas, write a rough draft, edit, publish. Along the way, though, there's plenty of questions and comments from the kids and that's what makes this sort of thing fun. You never know what they'll say.

Any shyness that might linger (on their part...I'm not at all shy around them) dissipates quickly when we start acting out power words.

Okay, I tell them, let's say my main character is moving from point A to point B. So I write in my story that Character One walked down the street. They look at me. You know, like this. I ask whoever looks the most interested to come up front with me. Everyone shifts and wiggles and whispers. Aha! The energy level just rose. Now then (insert volunteer's name here), walk from here to over there. That's it. Just walk. We all watch our walking volunteer. He stops. Looks at me. The class looks at me. So, what was our volunteer feeling? Silence. You mean you don't know? Nope. A little concern. Will this be graded? Of course you don't know! How could you know? There weren't any power words in that sentence. All I wrote was that Character One walked down the street. What does that tell my reader? Nothing!

Our brave volunteer then gets another chance. I whisper something in his ear. He moves down that pretend street with gusto. What's he feeling? And whammy! The power words fly. We prance and shuffle and skip and slouch and shimmy. We're joyful and sneaky and terrified and exhausted and exuberant. We are all about power words.

It's fun. But the best part by far is when we're simply talking.

Do you like writing? That was my question to them, and most said they did but a couple said they were better at math. One little cutie, though, summed up my own feelings about the writing process quite nicely. Sometimes it's hard, she confided, but then I get sucked in and it's all okay.

Occasionally their questions give me a good chuckle. Do you know Laura Ingalls Wilder? Well, shoot. I read her books, too, when I was a little girl. She died before I was born. Yeah, that's daunting.

But the best comment from yesterday's presentation came from a sweet little miss who asked me if she might have my autograph. She handed me a piece of paper and I signed and added my usual smiley face next to my name.

Thank you, she said, putting the paper carefully away. I have a notebook at home where I collect autographs of famous people. She paused, gave me a long look and added: Well. Or sorta kinda famous people.

No chance of getting too big of an ego with this crowd! I swallowed my laughter and thanked her for bending the famous rule somewhat in my case. It had been a long day, my feet hurt and my voice was fading. But I went home basking in the knowledge that power words had gotten a boost and we all had fun in the process.

Not bad for a sorta kinda famous person.

Bleeding Heart

2009-04-19T18:07:00.004-04:00

Bleeding Heart. Gentle, delicate blooms gracing my shade garden. Folklore tells us that the flowers represent gifts from a man to a princess. The greatest gift was of course his heart. Like these flowers, love is both enduring and fragile. And like these flowers, it should be nurtured and cherished.

Spring doings

2009-04-19T17:51:00.002-04:00

You know it's spring when Charlie Dog and I give our walks a bunny rating. Today, for example, we had a one-bunny walk in the morning and a two-bunny walk this afternoon. One fine evening last year resulted in a (brace yourselves) five-bunny walk. Yes, five. A goal we would like to meet and...dare I say it...exceed this year.

The young bunnies aren't out and about yet, or not around here. They'll emerge at some point and crouch in the grass, little bunny bundles with quivering noses and tiny tender ears. That's one way to tell the yearling bunnies from their elders. Bunny bodies achieve full size fairly rapidly, but those ears stay small for a bit.

Charlie likes to watch the bunnies. He has mixed success with their tolerance of his presence and it's completely based on his watching technique. If he remembers his manners and sits nicely, the bunnies generally don't seem to mind and will continue snacking on luscious green clover. But if Charlie salivates and licks his chops, all bets are off. Once that happens we're likely to be watching a cotton puff tail scoot into the bushes.

Quinque and Charlemagne, our garden bunnies, are all grown up this year...though I'm sure their ears are still somewhat small. Maybe they will return to the garden to raise their own family or another bunny mama will find some charm and protection amidst my blooming wonderland. If that happens I'll sit on the deck steps or on the low wall of the raised bed and watch quietly (and without salivating or licking my chops) as some of nature's sweet blessings tiptoe through the flowers and greenery.

And eat up all my Asian lilies. But that's another matter.

Emogene

2009-04-10T17:52:00.002-04:00

Emogene has attitude. That is plain to anyone scooting out of the way as she rounds the curve into her neighborhood. I walk that way every day with Charlie Dog and today we scooted...and we smiled.

She drives a lemon yellow Volkswagen bug, that Emogene. I know her name because it's on the license plate. It suits the bug and it suits the lady driving. Her house is one of a series of brick patio homes. They feature master bedrooms on the first floor for handy single-level living. Some have rooms upstairs for when the grandchildren visit. Front yards are small and tidy, back yards show various degrees of creativity. I'm betting Emogene has a lovely flower garden there. Anyone who drives a lemon yellow bug with personalized plates must surely express herself in flowers.

Emogene is reaching out and enjoying life and she's doing it in grand style. I'm guessing she is about eighty years old. Slowing and settling? Not a chance. This is the sort of woman who has to have a cell phone so her children and grandchildren can keep up with her. This is the sort of woman who looks forward to each day and whatever adventure it might bring. This is the sort of woman who drives a lemon yellow bug with palpable joie de vivre.

This is the sort of woman I want to be, and not just when I'm eighty. We should all have a little Emogene in us.

And a lemon yellow bug wouldn't hurt, either.

The Hello Initiative

2009-04-06T11:12:00.002-04:00

Seems like a lot of people are feeling invisible these days. Not literally transparent, but simply not seen. Overlooked by society, culture, economy, friends, family. There's an abundance of people who want desperately to be seen, to be heard.

Turning on the evening news brings forth a barrage of pundits who pontificate on and on about what we need, what we don't need and how to achieve the balance. It should be comforting somehow that those folks who make decisions and the other folks who discuss these decisions on television are thinking so hard about the rest of us regular folks who await the conclusion, the plan. Somehow, though, I've gotten the impression that the plan (when and if it comes) will be so far removed from the people it should help that it doesn't. Help, that is.

So what have we got here? A bunch of people feeling invisible to their government. And while that might be overall easier for the government in question, it doesn't do the actual folks much good. Take that down to the next level and you'll find invisibility in the work force. Poor decisions and management create issues that must be fixed and who will bear the brunt? Anonymous worker bees. Cut their pay and slash their benefits or let them go altogether and who really cares because they are hardly a name, hardly a person. No, I'm not talking about the smaller business that struggles to keep workers on well past the point that salary and benefits can readily be paid. Different matter altogether, and bless their hearts for treating folks like folks.

Health care? Ahhh, do we even need to go there? If you've been to the doctor's office lately you'll know that your fifteen minutes of fame in the examining room is designed to rush you in and out and process your money thank you very much.

It's simply all over, this peculiar invisibility. Friends are moving from actual contact and conversation to winks and pokes and nudges on sites like Facebook. Handy spot, I'm sure, but it's also yet another excuse to trivialize our contact into quantity instead of quality. Even family life has moved towards convenience dinners and a mad dash from event to event.

Where are we going with all this? Where, really, can it possibly go? It's not a good trend, not for our culture or our society or the individuals that float about wanting a connection. Everyone has to make their own decisions about what's going on in their own worlds and what kind of reach out and touch someone experience they want or need. Maybe that's all anyone can do. Take a good look around and think about the last time you had a family dinner or the last time you asked a friend how he or she was doing and really wanted the answer instead of simply posting a hello on a Facebook wall. Maybe if that's all we do, it will be enough to add some calmness and connection to what is rapidly becoming a superficial appallingly anonymous world.

But if you've got a little something else left, consider joining me in something I think of as the Hello Initiative. Silly grand name for a simple act, I know, but sometimes simple acts deserve a bit of puff and grandeur. The point? Connection. If you connect with people, they are no longer invisible and neither are you. So put it out there. Say hello, I see you, we're all in this world together as we always have been and it's about time we remembered it.

Well, okay. Just say hello. If you add the rest of it you are going to get some adverse reactions. Give a hello to people on the street, at work, at the grocery store, at soccer practice, during your commute. Allow a bit of your sparkle to go with it and flash them a smile. You might be surprised at the grin you get in return.

Hello, 1. Invisibility, 0.

Now that's the kind of trend that will do us all some good. There's a lot we can't fix in the world, but there are still differences to make. So even though I might not encounter you in the store or on the street or anywhere in my life today or tomorrow or the next day, I'm saying this now: hello! I see you and I care.

Pansy power

2009-03-28T11:33:00.003-04:00

This time of year brings a see-saw of temperatures and weather conditions. We might be in short sleeves one day and shoveling an inch or two of snow another. Early daffodils bloom bravely in spite of Spring's fickle personality. I've got them scattered around the garden and enjoy their sunshiney trumpeting of another season. And there are plenty of other wee sprouts and shoots and buddings going on. But my true love in Spring, at least in terms of gardening, is the pansy.

Pansies are part of the viola family. You'd better be glad you're not mapping that family tree, because it's huge. I won't go into all the bit about genus and species, because you'd likely be napping and that's not the point, anyway. So what is the point? That pansies are hearty, adaptable and have really cute faces. Pop 'em in a spot protected from the afternoon sun, give 'em enough water and conversation (the first is an official recommendation, the second is simply my personal technique) and their cheerfulness will brighten your Spring days.

Pansy history goes way back. I mean way back. We're talking 4th century BC, when an intrepid flower-lover noticed something that was similar to a viola but not quite, and that liked to grow up in alpine meadows and on rocky ledges (hence the descriptor "intrepid"...that flower lover was part mountain goat). It was called a wild pansy. Nobody seems to know exactly why, but it's thought that the flower lover might have been French. The word "pansy" has origins in the French word "pensee," which means thought or remembrance.

I like that. They are thoughtful little flowers, peering up at you with their sweet velvet faces. When I look closely at some of those faces, I see the shape of an angel, arms raised, graceful robes flowing. That's why I like to plant pansies by my front door. Those who come here are welcomed by a cheerful reminder of the season and when they leave they receive an angel's blessing.

That's a lot of power for a delicate bloom. Pansy power. Happy Spring!

Of leprechauns and squirrel tails

2009-03-14T10:07:00.002-04:00

It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! ~Mark Twain

I'm not sure if the latest happenings on Fisher Lane are due to spring fever on my part or some odd bit of whimsy and magic lingering along a neighborhood road. I will say this: Charlie and I walk all the time and on a variety of roads, paths and trails. We have never spotted either a leprechaun or a squirrel with a rat tail. Suddenly we've seen both, on the same day and on the same road. March magic? You decide.

I know very well that leprechauns are supposedly wee men with an attitude who are fond of their special brew and even fonder of the treasure they are purported to guard. The figure standing by the road wasn't exactly wee. I have no idea what he thinks of brew, special or not, and if there were treasure in the vicinity it was indeed well hidden. But still...the first thing I thought of when I rounded the bend and was confronted with this fellow was that he must surely be a leprechaun.

Either that or he's just a bit odd.

Here's the scene: very cold morning, which left me feeling a bit grumpy because earlier in the week we had some lovely warmth and I was able to spend a lot of time outside. Charlie marched along with his usual savoir faire (he's announced that he's tired of being deemed goofy or adorable or amiable and is delighted with the upgrade in descriptive terminology). I was bundled in my winter jacket and gloves and was looking about for the sweet clumps of early daffodils or crocus that prove spring's intentions. Up a little hill, down a little hill and...hmmm. Now just what was that?

A man, probably in his 40s, about my height or a little more. Nothing too unusual about that. But I don't think there are too many men who wander around in kelly green nightshirts. Yup, yup. A nightshirt (kelly green, nonetheless), hanging down to just below his knees. Bare legs, then, followed by feet stuck into large unlaced boots. Winter jacket tossed on, cap in place. Having a morning smoke.

I felt the laughter inside me bubble up and threaten to spill over in an explosion of merriment, but I contained it. After all, who says you can't stand by the road in your nightshirt on a chilly morning? Who says you can't be perfectly comfortable flashing slightly bowed legs and a smile of greeting to passersby? Who says you can't say (I kid you not) "Top o' the mornin' to you!"

I grinned. "And to you!" Charlie was still peering over his shoulder half a block later when the squirrels appeared. They quickly claimed his attention, though, and he forgot all about the leprechaun.

Squirrels will always claim Charlie's attention. He probably didn't notice that two of them were possessed of extremely funky tails. We all know what squirrel tails look like, right? Puffy creations, nearly as long as the squirrel himself and used for warmth and balance and warning and maybe even for showing off. At first I thought the two squirrels who dashed by were without tails and I wondered how they managed in the community and where the heck their tails went, anyway. Then I realized that they did have the proper appendages. They just weren't...proper.

They were rat tails. *shudder* Once upon a time we had a pet rat named Bud who came to us from the elementary school. That was when we also had a guinea pig and gerbils and rabbits and mice and an ancient algae eater who should have been called Methuselah but was rather boringly named Al (we did not name him) and cats and a dog and...yeah. It was like that. So Bud was part of the household and I grew very fond of him, or at least most of him. But not his tail. Never his tail.

Unlike Bud, though, these squirrels had a tuft at the very end of their tails. Both of them had this, and it looked very much the same on each squirrel which led me to believe that the tail situation was not caused by trauma but was...what? A new breed? When we got home I looked it up and found exactly nothing on squirrels with rat tails. We've lived all over the place and I have talked to, fed and admired squirrels for a whole lot of years. Never seen anything like this, though. I'm open to learning about it, if anyone knows something more.

Squirrel tails and kelly green nightshirts. I'm looking forward to whatever else spring and Fisher Lane toss my way. I feel like Alice when confronted with Wonderland. It's "curiouser and curiouser."

On Sharing

2009-03-05T16:10:00.002-05:00

Wink has a little cat bed near my desk. It's round and fleecy and a wonderful place for a funny little one-eyed cat to sleep when he can't be on his human's shoulder. Nobody else sleeps there. William prefers the unusual spots he creates as this week's favorites. Might be on one of the stairs, might be in the dog kennel, might be tucked behind the bed pillows. You never know, but it's never in a cat bed. And of course Charlie Dog is far too big to curl in Wink's bed. He hides his tennis ball there and finds it again and again in some very strange game of...well, of hide the tennis ball in a weird spot and find it immediately. But sleeping? Nope.

Tiny Miss Midge has her own wee bed, a delicate blue creation nearby that, again, is reserved by whatever household animal bylaws exist, just for her sweet self. This was dandy until a couple weeks ago when (key movie music that heralds a significant and often foreboding event) she decided to try something different. And by different, I mean Wink's bed.

I hadn't really thought about the fact that the little gray cat curled up next to me was of the slender and tufted ear variety rather than of the sturdy one-eyed pirate variety. It became evident when the pirate himself sauntered up after a fine mid-morning snack of Friskies. Nap time! But...

Who's been sleeping in my bed? The heck with fairy tales. Who's still sleeping in my bed?

Midge gave him her own version of a mulish expression, which looks incredibly sweet but hides a will of steel. This little chickie was not at all intimidated by the fact that Wink wanted the bed and that it was, truth be told, his bed anyway. She wasn't moving. What was Wink going to do?

I wouldn't have blamed him if he nudged a bit or gave a Winkish warning of some kind to let her know he wasn't pleased. But Wink, for all that he looks like a tough guy, is an absolute lamb inside. After much thought he concluded that he could, after all, share the bed. It was unprecedented and maybe a bit scary, but he could do it. One paw and then another crept into the fleecy softness. Midge scooted over and offered a thorough ear washing as Wink awkwardly settled himself. This was not as altruistic as it might sound. Midge has a mania for washing anything that comes her way and she'll chase down what doesn't. Dirt is anathema in the Queendom of Midge.

Three hours later Wink had extremely fresh ears and the top of his head wasn't looking bad, either. What's more, he had purred himself to sleep. Midge gazed up at me complacently. See? (she said) I knew he could do it.

Of course he could. Sharing things is almost always possible and very rarely painful...except when your cousins visit and you have to share your toys with them and they deliberately throw one down the stairs to break it and so you break another toy (just a wooden back scratcher, mind you) over their heads and of course you end up getting in trouble for it but you don't regret the action for one minute because revenge, darn it, can be sweet. Ahhh. Some memories apparently do not fade.

Anyway. Once we're all grown up and not talking about toys the challenge is in sharing ourselves. Experience has an interesting way of providing us with caution flags and we wave them with little provocation just to make sure that the self that might be shared isn't hurt in the process. Wave off the danger, keep the self intact and properly protected. It's better that way, yes?

Well, gee, I don't know. Maybe yes, depending on the situation. But maybe not yes (in other words, for anyone feeling particularly dense, no). Sharing ourselves can be new or difficult or scary. Sometimes you really, really want that caution flag. But if you take a chance, take a step, and then maybe another and yet another, you might find that sharing yourself brings an unexpected coziness to your life.

There's no guarantee that you'll end up with clear ears and a fresh-washed head, but there's a possibility that you'll be surprised at the comfort it brings.

Of canned goods and kindness

2009-02-24T18:44:00.002-05:00

Our church had 800 people come through on food distribution day. These were not the volunteers. These were the hungry folks in need of help and sustenance. And this is from a relatively small town in a relatively rural county.

That's a record number.

And that's a sobering statistic.

You see, I think we get a bit jaded with the glum news that reaches us from the television and the Internet and from word of mouth. "Hey, did you hear...?" "Yeah. Yeah, I heard." And maybe you did hear, but maybe...and you would not be alone in this...maybe you have heard so much about so many who are struggling, suffering, surviving only by the barest definition of that word that you simply tune out.

And who could blame you? Bad goes to worse and Feed the World has become Feed Your Neighbors. It's just plain overwhelming.

So it's understandable that a lot of us start feeling like we can't possibly fix everything and maybe can't even fix anything. The next step? Circle the wagons and concentrate on protecting your own self. Your family. Your best interests. Because, you know...what could you possibly do anyway?

There is that inclination and believe me, I get it. But hang on. Whoa, Nelly. Don't circle the wagons just yet. Leave a bit of an opening, because reaching out is going to help you as much as it helps...and it will help...those in need.

Consider this: those 800 people would have walked away with despair in their hearts except for one thing. The kindness of strangers. Throughout history there have been stories of Samaritans who gave a bit from what they had, whether in terms of time, talent, or actual goods. Throughout history. Not just our history. I'm talking every culture in every corner of this wide world. Kind hearts reached out and society was reminded once again that one person can make a difference.

One person can make a difference.

A food drive does not mean that three people load up thirty-six carts in the Safeway and empty their wallets in order to provide one distribution's worth of yummies for the masses. A food drive means that you add a couple cans of soup or veggies or other non-perishable goods to your weekly shopping and you do that knowing that your two cans and his two cans and her two cans and their two cans multiplied by whatever number creates a powerful amount of giving.

Enough, say, to send 800 people away with hope, with the knowledge that others care, with the realization that no matter how bad the news and how dismal the prospects, there are people who will not forget that one person's deed is never small and that when combined with the force of caring that comes from a united community, its power is unlimited.

Gloves for the homeless. Food for the hungry. And most of all, a direct look, a smile, a touch and the assurance that we will work with each other. We will work, side by side. And yes, guard each man's dignity and save each man's pride. Because as always, if we stand united we will not fall to the crisis threatening our economy and our nation's people.

Shoulder to shoulder, with canned goods and kindness, we will not fall.

But if you think that your small effort will not make a difference, try handing a bag of food to someone who does not know where they will find their next meal. Try putting a pair of gloves on cold hands. And try looking into the faces of those people and telling them that you did not just make a difference in their lives.

You will be the difference. And you will find your own life richer for it.