A Death in the Community

I live in a small town...more of a village, really. Situated on a curve with a little bit of town on each edge. To anyone passing through, they might be inclined to continue passing through without another thought.

But those of us who live here and have been members of families that have lived here for generations, it's much more than just a small collection of old buildings with empty insides...

it's home.

And so, while attending our town Ruritan meeting, when we received the news that a majority of the county school board saw fit to close our little town's only school, it swept through the room with an audible gasp.

A death had occurred in the community. And we all felt its impact immediately.

Many of us in the room had given a great deal of our energies, love, and loyalty in keeping that little school alive and thriving...really thriving. Most all of us in attendance had either once attended or had kids, grandkids, and even great-grandkids attend that little school.

There's always been a lot of love and community in that little building. All those who entered understood that hard work was expected--it is the backbone of this community. 

And the students did indeed learn the value of hard work...they became many of the best in their classes.

And now tonight we all sit in our homes,a little numb, a little defeated, a little angry for our kids, our school and its workers, and for our little town itself. 

Our county tends to swallow up out little  community...we've lost our bank to the bigger bank in the county; we've all but lost our post office to the bigger one in the county...and now we're being told our school has one more year of life before it, too, is taken from our town.

Where does it end?

Fortunately for our little town, it is loved by many of us, much like a beloved old pet...it may not be the most beautiful or robust place in its outward appearance, but the heart that is collectively beating underneath is strong. We will keep working hard because that's what we do...we will figure out a way to keep the little school alive in some manner as we work diligently to keep our little town alive. Not an easy task, but worth it.

We know that we are on borrowed time as a community if we have many more deaths of places where we collectively gather in our town...let us gather together in our churches, in our community clubs, and keep our spirits alive...

because it's just plain worth it.

C'mon, March...We're Counting on You!

I, just  like all of you, hunkered down and allowed the bully of the winter, also known as February, to brandish every thug-like trick it had up its frozen little sleeves...while suffering in silence. Knowing what comes next tends to make it bearable to suffer the slings and arrows of this little bully that lies in wait for us each year on the calendar...spring just can't be far away. C'mon March--come to our rescue.

 And now for the present...we, the battle-scarred and worn, finally saw off the little rascal of the winter as February stomped off into the sunset. And, we all sighed with happy hearts, here comes March! Lovely March, the month of feeling the first true warmth from the sun, the warming breezes of spring, the first signs of plants emerging back to life.

 But, wait...March? What's going on?

 MORE ice?? MORE snow?? MORE frigid temperatures? There's only one explanation...February!!

 Bad habits have obviously been taught by that little imp...and poor 'ol March didn't see it coming.

 Please redeem yourself, dear March...and please make it soon. We all still want to love you as the turning point in our cold, dark, frozen little existences. Please re-think your choice to follow a bad example. Please choose to emulate your other next door neighbor, April, over that little fuss-budget February.

 C'mon March...we're waiting...

Thank You, Betty Macdonald

It is February--without a doubt, my least favorite month of the year. And, although this year I was bound and determined that I would busy myself and just give it and the calendar an occasional passing glance, I found that one can only polish the appliances and wash the light bulbs so many times before a little distraction sets in--even the glorious gift of time to write wasn't enticing me to stay at the keyboard as often as I normally would like.

One afternoon as I was dusting the bookshelf in my basement office, I came across an old book that my mom had given me long ago, Betty Macdonald's Onions in the Stew.  I'm not sure if it was given to my mom from my Grandma Lois, if it was a flea market find or a Bingo prize, but I had let it season on the shelf for a good while. And now the time seemed ripe to give it a read. I had, the week earlier, started to read The Sound and the Fury, that light-hearted little ditty by Faulkner. I waded molasses-slow through the first few pages, only to declare that  I was at an age where I didn't  have to read  what didn't appeal to me, no matter how classic...this one was tossed in the bag to head to Goodwill for the next poor book-loving sap. So, I poured a cup of coffee and sat down in my comfy chair to give Betty's book a try.

A tear-wiping, rib-aching half hour later,  I reluctantly sat the book down to get supper started. When a spare moment popped up, I went back to the book. I haven't laughed this hard for a long, long time. I haven't been this entertained by an author for even longer than that.

 Betty Macdonald has a way of telling a story that makes writing look easy (although those of us who struggle in the attempt know how diligently she worked). Sadly, she only lived to be fifty years old; according to Wikipedia, she died of cancer at this young age.  Yet, within that short span of time, she wrote some great stuff--including the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle series and The Egg and I, which inspired the Ma and Pa Kettle movie series (again, from Wikipedia).

 Of course, she writes earnestly and hilariously about herself, her family, and her neighbors, so it netted her some trouble along the way with the occasional law suit and hurt feelings (brutal honesty can be rough--and once again, a nod to Wikipedia for my vast knowledge of this lady's life).

 Political correctness or not, I say a very large thank you to Betty Macdonald for allowing me, on a day like today when February is still looming, the appliances are already shiny, and the freezing rain has now turned into massive snow flakes outside my door,  to ignore it all and escape to Vashon Island and all its over-grown, malfunctioning, and generally hilarious environs.

 

The lightbulb washing can wait.

Garden Seed Catalogs--It's a Giddy Time!

The garden seed catalogs have arrived! For those of us who love to plant, nurture, grow, and harvest the seeds found in those catalogs, it's a giddy time indeed!

Looking through a seed catalog now is akin to my perusing the pages of a Sears Christmas catalog as a child. Just as the Christmas catalog got more dog-eared as Christmas drew nearer, the gardening season calendar can be measured by the more and more ragged pages of the numerous seed catalogs that accompany me throughout my day. Page after colorful page of luscious lettuces, cherry-red radishes, tantalizing tomatoes, and herbs of every imaginable aroma and taste. Gardens of flowers, from delicate snow drops to towering sunflowers grace those pages of gardening bliss.

The snow may fall, the chilling winds may blow and the icicles may extend off our gutters to dizzying lengths, but there's a warm, cozy little garden being planted on the planning board at my desk--I can almost smell the fragrance.  

Resolution Revolution

Made those resolutions for 2015? Me either.

 Well, I guess that's not completely accurate. I'm acting on a resolution I made to myself back earlier this summer. It actually takes on more of the form of a resolution revolution. While push mowing grass at my sister's -in-law home back in August, I had some time all to myself to nothing much more than think. And, as I was pondering over our eventual return to our home and lifestyle, it occurred to me that I no longer wanted to be a jack of all trades/master of few. No, I made a resolution at that moment to decrease my ambitions to a nice, neat little grouping.  Like one of my favorite authors once said, "Simplify, simplify, simplify".

Becoming less ambitious...it's a thrilling experience.

For years, my ambitions were, well, just way too ambitious. I always joked that when anyone asked me what I liked, I could simply answer, "Yes." It was exhausting. I liked too many things and wanted to learn too many things. My days pretty much became endless scenarios of  "mile wide/inch deep" experiences. Literally being away from my sources of hobbies/learning/experiences this summer truly helped me  refocus on what really matters to me. More inch wide/mile deep--true passions in life.

Writing, for example--so writing gets much more attention these days. Every day, as a matter of fact. 

Come spring, gardening  gets much more of my attention. In the meantime, the seed catalogs are getting pretty dog-eared.

Photography--a connection of the two passions.

And, so, on this  dawn of a fresh new year, my revolution has begun. No massive list of goals; no list at all. Just a joy that comes with each word I pen, each plant I nurture, each photo I capture.

Viva la revolution! 

Being Gifted

The other evening, we had a wonderful event in our little town. We lit up a Christmas tree.

Now, to many of you, that would seem about as nondescript as it gets. We lit up a Christmas tree...big deal. Many cities have hundreds of beautiful Christmas trees lining the streets, adorning  the entrances to buildings, and standing in stately manors.

But that's not where we live.

In our tiny little town, we have no statues, no high-rise buildings, no collection of city streets. Just a pretty little area on the curve coming into town that recognizes the veterans and the founder of our local Ruritan club, along with three flag poles of varying height, in accordance with the flag they proudly support each day. So, having a tree on the monument is kind of a big deal to us.

We feel pretty gifted around here.

After the lighting  of the tree, we went down the street to the Methodist church to the Fellowship Hall to have fellowship with our friends and neighbors, enjoying hot chocolate, coffee, and cookies provided by the ladies of the church. After this, we all went upstairs to the sanctuary which was beautifully adorned with a mass of red poinsettias, red ribbons, bright white lights, and, at the center, a lovely nativity.

And then the singing began. Parishioner after parishioner came forward and offered gifts of song. Heads nodded, feet tapped, and joy lifted to the rafters.  I think it's safe to say that the beautiful verses of "Silent Night"  sang by the congregation as the benediction could be heard well beyond the doors of the church. We all left with smiles; the Advent season had begun.

This is certainly the season of gifts and gifting. It occurred to me on the way home last night, with the music still gently playing  in my mind, that we are small town for sure...but oh, the gifts we receive each and every day in this small little spot in the world.  We know one another, we like one another, we care for one another.

We are pretty gifted around here.  

Tender Mercies

This has been a trying couple of weeks. The most devastating thing parents can hear is that their child is seriously ill. I don't know of any time in life where I have felt more helpless. After nearly two years of roadblocks, frustrations, endless blank stares from physicians and surly comments from ER personnel, we are swiftly closing in on a diagnosis after the symptoms of liver failure have appeared.

And now, I truly thank God for tender mercies.

Ever since he started this roller coaster ride of ultrasounds, MRIs, multiple paracentesis lab visits, liver biopsy, ophthalmological exams and blood tests after blood tests, Kurt has been wrapped in the tender mercies of kind people. People who are gentle, people who are highly skilled, people who treat him as the wonderful kid he is. They remember him, they remember his name, they smile and they visit during procedures.

That makes these helpless parents feel helped.

Those tender mercies have been extended to us as well. And for that we are very thankful. I'm called by these good people telling me where to show up with him, which door to enter, where to leave the car, who to talk to...in short, I don't have to think about these things. They just happen. Grateful is an understatement. It allows me to spend my time with my kiddo talking about this stuff, but also allowing him to get as far away from this stuff as possible...we have time to talk about computers, programs, Pokemon, and silly everyday stuff that our shared sense of humor enjoys.

So, we pray for and give thanks for continued tender mercies. They remind us that we are indeed in God's loving hands. 

I Owe You an Apology, February...

As I was slipping along on our road yesterday in route to the highway, the thought occurred to me...I've been badly mistaken now for a number of years. Time to come clean and publicly make my confession.

I owe the month of February an apology.

For years, I have told anyone within ear-shot that my least favorite month of the year is February. It seems if anything goes wrong, awry, or just plain wonky, it's in February.

I'm wrong...it's January that is to blame. It's been sitting there, quietly and smugly, allowing its neighbor on the calendar to take the hit of my frustrations.

Yes, January, you are the culprit here. High with good spirits left over from the holidays, I tend to drift right along--at least through the first half of January--with my good will toward men, things, and everything else. And then, after one too many icy or snowy days, my mood of good will starts to crumble a bit. Constantly changing schedules due to weather, precautions left and right for fear of frozen pipes or drains (and so many in the house--where did these all come from?), dressing in layer after layer of clothing in order to fortify oneself for the dreaded outdoors--this is what life becomes in January. Even though each day gains us a bit more daylight, the days are rare that afford us the chance to actually be outside and enjoy it.

So, by February, I'm just pretty much tired of the whole "winter wonderland" deal. And then I start disliking February. The whole, short little month. I've bad-mouthed this little month for years.

Time for me to come clean and make my formal apology...so, February, I apologize. This year I will put blame where it goes--on this bitterly cold month of January.

Just one thing, February...I'll be on guard...you can be back on the bad list quickly if you dump that white stuff and ice on us a little too much.

Girly Shopping

My dad, when he wasn't feeling so well  in his later years, would tell my mom to go "girly shopping" in order to give herself some "her" time from taking vigilant care of him. That term then extended itself over time to when I would take her somewhere on occasion for the same reason. Dad would tell us to be sure and do some "girly shopping".  Now I notice my brother, from time to time, telling my mom the same thing. And, on the rare occasion that I look at a myriad of stores  for something specific to wear, I think to myself that I, too, am doing some "girly shopping".

 With that in mind, when you go "girly shopping" these days, ladies, do you find the selection a little...weird? I grew up with a lot of homemade clothes from a mom that was a pretty darned good seamstress. This meant I grew up looking at things like seam construction, straight-set darts, even hems, etc. Looking at "store bought" clothes today, it's pretty evident that craftsmanship in these areas has become secondary in clothing construction. And many of the materials? I've more than once heard my mom (as well as myself) use the term "rag bag" to describe the condition.  Add to this the actual designs of the clothing and a perfect storm is created. Many styles tend to look like maternity tops to this 50+ girly shopper--maternity tops with heavily plunging necklines. In other words...weird. Tailoring is a term that is sadly lost on present generations in this current massed-produced clothing market.

Now for a little 50+  year-old lamenting. Believe it or not youngsters, clothing used to fit nicely on people. Waistlines on pants were flattering, seams were straight, materials didn't fade with one washing, shoulder seams on shirts had central, well-fitting locations. Clothes didn't need to be constantly adjusted and re-adjusted while being worn--they just stayed put where they needed to be.  They were, for the most part, flattering to many sizes and shapes.

 We live in a society that seems to have tossed out any notion of quality. "Close enough" has become the norm. Even extravagantly-priced clothing doesn't insure that it is well made. "Designer" has become a generic term.

 When I get really desperate, I head back to the sewing machine and my old patterns. And, for awhile, I allow myself to get lost in carefully tailored seams, darts, tucks, and hemlines. The enjoyment of pressing in a dart to make it lay smoothly; the satisfaction of seeing a neatly done piece come to life on the dress form--and, granted, I'm far from a superior seamstress. But it's still fun. And my imagination can coax those seams to look a bit better.  I get re-fortified to once again brave the mess that is called "fashion".

 Mom is right...there's a big difference between "fashion" and "style". We girly shoppers know that. Yet my hope keeps hoping that someday it will all turn around and girly shopping will once again hold its traditional spot in my mom and my outings.  In the meantime, girly shopping has become more panning for gold. And, once in a great while, a little glimmer appears.

Have a fine day. 

An Open Letter to My Son and His Generation

Welcome to full-fledged adulthood. Just a heads up...some things have recently changed.

As students of some of the "best" education known to man, you are now finding yourselves as some of the most highly educated and unemployed groups in the United States in decades. Many of you are in deep debt, due to the need to get to this highly educated status. Ideally, this should have been the appropriate pathway to live lives that are, as generations of parents always hope, a better and more secure life than your parents have.

Then life got in the way.

The economy has tanked from the "job for everyone" times we once enjoyed while you were growing up. Fortunately, your generation has a wealth of online searching skills never before known to man. You are in no way hampered by a lack of communication tools. Your "backyard" has grown exponentially.

You're going to have to regroup for awhile. You'll probably need to put your dreams on hold for awhile. This will be tough, because you've been raised in an era when life was pretty darned easy. The lives you've led and continue to lead are pretty much unique to your generation: extensive travel; hopping on jets to travel coast to coast or beyond without a second thought; nice/reliable cars; neat toys; people doting on you pretty much non-stop. The people in your lives have always made sure that you were (and are) fed what you want to eat, and you sleep in comfortable beds in comfortable bedrooms in comfortable homes. This amazing lifestyle became the norm. That, in and of itself, can sometimes be a challenge. As Granny says, "It's easier to go up than down"; right now...you're pretty much all sliding a little down the economic ladder.

Time to toughen up a little; sorry, but we probably didn't spend enough time on that. Scaling back wasn't discussed--there was no need at the time. Good thing that many of your parents (and for sure your grandparents) remember how to do that from living that way before things got lots easier. Just ask--we can give you some good guidance.

Many of you will simply move home--probably not the best idea. You've been out on your own. So have your parents. Cramming back in together usually doesn't work. So, you'll need to find a little space that will keep you warm and secure. That's truly about all you need. Not what you want, but about all you need. Want can come later.

The good news is this--you can have a wonderful life. Not necessarily the one you've had mapped out for you the past 20+ years, but a wonderful life, nonetheless. You'll live more economically sound, and will learn how to live enjoyably without all the fluff.

It's nice to have nice and fun things; it's vital to have a soul that doesn't need these in order to live a full life. This time in your lives can be used to find your true spirits--and your true grit that will develop into a foundation of strength you can carry with you throughout your lives. You've been given a gift; a gift that shows what is most important. Find your center--refresh your soul. Then, with this new outlook, create a passion of what really matters in your life and then find an vocation that will support your avocation. I hope for you that the two will blissfully blend.

Welcome to the fold. A blessing upon each and every one of you.  

Happy Anniversary to My Sweetheart

Today is our 29th anniversary. Twenty-nine years is a pretty good length of time. Of course, it can't hold a candle to the 63 years my mom and dad had together, nor the 50+ years of my in-laws.

But still...a pretty good length of time.

Tom is at work, so when I got up this morning, I decided to pull my wedding dress out of the closet. No, I don't have it all sealed up--it's in a Rubbermaid box tucked in with my mom's dress and corsage from that day and the little box that held my engagement ring. I like to look at that wedding dress each anniversary when it comes to mind. I like the feel of the heavy satin; I like to look closely at the stitching and the impossible amount of lace and buttons on it. It was a dress made in a time when attention to detail was much more commonplace.

Then I decided to pull out our wedding photo album to take a picture and post the quintessential anniversary photo on Facebook to mark our day. I was a little surprised at just how rough the little book looks. It's not been through much trauma--the moves have been minimal and it, like most older wedding albums, has been tucked away from the elements. Nevertheless, it's kind of scarred up. All that "attention to detail" of the dress? That just didn't translate to the wedding pictures and albums of the 1980s...it wasn't quite there yet. It's amusing now to see, these many years later, after taking so many thousands of pictures myself, the "rough edges" of the photos. Shadows in the pictures, the background cross placed strategically out the back of my beloved's head, my misplaced bangs creating a space needing to be brushed, some very somber looks taken before the smiles came...a humbling group of photos. Nothing like the high-intensity, very stylish pics coming from weddings nowadays...nothing like that. Just pictures. But simple pictures of two people very much in like and in love with one another.

So, these lingering reminders of our special day on the calendar do tell a bit of the story of these 29 years. We're no longer those grinning kids in those photos with brunette locks, or locks at all--we're more like the album itself. We're a little rough around the edges, a little scarred, a little discolored. Like that album, we've protected those pristine, innocent, wonderful memories and hopes and dreams and made those 29 years pretty darned amazing. And, like that dress, the stitching is strong, the small details are still important, and the over-all beauty still lasts.

Happy anniversary, Tom...my sweetheart.

Dad's Fishing Pole

One of many traits I inherited from my dad was the love of fishing. Having a lake out my back door is a real boon; I love the idea of fishing for my supper. 

When I was little and we camped a lot on our vacations, we tended to look for camp spots that had fishing areas. Dad and I would fish while Mom cooked supper. I was still in the cane pole stage of fishing, and I loved to watch the big bobber he would attach to my line. He taught me how to be patient and not wiggle around while waiting for a bite. He taught me how to bait my own hook. He taught me how to take my own fish off the hook (except for catfish--they were to "finny"). He would always enjoy telling people we fished with at the campsites that I sang to the fish...I serenaded quite a few throughout the country.

The other day while I was at Mom's house and we were cleaning up the garage, she gave me one of Dad's fishing poles. It was welcomed, not only because it was his, but my current spinner's drag was really getting draggy and one of the handles on the crank was broken. It still worked...barely. One cast with the "new" spinner and I knew it would be great to use.

One afternoon, a couple of days later, I had a little time, so I decided to walk to the lake and fish for my supper. I wanted to try out the new pole and see how it worked. I grabbed my trusty fishing worm can, dug a few worms from the edge of the woods, and walked down to get the pole. I noticed it didn't have a bobber, so I added a small one. I cast out and immediately realized I had too much sinker for the bobber. When I brought it in, I noticed that it was a sinker that Dad had made. When I removed it, I put it in my pocket. Didn't want it to get lost in the tackle box. It brought back memories of watching him pour lead for sinkers of all sizes. I then noticed that the hook was rusty and would need changing. It gave me pause to remove it since he tied it on there. Those were his knots. I could see in my mind's eye him tying that hook on with the finesse of years of experience. I felt like I was removing all his presence as I kept changing out the parts of the fishing line...it wasn't a good feeling.  However, as I cast out that silky smooth line, I felt him with me. And, about 10 seconds later when that first fish struck the hook and bobber disappeared, I knew he was with me for sure.

Thanks for the fishing pole, Dad...and thanks for teaching me to fish. I know you're with me with each cast. 

The Circle of Life...Avert Your Eyes!

I was doing some pruning in one of the gardens today when there came an uprising of a couple of sparrows...they were chirping at the top of their lungs, hopping from plant to bush to tree. I stopped the pruning, slowly walked over to near the commotion, only to see one of our many cats with a mouth full of little bird. Ah, yes...that would cause a little commotion amongst the sparrows. Our old cat, Q-tip, had found one of the fledglings that had emerged from the nest hidden in the bush. This commotion, of course, brought in two more of the cats to investigate the situation and quell some of that built-in feline curiosity. The birds grew even more restless which resulted in even more chirping and bouncing about the landscaping. It became nearly impossible to me to continue with my pruning. Once again I walked around in the area where all the excitement was taking place only to find yet another little bird nearby on the ground. I attempted to scoot it under a shrub out of sight to the cats, but it bounded away as soon as I put my hand near it.

The excitement continued on and on. Q-tip set up camp with the countenance  of a Sphinx; her first hors d'oeuvre was a delight, apparently, and she was just biding her time for an encore of her gastronomic discovery. 

I felt sorry for the sparrows, but, then again, I know full well that all this food chain business is the circle of life. I could have jumped into the middle of the situation, fought for the birds' honor (and hides), and shamed the cats.

Nah...I took the Sgt. Shultz route (from Hogan's Heroes days for you younger readers). I saw nothing...I heard nothing...

Ignorance can be quite blissful indeed.

Have a fine day.

My Moral Disgust with Fast Food

{Maybe I'm just in an irascible mood like most everyone else right now, waiting impatiently for spring to, well, spring. I think it is more than that, however; after traveling through Appalachia recently and seeing how towns are being ravaged by fast food restaurants at the expense of good food restaurants, I found myself pretty generally disgusted.}  


I'm all for free enterprise as long as it doesn't destroy another's way of life. I've heard many of the arguments as well as the "oh, come on!" reactions to Mayor Bloomberg's push to ban massively-sized sugared drinks. This is a free country, right? We should be able to make our own choices, right?

Maybe.

Being a Libertarian, I tread around the word "maybe" with a great deal of caution. I truly believe in each person's right to live and let live until it infringes on one's neighbor's rights. That's where the "maybe" comes in to my thoughts.  

Tom and I went on a little trip to the East Coast and, during our travels, ended up in several little towns between here and there. The one recurrent thing in most every town was the lack of a good restaurant. Lots of fast food ala burger joint or convenience store, but very few places to get a plate lunch or supper with vegetables. And fruit? Not unless it was in a slushy or a wrapper. We figured this might happen, so we packed accordingly and had a supply of healthy foods with us. 

But what about the folks that live there? What about the folks that are met with so few choices every day?

I know...they can go to the grocery and cook at home. But really...how many actually do that anymore?

We all complain about the Walmarts and how they have destroyed Main Street and the town square. I agree. But what about all the fast food restaurants that have destroyed all the family-owned restaurants? They are to be mourned as well.

I have a moral disgust with fast food chains. Report after report has been published speaking of the addiction that these foods purposely bring to their patrons--the salt, sugar, and unhealthy fats--and they continue to  shamelessly keep building store after store with no regard to the local businesses they're destroying and the health issues they're causing in all age groups in the population, most dreadfully,the youngest. Now they offer all the $1 "deals", so a family (especially those on fixed incomes) can eat a "meal" for around $3 apiece...sounds like a real deal until you factor in that this will probably be a large soft drink or sweet tea with around 86 grams of sugar, a burger full of filler, a bun that more resembles the carb content of cake, and french fries that...well...they're hardly worth wasting words.

Yep, I'm pretty steamed about them. 

Fast food is wrecking our health as well as our economy. People eat these excess calories with little nutritional value and, in turn, over time develop obesity, diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure. Health costs skyrocket as more and more of the population must depend on a steady supply of medications to treat these diseases. And more and more fast food places are built in every little, middle-sized, and large town/city...along the interstates...on university campuses. Everywhere.

The pursuit of free enterprise is one thing, but the pursuit with all disregard for one's fellow man (and woman and child) is just too much.

Paying the Price

Yesterday's horrific tragedy in Connecticut has once again outraged our country's population. Facebook is teeming with prayers for the lost, opinions about the situation itself, and praise for those who put their lives on the line for the students and adults that survived. These are all natural reactions from people who truly care about others. We're numb with frustration and confusion...

but what do we do to change?

We don't like change in general--we like our comfort zones. Unfortunately, our current "comfort zones" are not working for more and more people. We have "politically corrected" ourselves into a total state of helplessness...followed by the creeping in of hopelessness.

If we don't change this path, we're only going to see more devastation.

Our country is broken--we're going to have to work together to fix it. And, since our public leaders have abandoned the idea of working together in favor of personal greed, personal ego, and a host of other deadly sins, it's going to be up to us as individuals and as small communities and neighborhoods to get back to our basic beliefs and make the change we wish to see in the world or our own back yards.

And we can do this. It takes guts and determination, but we can do it.

We need to remember that we're not always going to be comfortable; we're not always going to be treated with kid gloves by others; we're not always going to get our way in life...sound familiar? This is exactly what my mom and dad told me growing up. Yours probably did, too. If they didn't, then heed the message--that's life. It's not a bad thing...it's just life. Get over it.

We've painted ourselves into a proverbial corner.  We've become hypersensitive to every little remark or action even if it's perfectly and rationally justified; as a result, we've turned into an "anything goes" society. We've given common sense the old heave ho...

We've lost site of our basic rule book--to us Christians, it is the Bible. In our 21st century world, we don't always like the absolute honesty of it, either. It doesn't fit our lifestyles very well--it doesn't fit in with our comfort zones. So we skimp in the reading, we avoid the obvious messages, we attempt our own interpretations, we soften the edges...and we suffer for it. The Bible was not written on our terms...it was written on God's.

How on earth do we bring back together such a fractured country where we currently reside? First, we need to pick up a mirror. What is that person staring back at us going to do?

Maybe start with that Golden Rule and truly do unto others as we would have done unto us. Don't like being cut off in traffic? Don't cut others off in traffic. Don't like to be talked down to? Don't talk down to others. Et cetera, Et cetera. Hour by hour, day by day. Creating a less hateful atmosphere where we truly look out for one another based on how we want to be looked out for might be a good start.

Just think...if we all start practicing this today, by Christmas Day there could actually be a bit of Peace on Earth in our corners of the world.

What a lovely birthday gift to our Savior.

Truly Be the Change You Wish To See

Gandhi once stated that we should be the change we wish to see in the world. Many of us know that quote well--it's on t-shirts, bumper stickers, pins, you name it. It's a nice sentiment.

How about we make it real?

On this day after election day, the hand-wringing, the belly-aching, and the angry words have begun in earnest. Everyday folks become psychics and seerers; sometimes I wonder if they themselves will be hugely let down if their dire "predictions" don't come true. 

I don't know about you, but I personally can't make the gas prices go up or down, I can't keep the Christmas commercials not be on way too early in the season, I can't change how people half a world away have viewed our country for the past century+. I can, however, be the change I wish to see in my immediate world. 

I can be kind; I can be helpful; I can be spiritual; I can be forgiving; I can help my brother and sister in need.

I'm a big believer in people; I still believe they are wondrous creations of a loving God. I will forever believe that once we remove our own egos from our daily lives and faithfully serve, we can see change in the world for the better.

We have energy to use each day--we can expend it for good or we can waste it on negativity. 

My challenge today to all of you reading this--be the change you wish to see in the world. Set your sights on a kinder, healthier world--then do your part to make it happen.

Peace.

A New Road to Travel

Mercifully, this morning's weather makes it a pleasure to sit on the deck, sip a cup of coffee, and take it all in...even with a light sweatshirt on. Quite the drastic change from morning after morning this summer when it was easily 80 by 8 and 90 by 9. I sure welcome the change.

Change is a big part of my thinking today. As I scroll through the morning's news on the "virtual back fence" of Facebook, I see picture after picture and post after post about the BIG day today--the first day of school in our district. And a big day it is--for students, for teachers, for parents, for lots of folks that all work together to make school a good place to be. Lots of anticipation is stuffed into that first day--a gentle morning is a quiet blessing in disguise for all of them.

The whole idea of change comes to me as I sit here writing...for the first time in 27 years, I've not been involved in some aspect of formal education. No elementary school, no middle school, no high school, no junior college, no university, no consultant roles. THAT's a change. All those years of getting geared back up for another school year were unique and wonderful and a blessing in many ways, shapes, and forms. But now there's a new road to travel...

Starting down this new road, I'm finding my way of looking at the world around me has be allowed to shift somewhat. It's come at a good time in life--one's 50's just more or less gives one more freedom to expand with a lot less apprehension. It's a good place to be on life's journey, time-wise, if a new road pops up to be discovered and traveled. 

I pray each morning that on this new road I'll be of good help to those around me; not so different from the prayers of the last 27 years, come to think of it. I guess once the compass is set in life, it varies little.

If you find yourself reading this and feel that little tug to take a peek or set a foot on a new road to travel, I hope you won't deny yourself the chance. We head down many roads throughout this phase of the journey---don't let fear or doubt keep you from trying it out. After all, you were once that little person in that picture in on your first day of school...and it all turned out okay. Just remember to check the compass and remember that roads in life's travels come with good guides; we just have to keep our minds and eyes and souls open to find them.

As I start down this road of complementary health care, I find my own feelings reflected in the eyes of those little people in the pictures on Facebook...a little anticipation and a lot of happy curiosity. New roads will do that for a traveler--it's an ageless experience.  

Have a fine day.

Gifts from the Garden

It's been a long, hot summer already. With the lack of rain, the yards have become somewhat crunchy, the evergreens are turning ever brown, and our once beautiful hydrangea bush is now full of droopy leaves and browned flowers. 


As beautiful as the spring garden was, the hopes and ideas I had for the garden this spring have pretty much become dust. Instead of rows of leeks and summer vegetables of all kinds, there are several rows of just prepared dirt. 


It's just too hot and dry to try to plant things...


or is it?


Garden plants never cease to amaze me. Once I pulled the bolted lettuce and picked the end of the spinach to put into the freezer, I decided to take the gamble and plant a cucumber hill and a zucchini hill. By that time, rain was sparse at best. As you know, it's not been much better.


But I have beautiful cucumber and zucchini vines...miracles in the making.


Today, I gave a little sweat equity and hoed out the crab grass and the starts of the morning glory vines. In return, I received some beautiful gifts from the garden. And tonight, I enjoyed a lovely supper from those gifts. Even in the worst of conditions, I was still able to pick tomatoes, zucchini, onion, and bell pepper. It looked beautiful and smelled wonderful cooking away for supper along with some fresh parsley, oregano, basil, rosemary, chives, and garlic chives--more gifts from a small garden spot. 


The peace and satisfaction that comes from growing food is a feeling that defies words. To see something mature from simple seeds to beautiful, thriving plants is worth every blister and sore muscle it requires. To work with soil and watch it recreate life is nothing short of a spiritual experience. 


The weather will eventually break, the rains will come, and the yard will once again spring to life. The evergreens may not make it and the hydrangeas may need to be replaced. That's just part of the life of a gardener.


Nevertheless, the gifts from the garden will always make these things less discouraging.


Have a fine day.

Good Things Come in Small Packages

I was helping out some elderly former neighbors with their yard which, due to health issues, has now become overwhelming to them. I was glad to do it; I had spent plenty of time in that yard over several years as a kid, and figured it was the least I could do for them...and the yard.


The first thing I noticed was that everything seemed smaller than I remembered. Wonder why that is? I've heard lots of people make that comment upon returning to a childhood haunt. What is it about adulthood that shrinks our reality? Or rather what is it about our childhood that enlarges our memories? As I stood on the porch for a bit trimming a bush, I remembered how several of us managed to squeeze ourselves into the porch swing hanging there. Now, looking at it, my first thought was how small the chain looked...guess that's a built-in preventive measure to keep our bones in tact as we age. 


Reality can be a bit of a kill-joy.


Later, as I was hauling some trimmings down to the bottom of the yard to put in the brush pile, I looked over at a side of the yard and immediately recalled one afternoon, many years ago, when we had a sled-perfect big snow. That little, narrow patch of hill kept the neighborhood and my brothers, returning home for the fun, happy for hours. We used sleds, an old car hood, water skis with the lower fins removed, metal disks...if it would slide that day, we tried it. That hill looks as though it could never have held that much fun--but it did.


I was given a gift today--a trip back into the time of being a kid with not a care in the world. Later, driving back home, I decided for sure that good things do come a small packages.


Have a fine day.

Silly Complications

I noticed it had been awhile since some official meandering had been done here at Highbanks...once the cold weather takes over and the writing chair goes from chair on the deck to chair in the living room, I guess the inspiration shuffles a bit. However, from the chair in the living room last night, I viewed something that, unless I had been told what it was repeatedly, would never have recognized it. 


It was, I understand, the Miss America pageant. 


What I viewed was kind of like a bad mix of a reality show/pageant/trashing of tradition--all at hyper-speed. Yikes!


I hadn't watched one of these for a number of years; now I'm wondering how it got to this train wreck status. 


Hopping into the way-back machine, I can remember as a kid watching this show as an event. I know, our choices back then were limited, but this was kind of a big deal, especially to us little girls who would line up their Barbie dolls to view the event along with us. What I remember were beautiful ladies with lots of hair, walking very straight, speaking politely, and doing everything with more grace than could be believed.


What I saw last night was excessive fast talking, lots of twisting and exaggerated walking, that ever-present "hand on the hip/back arch to make me look fashionable", and talent presentations on a floor space that was squeezed as tightly as the bikinis on the now undernourished women competing. Only once did I hear my beloved say, "She's actually shaped like a real woman." I'd have to agree.


Back in my living room of long ago, I would always get a piece of paper and I would rank my top five. Mom and Dad would play along, being the good sports that they were. Sometimes, my top five would be obliterated in the top 10, so my kind parents gave me a do-over for my top five from the new top 10. 


Last night I was confused and mortified in the way that all the women were marched out to await their turn only to be singled out for elimination and then being asked that long-standing, idiotic perennial question by one of the "hosts"..."How does it feel?" I would have to guess pretty rotten... And, the "people's choice" young lady picked from the start? Do we have to participate in everything that's produced for TV anymore? Can we not just sit back and let them put on the show without our direct involvement? Yikes again!


The real kicker for last night was, however, the "let's choose our best playground buddy" in what was called the "save"...the poor women had already been eliminated, so then three were called back and their peers voted them back on this merciless merry-go-round not by a dignified secret ballot, but by running to them like kids on a playground when choosing up sides for a game of tag. The poor woman in the middle last night was doubly humiliated by just a smattering of supporters. That goes beyond a yikes, right into a WOW.


So by the end of the evening with all the speed talking, the speed walking, the speed performing, and the speed question answering, we did end up with a new Miss America...and I think many of us ended up with a dizzy spell.


Sorry...but I'm going full-out old school on this one. Let's face it and not hide the fact...this is a beauty pageant...and it's okay! Not everyone will qualify--also okay. There are plenty of things for the rest of us to do. And, since it truly was originally meant to be a beauty pageant, let's get back to treating it as such and allow us to just sit back and watch a couple of hours of talent, poise, grace, and some good, old-fashioned pretty. 


I have to give the young ladies in last night's fiasco some real credit. They pretty much achieved the impossible. Even with the lousy direction of people who thought they were being clever, these young women were able to do what they needed to do and represent themselves as beauty queens from their home states...good on them. 


Maybe there's hope yet, Bert...