I woke up thinkin' ...

Dear Maple Trees

2010-09-28T11:11:00.000-04:00

Dear maple trees,
Why the rush to shed your respectable verdant hues of summer, into the flaming, flamboyant attire of autumn? Far too soon we'll be hiding our eyes from your stripped skeletons of winter.

Yours in seasonal modesty,

Cathy

Across the saffron sky

2010-09-14T21:46:00.002-04:00

Maybe a peacock exploded in the sky tonight, scattering his jewel-tipped feathers
Across the saffron horizon, where the sun bounced slowly into night

Dead Garden Walk 2010--You Are Invited!

2010-08-19T22:34:00.001-04:00

Welcome, master gardeners and amateurs alike. Gardening on Hearthstone Drive this year had been a challenge!
When it wasn't 95 and sunny, it was 90 and storming. Despite our best efforts to cultivate only hardy plant life, some specimens proved to be too delicate for the "every plant for themselves" philosophy of this Garden Walk.
Step lively with me as we begin this year's Dead Garden Walk:

First, the gerbena daisy hanging death basket. When healthy, this plant from the dandelion family can survive almost anything. In my capable hands, it quit blooming cheery yellow and orange blossoms a month ago, and has been dying a slow, leaf-by-leaf death ever since. Next stop for this puppy: trash bin.

In a decorative watering can hand-painted by my sister, a wan, fading spike plant oversees the death of a pink petunia. Friends, it takes a special amount of neglect to kill a petunia, and I have accomplished it with several specimens this summer. I may be breeding mosquitoes in the bottom of that watering can, though.

These relatively vibrant pink petunias reside under the crab-apple tree, an infamous part of our yard. The crab-apple has a stunning, show-stopping moment of pink-hued beauty when it blooms in May. It then begins a summer's-long fade, so that by August, it look like Tree of the Apocalypse. I think the reason these petunias have done so well under it is the healthy amount of sunshine they receive through the sparse crab-apple branches.

What can I saw? These petunias lived--oh, they tried to live, so valiantly!--on the front porch. A combination of roof (keeping the rain off them) and sun (dead-on every afternoon) and benign neglect (what excuse can I give?) brought about their banishment from the porch to the side garden, where they can continue to die in peace.

But enough of death! (For a moment.) Here's my accidentally organic tomatoes! Organic, because they were grown sans chemicals or even fertilizer. Accidentally, because I just forgot to take care of them! Wah-la! But, they live!

Meet The Stupidest Oak Trees Every. They are spindly, pathetic-looking, and ... they live in a POT. A give-away from work, NO ONE -- us, nor neighbors, nor family -- seems to want to plant a pathetic oak tree in their yard. But perhaps I am looking at these specimens incorrectly. Perhaps I should call them ... The Most Unique Oak Trees Ever. Because who else do you know who GROWS OAK TREES IN A POT!? And, again ... they are alive!

If only you could have seen these potted petunias, which live (optimistically speaking) on the patio table in the backyard, a month ago. Their cheerful white-and-pink countenance would have cheered you. Alas, they, too, have taken a downward spiral.

Despite my forgetting to water this palm time and and time again, I have failed to kill it, which is GREAT, because Angela gave it to me, and I would have major maternal guilt if it perished. YEA ME. THANK YOU for not dying, Potted Palm!

These particularly pathetic and neglected pots were not chosen to grace the landscape (?) this year, but chose to participate anyway, from top to bottom, we have: Weeds; More Weeds; and Wild Clover with a Volunteer Petunia. Who says I don't have a green thumb!

Great news, gardeners: We'll be wrapping up this tour high note. First, on the north side of the home, the Hosta Garden, or Those Things Which Cannot Be Killed Even By Cathy. I think it helps that 1) sun is sparse on this side of the house 2) the sump pump empties on this side, so they get watered and 3) the bird feeder is right above them so they get crapped on all day by the birds, aka, ORGANIC FERTILIZER. AGAIN with the organics! Is this a 'green' garden or what!?

And last, and certainly, not least (the Least Award going to that dead petunia in the sideyard):

The ever-blooming ground roses. All I do is cut 'em back after blooming and they keep going and going. These are the roses I watch at night. There's a moment when the evening is almost done and twilight is over when the color of the blooms changes from red to black. It's time to go in, then. This bush, healthy and growing despite owner apathy, get the PERSEVERANCE AWARD.

The NOT YET DEAD/NEWCOMER AWARD goes to this astor, which took the place of Dead Petunia on the front porch. Please contact your bookie for the odds on how long it will take me to kill it.

Winner of the OPTIMISM AWARD goes to this pot, given to me by my friend Dave (who moved). It's yawing maw of possibility is just waiting for something beautiful -- some fall mums, perhaps? -- for me, or for Mother Nature to kill.
That wraps up our 2010 Dead Garden Walk, gardeners! Thanks for joining us. If any of you need tips on how to coax your garden to the vibrant death that mine enjoys, don't hesitate to contact me! And follow me on Twitter: @2010DeadGardenWalk.

Suddenly

2010-08-12T21:33:00.002-04:00

I'm no vampire: I love the sunny days.

But the twilights, this summer, have been something:
The sudden stillness of the air, the breeze disappearing as if someone switched off a fan;
The deep quiet underneath the locusts' screaming;
The puddle of amber and orange behind the neighbors' houses;
The first brave star that's really Venus, shining in an deepening aquamarine sky.
And often: only me, sometimes us, to watch it happen, then fade.

Throughout the new-night sky

2010-07-15T22:47:00.002-04:00

Perhaps I saw Monet fly high across the summerland tonight
Smudging the sliver moon with purple
Leaving a dim smear of light behind.
He blurred the clouds to a mosaic of sunset colors
And threw the stars, carelessly
Throughout the new-night sky.

'Round Salomon Farm

2010-07-13T20:23:00.001-04:00

Walking the trail 'round Salomon Farm / The low-slung sun still heavy with day's heat / Down a shallow swale, the curve leads me past a windrow / And evening surprises me from the shadows.

Cathy's 5-Minute Facebook

2010-07-12T14:40:00.002-04:00

I kept hearing people comment that they don't want to do Facebook because "it takes up too much time."

My observation is, IF you can stay away from the games, keeping up with Facebook can be done if five, yes FIVE, minutes a day.

A friend requested I tell her how, exactly, and this is what I sent her:

1) Go to Facebook, then to "Home" in upper right.

2) On the left navigation, click "Friends"

3) Click "Status Updates"

Now you will JUST and ONLY what your friends are doing, via status updates! Scroll down as long as you want--it just takes me a minute or so. If I want to comment or "like" it's fast and easy.

Next, at the top next to the "Facebook" logo, just hover and click your cursor on the notification icons; they may have red numbers that tell you how many new friend requests, messages, and updates you've had. You'll see lists of 1) any friends requests you have (and you can confirm then right here); 2) any direct message you have, just click on one to read; and 3) Notifications to glance over.

IF you have more times, you can click on the "news feed" items and you'll see stuff like pictures posted, etc. Which are kind of fun if you have time.

When I use this method I can take 5 minutes and see most of the important stuff. If I have more time, I'll look at the news feed and at pictures.

I used to play a couple games but they sucked time and I quit. But there were fun :)

And if you are new to Facebook, be sure to edit your privacy settings (upper right corner, under "Account").

July's Revenge

2010-07-07T19:58:00.001-04:00

Only air conditioners roar this hot evening / Grass too stressed to grow / Surely a night to curl up with a good book / And a cold margarita / A in January in July.

The Whole Horizon

2010-06-30T22:21:00.002-04:00

Tonight, I watched the pink ring, all around
The way the ring deepened to navy below
Night sneaking up on us
The way the pink faded to turquoise above
Daytime slow to give up
The scant clouds relent, darkening
The tired sun flares and sinks, stealing the color
The ring rolls away.

Uneasy sky

2010-06-24T10:57:00.001-04:00

This morning, uneasy gray sky,

Last night's rain in puddles,

Littered with debris;

Suddenly the sun winks,

A slim blue rent

In the clouds

Can the storm finally end?

Yea! Go me! Get those Beibers!

2010-06-02T22:23:00.001-04:00

Created by Oatmeal

Didn't get the memo

2010-05-17T21:55:00.001-04:00

People less stressed?

I don't think the point

Is that there is less stress

In the AARP crowd.

But rather the stress

Bothers us less

Because we know

That stress, indeed, passes;

And that any life messes

Eventually get cleaned up.

Why worry?

The homely here of Indiana

2010-05-12T22:54:00.000-04:00

The homely here of Indiana,

Beaten, drowned, buffeted,

Labeled by some as country

Best seen from above--

You know, as the crow flies.

And on days like these

Even from above, you'd see

Only clouds, and more clouds.

And yet--

Some blustery front will blow

Those clouds away, soon,

Then look out the windows, frequent fliers:

Ah, the lovely green checkerboards

Fringed by full wind-rows

Laid on the grid of county road

And interstate.

And down below, the beauty's

In the details, so look close:

The pear, the dogwood, the lilac

The tulip, iris, peony,

Green on loan from

Some Irish aerie, maybe:

The Midwest flatness a sudden canvas,

Cubism and Impressionism thrown together,

Unexpected art in a plain Hoosier gallery.

She's just not good enough for you

2010-05-10T22:59:00.000-04:00

Who would make people happy?

Not even this announcement:

"Today, President Obama nominated

"Christ for the Supreme Court,

"Stating that the Savior's hands-on experience

"In judgmental situations

"Makes Him particularly well-suited

"To the nation's highest court."

Give it half an hour,

Let the talking heads loose:

"Christ for the court?

What kind of judge

Will He make?

He forgave everyone!

An elitist radical socialist!

A left activist!

An anti-military loon!"

O friends! Judge not,

That ye might be judged

By the right of heart.

Imma B Immigrated

2010-05-08T09:00:00.002-04:00

If she raises her hand in greeting

To the poor, the tired, the multi-hued

In New York harbor--

In Arizona she whacks them

On the head.

"We won't judge you by your skin--

We'll just stop you, and card you,"

And perhaps, deport you.

Give up the mothers, the fathers,

Your yard man, your pool guy,

Your hotel maid, your nanny.

By bus, train, boat, or boot,

Just show them the door

Don't let it hit them on the way out.

And don't miss them when they're gone.

Throwing numbers at the wall

2010-05-07T09:00:00.002-04:00

Take these numbers;
Hold them in your hands
Shake them up like Yahtzee dice,
Throw them at the wall;
See if they stick. Or bounce.
(Like a bad check.)
Digits fly by everywhere--
Miles on the odometer,
Minutes on the clock,
Line score at Wrigley Field.
Don't blink; you might miss
The roller coaster ride on
Wall Street. If some say
It's veering around Greece,
Others blame it on the rain.
Oh wait; I mean, bad typing.
Hey, Austin Powers? Was that million
...Or billion? Neither applies
To my 401(K)--not anymore.
They're all only numbers,
Thrown onto screen or spreadsheet,
Overhyped on CNBC and Bloomberg.
Honestly, more like a merry-go-round,
Without the merry.

A Black River Runs Through It. Again

2010-05-06T10:00:00.000-04:00

Maybe you've seen the headwaters of this black river,

It's there in Prince Williams Sound,

Where dark puddles linger, decades later--

Here's where it began, with

Death and death and mess.

Floating booms can't restrain stupidity

and bad planning--

Nor can fire burn away carelessness.

If the bitch, Katrina, wreaked anarchy,

Howling for attention,

Then here is a quiet, black anointing, insidious,

Slinking into the Gulf waters,

Threading through the delicate lace

Of estuary and delta,

Like a Dementor ready to

Suck the life from us. Again.

Laughing at Letterman

2010-05-05T22:28:00.001-04:00

David, you old Hoosier:
Every night you
Open your chest
And let us laugh at your heart.
What goes on in the green room
Doesn't stay there.
Behind even open hearts
Are closed doors. If winsome disclosure
Brings forgiveness,
Memory brings caution.
Our laughter, fed by empathy
(Indeed, we all screw up)
May turn quickly--
As quickly clicked
As a button on a remote.

May 4: I was going to write, but Neil Young did it better

2010-05-05T08:00:00.001-04:00

Four dead in Ohio>>

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We're finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We're finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio. (Neil Young)

Pictures>>
Kent May 4 Center>>
Fire in the Heartland>>

Dooming history, one tweet at a time

2010-05-04T13:39:00.000-04:00

Obama wrestles with growing stack of crises

While Michelle kickboxes with dandelions;

George Bush proclaimed while New Orleans drowned,

And Iraq collapsed upon itself.

Tweets today may be yesterday’s tomes,

Yet, books or pixels, it’s only time’s perspective

That gives fair judgment. I’ll wait,

And see how tomorrow’s news arrives.

Nashville -- no stranger to the rain

2010-05-04T09:00:00.000-04:00

After all the songs about rain,

The rainy night, the rain on the roof,

The rain in your blue eyes--

Hey Nashville, remember

What Waylon said -- Storms never last;

Yet from Ft. Wayne experience,

The mud lingers for weeks.

Note to BP: Your oily avoidance roils my sense of responsibility

2010-05-03T12:10:00.002-04:00

If, by chance, oil should spew from Earth's dark mantle

Without the intervention of God, or Jed Clampett--

Then, indeed, British Petroleum, sans Transocean, or not;

With your oily avoidance, or not;

This ecologic nightmare IS "your accident."

Yours in responsible drilling, C.

That I should take a day off and go to Vera Bradley sale

2010-04-29T22:55:00.000-04:00

So, I am. And the fun started tonight:

It was busy busy busy at the Jefferson Pointe Vera Bradley store. What makes women like VB so much? No clue.

Just a short thing I wrote in my head

2010-01-14T20:51:00.002-05:00

On the way to work the other day:

These frigid days / strung like icicles / across the calendar / perhaps the reluctant sun / will drip them away.

It's been so long, and now this news

2010-01-08T22:54:00.001-05:00

The party is so over

2009-11-10T22:19:00.000-05:00

Good news: I had a birthday!

Good news: I was taken to lunch!

Good news: I was taken to dinner!

Good news: I was sent flowers!

Good news: I ordered a Kindle!

Good news: I had ice cream!

Good news: It was a wonderful day!

Inevitable news: My flowers are drooping.

Bad news: Gah. Now I'm even older.

Aggregator

2009-11-04T23:36:00.002-05:00

I'm still messing with it, but I've registered www.cathyblogs.com as the place to bring all the blogs I somehow feel obligated to write.

With lines in my head

2009-10-19T19:28:00.002-04:00

Mornings

Surely I'm awake

Monday's just a state of mind

--A slap in the face.

Morning moon, don't blink--

That bloody, bruised sunrise brings

Dark violence from the west.

Last night's bright stars

Fell to my yard

First frost.

On Fall

That field of winter wheat

Newly green in January

Fall finds fallow.

Trees drop leaves like tears

A quiet sob of regret

First day of fall .

Drove to work this morning

In a seashell turned upside-down

A sky turned blue and opal pink

Yet not a sea in sight.

Windy this morning

And the moon clung to Venus

As if she could be blown away.

Just a Walk

Voices from a dark deck

Fountains splash in stormwater ponds

The heron doesn't care.

Halogen streetlight outlasts the orange sunset

Someone's dryer freshens the air

Evening in the suburbs.

With John Mayer in my head

2009-10-19T19:07:00.001-04:00

O September

2009-08-31T14:51:00.000-04:00

O go away, September.
I'm tired of you already;
Tired of your last-holiday-of-summer,
The finality of Labor Day;
Tired of your first-day-of-Autumn
September Twenty-second-ness;
Tired of the back-to-school sales flyers
And the ads for sweaters and backpacks.
I'm tired of the cool fall nights
And the "good sleeping weather" rejoinders.
Tired of football, even, bright lights
And jarring tackles and rah-rah Friday nights.
I'm tired of "The leaves are starting to change!"
Observations, and any references to woolly bears
And their predictions.
Tired, too, of all the "last-of" things,
Last Trip to the Lake,
Last picnic, last swim, last boat ride.
Already I'm tired of thinking about
And all the winteriness ahead,
All the dead leaves and brown grass
And ice.
I'm tired of missing sunny days and warm nights
And fresh tomatos on the vine.
Most of all of I'm tired of dreading
The Official Last Day of Summer,
Even as the mornings shine in my window later
And the evening enroaches earlier.
O come back, Summer!
Don't let September chase you away,
Don't leave me, don't go, please please please
Come back, O Summer! Don't -- go -- just -- yet --
Gone.

About, Time and Grace--Beck's note to Grace (fragment 5)

2009-08-24T22:06:00.002-04:00

Darling--
I think I left my cell
In the pocket of my jeans
On the chair by the door.
Could you grab it?
Put on the kitchen table,
I'll get it later.
Or put it in your purse
And I'll get it
When we meet.
Answer all my calls, or not--
But remember if you call me
You'll have to answer, too.
Really, just turn it off.
And you know,
Even without the phone,
All day, I'll be thinking of you.

About getting on the road

2009-07-30T00:00:00.001-04:00

A road trip--give me a Diet Coke and a stack of books and I can ride forever.

So I've got some new vampire books to try and plenty of Diet in the cooler.

And passing through Chicago on Lake Shore Drive -- exhilarating:

The city draws us in with a deep breath / We tumble through it, awed / Made small, used up, exhaled

I was going to write something lyrical and breathtaking

2009-07-23T22:29:00.000-04:00

But instead I'm making you watch this.

About the end of the day

2009-07-14T21:55:00.000-04:00

I love it when the day winds down. And I can watch it.
There's a satisfaction in being busy, in filling every moment of the day with work or activity, or whatever. Falling into bed and knowing that you couldn't have packed one more thing in.
But there's something about enjoying the remains of the day. Of just stopping, and watching what's left slip by. Letting things that maybe should be done, just wait. Just for tonight.
I've been out here, on the porch, since six or so--still full light then, and the neighborhood full too of busy-ness. Everybody coming home. Doors. Walks being taken, kids on bikes. Traffic in the distance. A dogs bark.

Me, first with the newspaper, then my book. In and out to fix dinner; a glass of pinot; then just some pink lemonade.
By myself 'til Greg gets home from baseball practice; he stays inside to watch the All Star game.
The book finished, I bring my computer outside. Summer and technology don't mix: A bug crawls in the keyboard. And doesn't come out. Even now, I'm wondering, Where is it? And what's it doing to my laptop?
I get my email. I spent too much time on Facebook accepting people's Mafia Wars requests and sending Farm Town gifts.
I talk to Angela, then Matt, on the phone, planning tomorrow--Harry Potter.
Then I Twitter. God forgive me.
But I'm not so plugged in I miss the day winding down. The light fades. There's a point when twilight comes--it was just a few minutes ago--when it's almost like a switch flips. I saw the darkness come. My screen glowed more brightly. Weird mix, isn't it?
A robin sat in the pine tree in the middle of the yard, and sang so beautifully.
I lamented that after a day spent inside, in a cubicle, the sun disappeared behind a flat, grey cloud--although just now, I could see a slash of red behind our neighbor's house. Lingering sunset.
I hear someone walking by. Shoes scuffing the cement. A man's voice. A child's whisper.
Surely I look ghostly, here on the porch, typing in the near-dark.
There's no breeze tonight, and kind of cool for July. And maybe the clouds mean rain on the way.
The fireflies have awoken. Are they drawn to my light?
Neighborhood's mostly dark now. I should go in--it's almost 10. But no mosquitoes have tried me yet, a rarity at this time of year. And I'm loathe to give up on this day--no matter, in a couple of hours, the day will have given up on me.
Firecrackers in the distance. Then it's so still.
Day fades.

About the creepy books I've read lately

2009-07-06T11:59:00.000-04:00

I've got quite a list to write about, but I really had to mention this.
I just finished read The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones; City of Ashes; City of Glass series, which is a YA fantasy-type series with a Stephenie Meyers-recommended blurb on the cover. And it was fun, and I enjoyed them. BUT I could have done without the creepy "let's fall in love...oh wait you could be my brother" element in them. Really, with all the convolutions, why have THAT be the reason to keep the protagonists apart? Surely Cassandra Clare could have come up with something a little less icky.

I just started Turning Angel: A Novel by Greg Iles, a John Grisham-type writer, a nice, long paperback with a good recommendation from the NYT. And what do I find is its basis? A creepy love affair between a 40-year-old doctor and a high-school girl. Again...ick.

I won't blame this tendency on reading Twilight too much....

About, Time and Grace--Prelude (A fragment, 4)

2009-06-12T23:30:00.000-04:00

Indiana

I'm glad i never lived next to the water
So I could never get used to the beach
And I'm glad I never grew up on a mountain
To figure out how high the world could reach
I love the miles between me and the city
Where I quietly imagine every street
And I'm glad I'm only picturing the moment
I'm glad she never fell in love with me

For some the world's a treasure to discover
And your scenery should never stay the same
And they're trading in their dreams for Explanations
All in an attempt to entertain
But I love the miles between me and the city
Where I quietly imagine every street
And I'm glad I'm only picturing the moment

I'm glad she never fell in love with me

The trick of love is to never let it find you
It's easy to get over missing out
I know the how's and whens, but now and then,
She's all I think about

I wonder how it feels to be famous
But wonder is as far as I will go
Because I'd probably lose myself in all the Pictures
And end up being someone I don't know.
So it's probably best I stay in Indiana
Just dreaming of the world as it should be
Where every day is a battle to convince myself
I'm glad she never fell in love with me

(by Jon McLaughlin)

They were both from Ohio, and moved to Indiana. Separately. But ultimately, together.

How strange is the Midwest in August. The summer has beat it up and worn it out and hung it out, already dry.

The lush green of June becomes a crinkly golden brown.

If August days hang heavy with heat and humidity, don't be fooled. Somewhere to the north lies a cold front that will swing through in the night, maybe with a thunderstorm. You'll get up the next morning and the air will be cool and the sky will be clear and suddenly you'll remember, just for a minute, how autumn feels.

Starts the harvest, then, in August, the corn and soy beans and the truck vegetables in gardens everywhere. Fields that were tilled brown just a blink ago in May or June, now mature, their growing seasons finished. Their time, completed.

And noisy, August is--the cicadas and locusts in full scream, protesting their too-short lives, protesting their time spent underground, yelling for somebody to love them. Here I am, in this tree, they scream. Come find me.

But oddly, even as summer slows down, a new kind of year starts up--all the school kids who believed in June that summer was forever, find that, indeed, time does fly, and August means school. A new grade, a new year, new teachers, new friends, new books.

Even for people without kids, who are years removed from the school year, August holds that dichotomy: Summer's over. But something new is beginning.

About the Fragments

2009-06-08T22:57:00.000-04:00

I'm having fun--and I'm using you.

The fragments are just some conversations and, well, I guess, story pieces that have been knocking around my head for, well, several months.

They're like ear worms of the head--you know those songs that you just can't get out of your head? These fragments are just things I have fun with...and I can't quit thinking about them, but I can't seem to write them out in any coherent way, either in a word processor or even longhand.

So I'm blogging them. You know how that if you've got a song stuck in your head, you're supposed to listen to that song? I'm using the blog--one place I know I can write a little, if badly--to get read of these word worms.

I thought about Tweeting them--I do seem to be a person made to Twitter--but 140 characters are just not quite enough.

So you get them, and I'm sorry, kind of--not sure how interesting they are to read. But it's therapy for me.

And also, I discovered I was kind of tired of writing about real stuff--my observations of life as I know it falling short of blog-worthy.

So here's the made-up stuff, just for fun, just for awhile.

About, Time and Grace--Doctor's Visit (A fragment, 3)

2009-06-04T18:22:00.001-04:00

Just a little conversation between two people who I keep hearing in my head.

She had hands full of coffee and files and lunchbag, plus her purse was slipping off her shoulder. She feared for the coffee, especially--Monday morning would be very bad, indeed, with no coffee.
Grace managed to slip in the back door of the office with coffee still upright; she walked down the hall to the little breakroom where she could stash her stuff and hang her jacket up; and take a minute to sip the cooling caffeine.
Then Ginny walked in.
"Girlfriend! Get your ass out here! Fast! You gotta see this!" Ginny, as usual, was dressed impeccably. She was a tiny, thin 50-something, who, at first glance, seemed the kind of person who might work out every day, eat health food, belong to Junior League and shop at Talbot's.
Looks lie. Ginny was a cigarette-smoking, junk-food addicted, motorcycle-riding, discount-store shopping maniac.
"What? Not the big Amish family with pink eye again!" One day last week, a family of 15 had tied up the waiting room and every exam room for hour. The little kids had hidden Grace's stethoscope and threw Q-tips everywhere.
"No! No. BETTER. He's the cutest thing ever!" Ginny grabbed Grace's wrist and drug her towards the glass-windowed reception area.
"A puppy? Did somebody bring their dog? Is it Mr. Tilton?" Grace's old neighbor, who got his blood sugar tested regularly, had a rescue greyhound that came in with him.
"NO. Oh, Gracie! This may be the guy for you," Ginny whispered, as they got closer to the front office.
"Ah, not again, Ginny! You are NOT fixing me up with a patient. I'm not interested. I'm. Just. Not. And you know it." Grace had made no secret about her disinterest in men since (as they called it in the office) The Blake Incident.
"Gracie, this is the best-looking man we've ever treated. Well, except he's looking a little green right now. And we think he might throw up in the waiting room. But he's so--his hair--his skin, even a little green-- He's not from Grabill, that's for sure, we think might be Italian -- Gracie, just look." Ginny turned her around and finally shut up.
Grace looked through the glass, into the square, chair-ringed space, with its kid's books and toys in one corner, the rack with magazines in another, the big ottoman in the middle, the window to the parking lot right across from her.
He sat below the window, very still, hands on thighs. He must be very tall, Grace thought; the chair looked too small for him--his legs, in faded jeans, stretched out towards the ottoman. He had curly black hair, big, loose curls that hadn't seen a brush anytime today. His skin--greenness aside--was a gorgeous mocha color, somewhere between golden and brown, a contrast to the white golf shirt that may have been slept in. He might have been asleep. Or about to throw up.
And Ginny was right. He was one handsome man.

About, Time and Grace--The Beach (A fragment 2)

2009-06-03T17:24:00.003-04:00

Just a little conversation between two people who I keep hearing in my head.

Beck stood up, still holding Grace's hand.

"Let's walk," he said, heading north, away from the park.

They wandered closer to the water, where the firmer sand made it easier to walk. Beck was barefooted; Grace wore thin flop-flops, and neither cared when the small waves washed over their feet.

Ahead of them was just the slightly rolling lake, the brightening sky, and somewhere, Canada.

"Grace, look!" he said, pointing up and slightly east.

"A seagull? It's awfully big--we don't usually see them that big--" Beck cut her off.

"Not a seagull, it's a bald eagle," he said. "See the curved wings, and the way the tail fans out? And its head is a little lighter color than the body?"

"Oh my God! Are you sure?" Grace twisted around, following the bird's flight as it headed towards the sunrise, following the lake shore. "I've never seen one...in the wild, anyway. Wow. Wish I had my camera--it's beautiful, so graceful."

"They are." Beck pulled Grace along, out towards the very tip of the point, the farthest away from the resorts and the rides and crowd. It was even quieter here, and a stand of trees behind them hid the development from their sight.

"I love it here," he said. The breeze picked up, ruffling his black curls, blowing Grace's brown bob around. She smiled at him.

"Me, too. I love Lake Erie. Better than all the little lakes in northern Indiana. Don't tell anybody at home that."

"Secret's safe," he said, grinning at her.

"Beck, can I ask you about, um, your, ah..." Grace hesitated.

"My what? Family?"

"Oh. No. Not ye--not that. No, about your--eyes. I mean, I love them, but they're just so--different. Beautiful, but--strange. Sorry. I don't mean that in a bad way. I've just never seen anyone with two different color eyes. Only--" Grace stopped, feeling like she was bungling what could have been just a simple question.

"Only what?"

She looked down. "Well, I did see a, a dog once, a Alaskan husky, with two different color eyes."

Beck laughed. "No, I'm not a canine. And I know it's kind of freaky. But not unheard of. Runs in my family, actually. My twin sister has them too, except hers are a bright blue and a darker gray."

"Your twin?"

About, Time and Grace--The Beach (A fragment)

2009-06-02T22:53:00.000-04:00

Just part of a story about some people who I can't get out of my head.

It was the time of early morning when to the north and west the lake and sky ran together but to the east came morning.

The lake was as calm and quiet as it would be all day. Later the wind would kick up and the little whitecaps would break on the beach in a quick rhythm, but right all he could hear was a single gull crying from the distance.

The sand was cool under his fingers and he leaned back on his elbows, breathing slowly, watching the sun turn the sky in to something new. It was easy to imagine, here on the beach so early, that Cedar Point was still marsh and woods and wild animals. Even if it hadn't been that for a very long time.

He didn't hear her as she walked across the sand; only when she knelt behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, saying, "Hi," softly in his ear, only then did he smile and feel the day really begin.

"Hey," he said, and reached up to take her hand and turned around to look at her.

As she looked into his eyes--one so softly green, the other gray as the lake--she too smiled, even as she looked at him and wondered, once again, just where the hell this beautiful man had come from.

Because he sure wasn't from Ohio.

Coming soon to a post near you...

2009-05-25T22:42:00.000-04:00

I'll actually wake up! And THINK about something! And then, even, WRITE about it! Not kidding!

About fitting in the writing around the living

2009-05-17T23:14:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, it's hard to do both, so you document the living, mull it over, and eventually, it ends up as a blog post. In words, not pictures. Just not yet.

About the wind

2009-05-09T09:22:00.000-04:00

Our bedroom window was cracked open last night, and it wasn't the birds or even daylight that woke me this morning--it was the wind. We'll be going to two baseball games today, and the wind is never good for baseball. But there are a few things wind is good for (where's that wind farm when we need it?).

I had another wind experience last Thursday. I wore a skirt, rather full, to work, and on returning to the office after lunch, a gust caught it and gave me a Marilyn Monroe moment, only without the nice legs or sexiness.

From one of my favorite poets:

The Wind
by Robert Louis Stevenson
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass

Oh wind, a blowing all day long,
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all

Oh wind, a blowing all day long!
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?

O wind, a blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

About blind justice

2009-05-01T00:36:00.001-04:00

Just another letter in the mail. A questionnaire from Allen County Superior Court. Because I may be needed for jury duty.
And I wonder how often one can get called for jury duty, because it certainly seems I get called often. Somebody must like me at the courthouse.
And I fill out the form, wary of perjury charges as I answer, are there any reasons you could not serve on a jury? The inference being, besides the reason you just don't want to.
And I forget about the questionnaire in the hurly burly of the everyday.
Until another letter comes, this one a summons, commanding me to a time and place I don't really want to be. Because jury duty might mess up my life.
No matter, Wednesday morning finds me sitting forlornly in a stiff chair in a wing of the Courthouse, me and 100 or so other resentful souls, voters and car owners and taxpayers, all.
Waiting.
Waiting for the lady to talk to us, waiting to watch the oh-so-precious DVD about how lucky we Hoosiers are to be called to jury duty, waiting for the bailiff to come get us. My stomach sinking when I hear that this is not the usual one-day trial but rather a two-day affair. Lucky us, huh. My stomach sinking further when they tell us to line up in the order they call our juror numbers, my number being three, and discovering that in my new universe, three is the new one. I'm first in line. It can't be good.
Bailiff Steve leads us up the marble steps, some among us vowing the take the elevator the next time (not me). We wait a moment outside the double wooden doors; when they open, for the first time I hear the words, "All rise," and we file into the courtroom, where I'm told to lead the way into the jury box. At that moment, I become juror number one, and I will remain so for two days.
Then Judge Gull begins instructing us, and we commence two days of being talked at. Two days of the judge telling us what to expect, what was expected of us, what was going to happen. Two days of the attorneys first questioning us, weeding us out, looking at our questionairres, conferring about us, sending some of us home, and retaining others -- me included -- in the hard wooden seats.
Seating the jury takes all morning. Since I'm in the first group, I can spend the rest of the morning observing: the beautifully restored courtroom; the judge, whom I've seen on TV news many times; the young bailiff, who'll be our liaison for the next two days; the prosecuting attorney, a lovely young woman with a quick smile and animated personality; the defendant's attorney, a pleasant-looking man with the most deadpan, monotone voice I've ever had the misfortune to listen to; finally, the defendant, a young, African-American man with wide eyes, cropped hair, and a calm demeanor. Though his foot taps incessantly
Just before lunch, when the extra jurors are dismissed (The lucky dogs! I think--dismissed to get back to work or home or shopping or otherwise on with their lives), we twelve are given even more instructions, then excused for lunch. Just before I leave, I notice the clock high on the back courtroom wall--it seems to be working, but it has the entirely wrong time, hours and minutes. I soon learn, the courtroom has its own time.
I've been without cell phone all morning, since they are not allowed in the Courthouse, fighting the desire to text somebody to let them know what's happened, but I've already warned them: If the phone doesn't ring, it's me. And I'm on the jury.
At lunch break, it cool and rainy outside, downtown busy at midday. The world has continued while we've been shut up inside the courtroom and it's a little jarring to be back in it. I run to the parking garage and get in my car and start calling: I won't be back to work. I won't be home. I won't be going to the Vera Bradley sale with my sisters. Don't call me, I won't have my phone. I don't know when I'll be home. I can't talk about the case. Gotta go.
So here I am downtown by myself for the first time in 15 years. Deli 620 on Calhoun looks promising, me having a soft spot for delis since a New York trip a couple years ago. A great surprise of the day, little Deli 620 -- if it didn't have the crowded-out-the-door frenzy of NYC, it was funky and welcoming and the egg salad, chunky and smooth and delicately tasty. The tomato basil soup with a little peppery kick -- even better.
By 12:45 I'm back in the jury room with my 11 new best friends, enjoying our first awkward silence. But we're a bunch of friendly, open Hoosiers, and the silence doesn't last long. If the weather is a safe subject to start out with, we soon segue to our observations of the judge, the lawyers, the accused, and how lucky we are to doing our civic duty. Or not.
Bailiff Steve soon calls us to enter, and for the second time when we hear the words, "All rise," it's because we twelve are coming in.
Our afternoon begins, with more instructions and opening statements, and we begin to get to know the case we'll be asked to make judgement on -- the judge's calm explainations, the attorney's carefully crafted presentations, the list of witnesses we'll listen to. I've brought my Diet Coke along with me and luckily there's a little nook I can hide it in down by my feet. Sipping it sereptitously makes me feel a little more normal--I'm in such a strange place, a room full of strangers, being asked to concentrate on -- what I'm beginning to realize -- a decision that will affect not just the life of the accused, but also his girlfriend and children and who knows who else.
During a break, when we're told not to leave the jury room, if we leave it has to be all together, our judicial bonding continues. We're allowed to talk about the case among ourselves in this little, stuffy room--not much historic in here--and we do. And even at this early point, it's possible to discern how some among our little group are leaning.
We don't know each other's names--no one asks, no one tells. We could, if we wanted to, exchange names, but we don't. We laughingly refer to each other as our jury numbers.
The jury room has windows. It's still raining, the day goes on without us. In my car, my cell phone rings, I'm sure. Somewhere the stock market is going up, or down. Someone is sick with swine flu. Chrysler is bankrupt, or not. Inside this room, even as we laugh about the Attorney B's monotone, or complain how cold the courtroom is, we know we are responsible for just one thing. Is the young man sitting before us innocent, or guilty?
The afternoon isn't. I mean, I knew it was Wednesday afternoon but it could have been any time, there in that domed, wood-paneled room, full of voices and evidence and "overruled" and "sustained" and questions and answers and our chair creaking. They are not comfortable chairs.
We hear from the victim, we hear from the officers, from the detective, who seems bored and arrogant and distant. We hear from the defensive, alibi-providing girlfriend, the not-very-helpful pal-in-jail, the scared nurse. We hear from everyone except the police dog, who can track but can't talk, and the accused himself.
We hear a story you could read in the paper of any city in any state, not a new crime, not an unusual or creative crime, thankfully, not a violent or deadly crime. Just a small-time break-in, in a old Fort Wayne neighborhood that has seen better days. A crime that scared the bejesus out of the victim, that left him bereft of his laptop and Palm Pilot, a crime that seems to have bored the officers to near death.
At six we're finally through the witnesses, and we're allowed to go. Go, but don't talk about the case. Be back at nine a.m.
The grey day seemed beautiful, real if raw, and I could feel time moving back into its normal path. When I had my cell phone back in my hand I felt almost normal, and immediately reconnected with everyone looking for me. And the evening's freedom stretched before me, a pitcher of margaritas at Bandito's promised, a lively dinner with family and visiting sisters, an evening at Jefferson Pointe with the ladies, lots of laughter making it easy to forgot that tomorrow, my vote would help chose the road a young man would follow. Well--no. He chose his road. Maybe we the jury were red light, green light.
At the end of the day, I was exhausted, and my sleep deep and dreamless. I wondered if the defendant was dreamless, as well.
Thursday and nine a.m. Still raining, but warmer. We're back in the jury room, we 12, more familiar with each other now. Smiles come easier. We're asked to give lunch orders. We've heard the evidence, now, and our conversation is more pointed and specific. And, we know our job is near to complete.
Bailiff Steve calls us in. A witness is recalled and some clarifications made. Then the closing arguments, the lively lady lawyer, the deadpan quiet guy. Both of them tell us what to think and how to vote.
And the judge, again, reading us several pages of instruction, telling us just what we need to know of the law to get our job done. Just barely enough.
Then it's time back to The Room, we 12 stranger-friends. It's us, the law, and a two-sided story in the room. An innocent-til-proven-guilty defendant. A scared victim. And the responsibility.
I volunteer to be foreperson. Mostly what it means is I count the votes. There's plenty of leadership in this group, several confident voices. A few with quiet questions. A couple silent.
The discussion begins, a more pointed continuation of the talking we've done previously. Now it's for keeps. We go over the main points, we list what's circumstance and what's concrete. We make everyone contribute. We take a first vote. We send a question or two out to the judge, and wait for answers. We go over evidence. Voice raise and fall. But always we remember he is first innocent. Always we remember it is the state who much prove the guilt. Always we remember, we are the ones who will be going home when the last vote is taken.
We take another vote. It's closer. We concentrate on the areas that seem the most questionable, and talk about what is reasonable doubt. Can we ever know? I think about moral relativity,something we often talk about at work. Is reasonable doubt somehow related to moral relativity? I don't know.
We go over the judge's instructions, and comment on how helpful they are.
One of us take notes and papers into the attached anteroom, and has a quiet moment.
When she's back, we talk a little more, and vote again. This time, it's unanimous.
As foreperson, I fill out the form, marking the appropriate place, signing my name. My scrawl, now filed away in the depth of some legal file, somewhere.
I knock on the door to the courtroom, our signal we need something, or are ready. And I let Bailiff Steve know.
Takes a little while for the courtroom to be as ready as we are. Judges, lawyers, officers, all scattered, I guess. We the jury are relieved, ready to go home, yet we'll all be happy when this last responsibility is passed. One last job.
Finally we're brought in. Even in this dead-air courtroom, there's a little electricity, and I feel ... a little power. We know, they don't. All rise. Look at us.
Everyone sits.
The judge asks me if we've reached a verdict, and I say, "yes." She asks for the form. I hand it to Bailiff Steve, and he hands it to the judge.
She reads its aloud, in a clear, calm voice.

The newly convicted drops his head in his hands, the most emotion he's shown in two days. The defending attorney puts his arm around him, says something, shakes his head, as if in disbelief. Surely, he's not surprised at this outcome?

If the prosecuting attorney smiles, I don't see her.

I'm watching the other table.

The judge asks if the attorneys want us 12 polled; Mr. Monotone, also coming alive here at the last, says yes.

But our minds have not changed, not even any of us who may have had difficulty with the decision, the "reasonable doubt," the weight of the responsibility.

That's it, mostly; we're thanked, and told to wait a moment in the jury room, as the judge wishes to speak to use. We don't see what happens after we file out; if the newly convicted is escorted out, if the lawyers talk, if the judge speaks to anyone.

For a last time, we wait together in the airless jury room, make a couple jokes. But I think we're all a little shaken by the reaction of the defendant, the hand over the eyes, the droop of the shoulders.

We're ready to go home.

Our civil duty, our "lost" days -- done. We're free.

He's not. Maybe he never was -- although I can only guess. His life before we came together in the historical Allen County Courthouse is as much a mystery to me as the vast machinations of the law itself.

The judge comes in, and thanks us. A few comments about the proceedings, and then, we're free to go. Some bolt out.

Others linger. The prosecuting attorney has asked to speak to us, to clarify a question we had asked. I join the conversation. A few details are cleared up, and I learn a little more about those whose lives we've affected. I feel better about the decision. And worse about these lives of these young people, lives lost, maybe. Probably.

I've lost -- donated! -- two days to the judicial system, because I'm a voter and a taxpayer and a car driver, a "responsible citizen". I can't imagine being anything else. Yea, the great, lucky me.

What have we lost? What has Brandon lost? What did he never have, or ever imagine? And how could I do anything, except find him guilty? Guilt was all I could give him.

Brandon, I'm so sorry. And I'm not sure why.

The lost days

2009-04-30T16:08:00.000-04:00

I've spent two days on jury duty. The bad news: no posts. The good news: new material. When I get my act together (who knew one's civic duty could be so exhausting?), you'll be hearing about it.

About Viva la vida

2009-04-23T22:39:00.000-04:00

This song -- Coldplay's Viva la vida -- has been in my head for months: I listen to it over and over, I (try) to sing along, I don't know, I just love it. It's my ringtone, damn it!
And then I found this video on another blog, and I'll never hear it in quite the same way, ever again.

The backstory from YouTube:
"The PS22 Chorus of 2009 has some fun with Coldplay's Grammy nominated song Viva La Vida, the amazing new hit single from the album of the same name." And more about them on PS22 blog>>

About the older man at McDonald's

2009-04-20T22:28:00.002-04:00

Time for lunch, let's go to lunch, how about McDonald's?, noIdon'twanttogotoMcDonald's. We're at McDonald's.
The usual lunch crowd. Long line at the drive-thru, wasting time and gas. Short line inside. The normal hubbub of conversation, fries beeping, orders, registers. Ice rattling near the pop machines.
Young moms with little kids not eating their nuggets. Senior citizen couples with coffees. A few office types like us. Some construction guys. Burgers and fries at noon on a dreary Monday.
Michelle and I sit at a bar-height table and chat about weekends and ballgames and work and Monday things.
The TV is on Fox news and I try to ignore it. Because.
There to my right, a gentleman by himself. A "senior." Cup of coffee. Burger. Fries. On the table in front of him, untouched. He's comfortably dressed, and if I had to guess his line of work, I'd say, retired farmer, but really? Who knows.
Like I said, he's alone.
And as I watch, he takes a breath, and folds his hands, and bows his head.
And suddenly, McDonald's seems silent, the sacred somehow finding its way in and sitting with us, as it so often does, unawares.
I watch him pray. He's perfectly still.
For a long minute he prays. And he looks so intense, yet so peaceful, here in McDonald's, asking for God's blessing on these burgers, these fries, and what else? For a wife who should be here, and is not? For a child, a grandchild, himself? Or perhaps, even, for those sitting alongside him?
Indeed, it's not my business, who or what he prays for, and specious of me to guess. Yet how could I not add just a small thought to his, and His? For whatever, there in the busy-ness of a Monday noon at McDonald's.
As the gentleman moves to begin his lunch, so I finish mine. And the day begins again.

About what I heard last night

2009-04-19T23:24:00.000-04:00

First time the window is open, on a warm spring night. A faint conversation. A car door. Far to the south, a train.
Shut my eyes and remember the day and forget it, all at once. The dark a familiar friend, a door shut between the day's hurly-burly and night's quiet surcease.
Then through the window, softly as smoke, a siren sings and then another and a third, creating a concert of alarm, and I open my eyes but don't see anything.
And the sound gets louder and closer, a crescendo of warning and emergency, until it fills the room and chases away the quiet and the calm, and suddenly I fear the sirens come for me.
Yet still it's dark, and I can't see.
And the siren sings louder, louder--
Then crests and begins to fall, begins fading back into the night, and, I know, has passed me by.
Quiet and calm will come again, here.
Yet the sirens are drawn to somewhere, something: A frantic call, a sudden accident, a flames? Somewhere someone is scared, is hurt, is waiting, is wondering, is dying. In a truck cabin, a radio barks, a heart races, time stops. Headlights and horns rip through the night, a race to whoever, whatever, needs those sirens, that help.
In someone else's bedroom, a phone rings. Tonight, someone else will get up and go out to face that dark, noisome night and whatever it holds.
I turn over and let the superficial silence fill me, sleep closer than it should be, comforted by the easy way the sirens of the night rode on. This night.
Yet before I fall, a song from the afternoon whispers in my ear, a soft reminder:
"She got the call today
"One out of the gray
"And when the smoke cleared
"It took her breath away
"She said she didn't believe
"It could happen to me
"I guess we're all one phone call from our knees." (Mat Kearney,Closer to Love)

UPDATED: About the movies I watched, whatever they were

2009-04-13T22:15:00.004-04:00

I love watching movies. But there are so many movies, so little time.

On an Ohio visit, time expands a little, and I might get to watch a couple.

This weekend, it was A League of their Own (again), Kiss Me Kate (first time), Outsourced (also new), Ten Commandments (part of), The Sound of Music (part of) and ... another one. That I'm forgetting.

Oh GOD that I'm forgetting.

We watched one late Friday afternoon, before Outsourcing (our evening movie), and I cannot remember for anything what it was.

What is wrong with my memory that I can't recall such a little thing? Or maybe that's it--it's a little thing, and my brain in its, ah, maturity, let's call it, tends to just dispose of any bit of knowledge not necessary to function.

I have gone to great lengths to find out what it was. I've searched several TV schedules (I can't even remember what CHANNEL it was on), searched through the newspaper TV listings, tried to look on Netflix (had to log in but have cancelled my membership), and tried to clear my mind of all distractions.

Gah.

Still no memory of that movie.

Oh, I really should tell you this. I'd also forgotten the late-evening movie, the one we watched AFTER Outsourcing. I was racking my brains over that one on the way home, listening to NPR and trying to distract myself. When, between news segments, the music was ... Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Which then reminded me ... of just what I needed.

I am holding on to my ace in the hole.

I can call my dad. I know he'll remember.

But the thought of calling an almost 86-year-old man for something I'VE forgotten is just ... embarrassing.

But if I go crazy enough trying to remember, I'm going to have to make that call. Before HE forgets.

UPDATE: I remembered.

My Cousin Vinny.

About short takes

2009-04-08T22:36:00.003-04:00

Insomnia

Let me watch you sleep,

Sweet surcease comes not to me;

I will rest in you.

Bad day

Last night.

Good plan.

Distracted.

Frustrated.

Ennui.

Capitulation.

Regret.

Retribution.

Damn.

Gggggrrrrrr

Not expecting.

Sudden rudeness.

Flashpoint!

Blow up!

Spout off!

Over-reaction?

Rationalization?

Sympathy.

Calm down.

Oh well.

About nuclear holocaust

2009-04-05T21:33:00.006-04:00

And why not, with North Korea launching missiles over Japan, carrying who-knows-what who-knows-where?

Being born after World War II, lucky me, and all my cohorts, never have known a world without the threat of nuclear weapons, always the knowledge that life as we know it could be blown to bits at any time.

Oh, I exaggerate. Certainly we would have a few minutes warning of any said bomb. Enough time to climb into our bomb shelter. That no one has anymore.

But in the '60s, people did have bomb shelters. Not us. We had a wellpit--a cement room, underground, with a cement roof, that housed our well; we kept potatoes there all winter, too. How I hated that place! Full of dampness, darkness, bugs, and unseen creepy crawlies just waiting for me. I only entered during 1) tornado warnings and 2) when forced to go retrieve said potatoes.

But when I'd watch the news and hear about bomb shelters, I'd think about us living in that wellpit. And wondered, how long could we last on those potatoes? And, what would the world look like when we came out?

I grew up about an hour south of Cleveland--maybe not a main target of the bad guys, but back in the day, a hub of shipping and manufacturing. Maybe even bomb-worthy.

What's one of my first memories of school? Being taken into the hallway and taught how to kneel close to the wall, and tuck my head between my knees. Bomb threat drill. Yea, that would buy us a few extra minutes, wouldn't it?

I don't remember the Cuban missile crisis--too young. I don't think the little kids of today will remember this day's news, either--not enough drama, thank God--not enough danger, not today.

But we've lived with missile crisis fallout since 1962. And if I live to be as old as my gramma--101--I guess I'll feel good that we went 100 years with a threat of annihilation ... and not more.

So far, so good.

About ER

2009-04-02T22:26:00.003-04:00

Funny, how some things just put us in a time or place or maybe just a feeling, puts us there so truly that all of a sudden we remember -- or we are -- who we were -- and we realize we are different now. And maybe we miss that ourselves, a little. Or miss a time, or a place.

I haven't watched ER in four or five years, probably, yet, at one time, it was the highlight of my week. I'd get errands done, chores dones, and let everyone know that for the next hour, the TV was MINE.

Then the music would start and I was lost, lost in a stupid TV show for an hour, my once a week mental vacation.

But tonight, watching -- it's 1990-something, and I'm not 50 anymore, and my kids aren't grown up, and I live in a different house. Just for a sec.

Although I'm watching on a DVR ... on a flat-screen TV ...

Wondering, in 10 years, what will trigger my memory of this time, this place?

About spring

2009-03-27T11:37:00.001-04:00

I don't believe in spring

Not yet, not when there's frost

On the car I forgot to bring in last night.

I don't believe in spring

When the weekend's forecast shows snow,

And the furnace will again kick on, endlessly.

No, it's hard to believe in spring

When I'm grabbing a winter coat from the closet

And regretting I took my gloves from the pocket.

And where was spring this morning,

When I woke in the dark, shivering,

Thinking of warm coffee and abandoned blankets?

O spring, cruel phantom,

Meteorological tease,

Vernal equinox who?

You've fooled those birds I heard singing

When I opened the front door this morning,

Before even the sun got up.

Although the sun seems confused --

So warm on my back, and

Forgetting t to set until long into evening.

I've warned the trees in my yard--

Budding rapidly - -that this

Is something they'll regret. To no avail.

You go ahead. Get all excited and open your windows.

Not me. I won't be falling for that errant warm day

Because I don't believe in spring.

About, ode to a cell phone

2009-03-23T22:31:00.004-04:00

There was no way to talk.

There was no way to text.

And the little black cell phone

Now has me perplexed.

Where last night all was well

Where last night all was right

Now this morning it seems

You've been hit with some blight!

Why won't you boot up?

Where's your welcoming screen?

Where's the sweet tone that says,

"You have messages--fourteen!"

A sick feeling settles down over my head.

No matter my action, you seem to be dead.

A frantic phone call to Verizon confirms

There may be some substance attached to my dread.

A long, quiet day with no Elvis ringtone

To warn me of text or call or voice mail.

Had I heard of the last of my little cell phone?

That seemed so reliable, friend without fail!

A long wait this evening at the cell store,

All those with lost phones, lost minutes, and more--

Finally, my name called, my cell in my hand,

I approach the counter, so youthfully manned!

Young JJ, he tried so hard it to revive,

But that which is dead, cannot come back alive.

The little black Alias which was so dependable

Now was just so much black plastic, sadly, expendable.

Well bummer. Now what should I do?

The timing's not right for a new-every-two.

But suddenly! An idea ballooned in my head!

I remembered my Razr, so straight home I fled.

My once-favorite phone, now consigned to the closet,

Still working, still trendy, too good to toss it,

All it needs is a charge, and a little activation,

With a few keystokes, a *228, we had affirmation!

The Razr, it works! And a such a low cost!

If texting is clumsy, at least no calls are lost!

We have voice mail, we have cheery rings--

Alas, no contacts, but the call is the thing!

The lesson I've learned all this long cell-less day

How much I depend on that digital display--

And friends, now listen, no matter the cost

Back up those contacts, cos damn! Mine are lost!

About the detritus of winter

2009-03-15T22:09:00.003-04:00

So today I took a box of daffodil bulbs from the shelf in the garage where it had sat all winter. Certainly I'd meant to plant them in the fall, when bulbs should be planted; indeed, after Angela gave them to me, in September, "plant bulbs" had gone on my to-do list each weekend.

But somehow fall got away from me, maybe because I'm always in denial--if fall has really come, then it will lead, inevitably, to winter. I'm not fond of winter's long chill, and if I pretend it's not fall yet, perhaps winter will not come, either.

So the bulbs don't get planted.

But the garage is cool, and mostly dark, and that's how bulbs are supposed to be stored. So when a day comes in late winter that feels more like early spring, I think about those bulbs and decided to take a leap of faith, being an optimistic sort, that if I plant them, they will grow.

So I haul the necessary accouterments outside: the bulbs, the trowel, my gardening gloves, a trash can for the detritus of winter that must be moved before things can grow.

And there in the afternoon sun, on the south side of the house, winter--long and gray here in Indiana, frigid and snowy, dangerously icy, welcome long since wore out--disappeared.

I took my clippers and trimmed back the dry, dead leaves from daylillies and roses; scooped up crackly bronze pin oak leaves blown from trees that aren't even in my yard, gathered last year's tomato plants and the fall's chrysanthemums. Gathered them up and threw them away.

Dug my trowel deep in the earth, moist and soft from last week's soakings, and wiggled it around, so I could place each daffodil bulb as deep as I could, shoving it down with my fingers, then pressing the dark dirt down gently.

I've worked on these beds--the horrible plastic-y clay soil is now buried beneath years of black dirt and compost and mulch I've worked in. Every spring, when I plant my marigolds and petunias, tomatoes and peppers, I spread bag after bag of something--anything!--more planting-friendly that that clay.

I put a dozen in a little front bed, around the crab apple tree, among the daylillies; then another couple dozen in the narrow bed along the south end of the house, where tulips were pushing up and a few brave crocuses already bloomed.

I'd taken off my jacket early in this process; the sun shone strong and warm on my back, and I started to remember what a warmer world felt like.

Not an hour's work, after all--I really did have time to do this last fall.

It's not guaranteed these bulbs will sprout, given the negligence they've suffered, but I'm feeling optimistic. Some of the bulbs were sprouting a little; I'm thinking they may just keep growing and bloom right when they are supposed to, anyway.

How tidy the little beds seemed after I was done, all winter's garbage gone. And I felt I'd planted so many mysteries that will make the spring even better than usual: will the bulbs grow? And bloom? And what colors will be where?

So winter left us one March day on Hearthstone Drive; trucked away in a garbage bin. We dug spring up, and resurrected it. Again.

New Twitter Name: CathyBlogs

2009-03-11T21:51:00.001-04:00

Tweet me at CathyBlogs

About Peter Tork

2009-03-09T22:19:00.004-04:00

Last week, I was surfing channels and stopped dead at The Smithsonian Channel because I heard the announcer say, "Coming up next: The Monkees."

The Monkees. On The Smithsonian Channel.

That was just weird enough to watch.

And worth it--while I knew some of the story--the manufactured first-boy-band-ness of them, the emnity with their producer, the bad break-up--I'd had no idea that Jack Nicholson was in any way involved (with Head, their weird, probably bad, first-and-last movie).

Lots of screaming girls in that documentary. Girls who, in 1966 or '67, where older than I, but none who loved Monkees more. Me, my brother, my sisters--we all loved The Monkees. We played them for my parents--we'd put their albums on and pretend to play. We were the original lip-synchers.

My littlest sister was always Mike (she got the leftovers), my brother was Mickey, my other sister was Davy, and I was Peter. I liked his (relative) quietness, his quirky goofiness. He didn't sing many songs, though--I'd have preferred he had more of a lead role in the band.

I remember writing a fan letter--I really sent it, but I have no idea who I addressed it to--begging that I BE a Monkee. Like they needed a 12-year-old clarinet player.

Sometime in the late '80s, The Monkees came to Fort Wayne and yes, I went. No Mike--I think he's permanently estranged from the troop--but Davy, Peter, Mickey--there they were, on the Coliseum stage, and I was breathing the same air as they. There for an hour or so ... I was 12 again.

Funny how now and then, a Monkee song is used in an ad or is covered by another band--Smashmouth, among others.

On my Facebook status, on the night I watched The Monkee's show, I mentioned my affection for them. And how surprised was I when a friend who'd lived in California in the '80's commented that he had MET Peter Tork--he'd MOVED Peter's stuff. My friend was working for a moving company, and he MOVED PETER TORK. Peter seemed down on his luck, at that time, my friend said--kind of sad.

I felt badly at that, but still--I know knew someone who HAD MET PETER TORK!

So I'm surfing MSNBC.com just last week, and what headline do I see? That Peter Tork--my Peter--has cancer.

Oh no. I just meet you, and now this.

Prognosis looks okay for Peter, and I have to say, in the Smithsonian show, he seemed good. Maybe my friend moved him at a down moment.

Hang in there, Peter. Remember, I'm a believer.

About getting Twittered

2009-03-03T21:16:00.006-05:00

The other day at work I was talking to someone across the field at the cubicle farm -- I had needed him to call me and I said, without thinking, over the heads of a bunch of technically challenged people (who laughed),

"You could have Twittered me."

Out of context, a rather suggestive statement.

But lately, it's a heck of a good way to get my attention.

Those 140-character updates are both hypnotizing and addicting, whether I'm following my closest family ... or some organization for work ... or, God forgive me, a celebrity.

If I enjoy getting updates from my nephew ("I hate cleaning the grease tubs as work") (He works at a KFC), and if I learn a lot about what our competitors are doing at work ("New blog post about blah blah blah"), it's my new BFF I really can't quit following.

ohiamsosorrytoadmitthis

John Mayer.

Indeed, I am one of John's 50,000+ Twitter followers. But the beauty of Twitter? I feel like he's Twittering just to me.

Because there's my Twitter screen. And in the list with my sister, my nephew, my friends, my interests, is my new boyfriend, John Mayer. Twittering to ME.

His guitars, his Oscar experience, his jokes, his new web site, he's telling me all about it.

And sometimes, it's so, so hard not to reply, to tell John just what I think of tux, his music, his poll on People.

Twitter gives you ... the illusion of chumminess. The Twitter illusion.

'Cause I know that really? John Mayer does not follow my tweets. He doesn't know I had to choose between McDonald's or Burger King for lunch, or that I love my netbook, or that I needed coffee this morning. John. Just. Doesn't. Care.

Oh, well. His loss, huh, that he won't know he's the star of my latest blog post?

But if YOU'RE wondering what I'm peeping about, just follow: CathyBlogs

The Play-doh is FOUND!

2009-03-01T11:58:00.001-05:00

No time to go into details now, but for those following the Play-doh story, let's just say the mystery involved Taylor and a (formerly) empty Boy Scout popcorn tin.

About lost things

2009-02-22T20:23:00.003-05:00

Last week I filled out one of those 25-things lists on Facebook but instead of 25 things about me it was 25 things I dislike.

And I forgot to put one of the things that I dislike the most: losing things.

I hate losing little things that don't really matter and are easily replaced--like , say, cheap sunglasses. And I hate losing, or perhaps I should say misplacing, things that I really need, say, like a birth certificate or an immunization record. And I really hate losing something that is hard to replace, like a cell phone.

One reason I hate to lose things is because I can't give up looking for them. Because I'm a pretty good finder, I have a lot of motivation to look. And a certain competitiveness with the lost-ness, and a certain tenaciousness about the search. I HATE giving up.

I also hate looking for something I suspect I might have given away--certain purses, for example. In occasional fits of tidiness and clarity, when a housekeeping mood comes on, I get rid of things that I later regret. That must be what happened to that red purse I bought in 2002....

I lost a pedometer last week, I'm missing a sock, I can't find an immunization record for a MMR I think Tony should have gotten in the late '80s (but, kudos to me, I found Angela's).

I'm still missing the lip gloss I lost last February in the Ft. Wayne airport while waiting to catch a flight to NYC. Sephora, cinnamon, tube, if anyone finds it....

Which leads me to what got lost today.

Play-doh.

Four (read, 4!) tubs of it. Mixed together. In a big pile. Shaped into something resembling a pizza.

A light pink ... a dark pink ... a blue ... and a purple....

Missing.

Mind: I did not lose the Play-doh. No, indeed, the blame lies on the little girls, who spent most of the afternoon sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the 'doh, rolling it, cutting out circles, rolling it, bringing it in to us and trying to give us pieces of the pie.

And now ... it's gone. Gone!

Well, now, it's not gone. I know it's here ... somewhere.

But where the HELL where!?

I've looked everywhere. I looked all around the kitchen table and under it. I looked in the toy area. I looked in the TV room. I looked in the bathroom.

I looked downstairs in the playroom. And in the game room. And the storage room.

I looked upstairs, in the extra bedroom (but not in the bedclothes ... mmmmm), in the books, in the bathrooms (two), in the exercise room, in my bedroom.

No Play-doh.

Somewhere, in this house, a pile of multi-colored Play-doh is slowly hardening. It's been missing long enough I think it's beyond saving, for play purposes. If it's gone long enough, it will harden into what I like to think of pre-adolescent art; I might have to save it forever to preserve the episode.

But until I find it, I will be on the lookout for stepping unawares in it, or for plunging my hand into it.

Or I may go to bed tonight and find myself getting way too close to it.

But until I find it, I'll be obsessed by it--the thought of that blue-green muddle will hound me.

(And I really hope that it's no where that a GUEST might come across it....)

I hate lost things.

About the dramas of the day

2009-02-17T21:23:00.004-05:00

No, I am not a drama queen, nor even a princess, but sometimes what gets us through the day at work is a little drama.

And where do we find the drama?

In the parking lot. Lots, actually. Lots of drama in parkings lots. (I think I channeled Dr. Suess there for a sec.)

We have parking lots on both sides of our building. So everyone is assigned to one side or the the other.

The big lot on the east side is general parking.

The several smaller lots on the west side are assigned parking. And therein lies the drama.

For office people, the west-side lots are most desired. So much so there is a WAITING LIST to get a west-side spot.

I've been a west-sider since my first day, when I was given the spot of the person I was replacing (he retired).

Imagine my surprise when a co-worker with a little more seniority than me discovered that I had a west-side spot and called me out on it. "How'd you get that spot!?" she demanded. "HR gave it to me," I replied. Seems she'd been waiting a couple of years for a west-side spot. And she harbored a little resentment towards me until she eventually moved on to a new job.

She never did get a west-side spot.

There's a little game that gets played on west-side peoples' days off, too. It's called, "Who Takes Your Spot." In this game, people with lesser spots (east-siders, far-west vs. near-west) vie for the prime spots of people on vacation, sick, traveling, otherwise out-of-the-office. It's a brutal, winner-take-all contest. And your prize is that you get to walk 50 less feet or so into the office!

You know you've really made it when you get assigned to the managers' lot. Closest to the building, these 30 or so spots are coveted, doled out sparingly to directors and managers by HR, and specially watched for the "Who Takes Your Spot" game. Competition for these prime spots makes the Daytona 500 look like a preschool tricycle race. Friendships have been shattered vying for front lot spots.

Those front lot spots are also the ones most likely to be stolen by company visitors who have no clue where visitors are supposed to park (side of the building) and just pull up right by the door.

Visitors have been double-parked into spots by disgruntled employees. Threats, including "tow trucks" and "calling HR" have been thrown about.

Who knew a parking lot could be so fraught with drama?

About a new haircut

2009-02-15T22:01:00.008-05:00

Getting a new haircut is quite a leap of faith.

Faith that the new haircut will make you look better/younger/perkier/younger/refreshed/younger than you did with the old haircut.

Faith that your hair stylist can pull off the new haircut.

Faith that your loved ones will either, well, love it, or at least, like it, or, if they don't, break it to you gently you look newly bad.

Faith that your hair will grow out quickly if that last case transpires.

So yes: I'm going this week for just such a new haircut. And I do have a 'do in mind.

Okay, the picture above is a year and a half old, but my hair is shorter in that pix than it is now, so it's a good approximation of what I look like with a short haircut.

Having grown my hair out into more of a bob, and that bob getting kind of out of control and hiding behind my ears a lot, and being TOO much for me to handle (since I'm not a hair stylist kind of girl), the time is ripe to whip myself into shape!

And since you'll never guess who I want to transform myself too, I'll put a picture of her too. I've already told Brenda, who cuts my hair, that I am not expecting to lose 20 years, but hey, five would be good.

Katie Holmes! The famous "pixie cut"!

The only thing I'm betting on ... your blogger will not receive 1/100th of the criticism this young woman did over a simple haircut. Because when I was searching for pictures, I came across some of the stupidest comments about her hair than I could have ever imagined.

Even if it looks bad on me, no one would ever care that much. No one should care that much.

Updated: A bad picture of a good haircut.

How to procrastinate by Cathy D.

2009-02-08T15:56:00.003-05:00

1. Take one weekend.

2. Fill it up with stuff over which you have no control, like birthday shopping (although not for onesself), basketball games (not one's own), party-dress shopping (again, not for onesself), birthday party (again, not for onesself), and sundry errands (for the public good).

2a. Keep spending time on computer checking email, Facebook, Google Reader, and weather (to make sure no frigid spells are forecast). Make vow to stay off computer.

3. On completion of the above, realize one had actually created a to-do before the weekend

4. Go to kitchen to find purse and dig out to-do list.

5. Remember that "cleaning out purse" was one of the things on the to-do list.

6. The to-do list is written on a very small piece of notepad paper. Realize need for larger paper for additional tasks.

7. Go to find new legal pads recently purchased on errand. Hunt. For awhile. Find pads in office.

8. Recast to-do list on nice, big legal pad. Admire the organization.

7a. Break computer vow by updating Facebook about how busy I am.

9. Decide to fold laundry first. Go upstairs.

10. Realize I'm a little weak and hungry to work. Go back to kitchen and find chips and dip from Superbowl party last week. Consume.

11. Realize this cannot be crossed off to-do list.

12. Get text from Jayme wanting a copy of picture taken last night at birthday party. Break computer vow by getting camera, taking out SD card, and trying to find picture. Get distrated because laptop SD card slot will not recognize 4gig SD card. Puzzle. Try other SD card in slot.Works fine. Google "SD card not recognized." Find several reasons, perhaps because new SD card is too big. Break down and connect camera to laptop with USB cord. Wait while software driver installs. Copy pictures to laptop and send to Jayme.

12a. Since I'm on computer anyway, check email, Facebook and news.

13. Go back and check to-do list since I've lost focus dorking around with SD card.

14. Go fold and put away the laundry. Cross off list!!!!!!

14a. As reward, just check email real quick. Just for a sec. Notice my copy of Twilight lying on end table. Decide to reread meadow scene because I realize Edward could do laundry in 1/10 the time as me.

15. Give self mental shake. Recheck to-do list. Realize several items on this list are not going to happen today.

16. Realize if I list "check email" and "update Facebook" on my list, I will feel more productive!Also, "reading"! Go to kitchen to revise list.

17. Get distracted by TV being changed to Sheryl Crow concert (not by onesself). Reminisce about seeing her in concert with John Mayer. Replay concert in head as Sheryl sings "Gonna soak up the sun." Feel guilty I have every song John Mayer ever recorded on my MP3 and not one Sheryl Crow. Force self not to download Sheryl Crow songs right now. Instead put on to-do list.

17a. Notice husband's laptop has a "Thomas the Tank Engine" screensaver. Engage in pointless conversation about WHY, since no children use it? No good reason.

18. Look at RSS feed and realize blog has not been updated lately. Feel guilty for my ~~many~~ six readers. Search brain for possible topics.

19. Come up empty. All I can think about is my to-do list.

20. Damn, I'm good at this procrastination, huh!

About my friend Mike

2009-02-04T19:11:00.004-05:00

You know the term, "sudden death"?

Not like in a sports way--like in an NFL football game, when it ends in a tie, and the overtime is called "sudden death." Because that's not really death--it's just, "this game finally over." And there's always another game.

No, I mean "sudden death" like in "death came suddenly."

This time, to my friend, Mike.

I'd worked with Mike for almost 10 years when he accepted a new job that took him and his family to Birmingham, Alabama, last April. Ten years is plenty of time to get to know someone, even in an office atmosphere. It's plenty of time to learn about interests and dislikes, about family, about childhood, about personality. Plenty of time to become friends.

Even in a busy office, there's sometimes time to chat for awhile in a cubicle, and talk about the funny things your little boys said, or what your wife is writing about, or the next ballgame you have tickets to.

Or, you might find yourself talking about the inadequacies of the Tampa Bay Rays stadium, and when in the world they might build a new one, or how it felt to be one of, oh, say, two fans for a baseball game. Or, you might find yourself getting razzed about being one of those two, er, few, anyway.

The conversation might even veer into work territory, and you might dissect a meeting that didn't go quite right, or a project with a recalcitrant author, or why in the world can't we wear jeans every Friday?

Or, you might find yourself rejoicing over a Florida Gators win ... or commiserating over a loss. Or talking about where in the world that dead, dry, taxidermied gator on his desk came from. Or asking, just how may Florida Gators shirts can one have?

On a long weekday afternoon in a quiet cubicle farm, a little lively conversation is much relished.

Mike, of course, loved his family and the Lord above all; he would not deny he also enjoyed a good (hey, any) sporting event and a cold (hey, any) beer.

Mike died while working out at the gym; I imagine him running, and somewhere between strides leaving this earth and running into the arms of His Lord and Savior.

He leaves his parents, his wife; his little boys, whom he loved teaching about his Faith and about his sports; his step-children; his parents; and so many friends, and readers.

Mike, the ultimate sports fan, exuberant football fan, appreciated the tension of a good overtime period--what the commentators call "sudden death," even as they debate about its fairness.

Mike, the good Catholic, would have been prepared--death was sudden, but not unanticipated; surprising, yet he would have been as ready, spiritually, as he could be.

Mike, husband and father, son and friend, Rays fan -- there's no sudden death in baseball, you know. If he'd had to chose, he'd go for a ballgame that dragged on forever, in the way only a baseball game can; a game that ended in a tie, then went into extra innings; a game that ended up in the record books only because it was so long. The kind of game that when it's over you look at each other and say, "I got old at that game."

He should have gotten old. I'd have loved to tease him about that.

Bye, Mike--Go in peace, you Gator.

About how you cheer yourself up in winter

2009-01-30T21:47:00.004-05:00

First, buy one of these:

And, I watch stuff like this:

And I wish I were somewhere like this:

About Friday

2009-01-24T07:00:00.001-05:00

What I like about Friday

When I wake up and remember what day it is.

Casual Friday.

Somebody brings in donuts.

Knowing it's the last drive to work of the week.

Having a schedule that's maybe not quite as busy as Thursday was.

Having somebody say, "Where we goin' for lunch?"

Going to Chinese buffet and talking about movies and what we're doing on the weekend and politics and news then reading our fortunes and half-believing them.

Friday afternoon.

Having somebody call or text and want to know, "What we doin' tonight?" then making dinner plans.

Checking stuff off the to-do list one by one, tidying up the week.

Realizing it's finally time to leave, and flying home.

Dinner at Outback, making weekend plans.

Home to a movie and knowing it's okay NOT TO DO ANYTHING FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING.

Going to bed, knowing the weekend stretches before you, time unowned.

Friday.

About the tired side of midnight

2009-01-23T09:13:00.003-05:00

I woke up tired.
I always wake up sleepy--I'm loath to give up the sweet surcease of sleep any morning. But being an enthusiastic, sound sleeper, I rarely wake up tired. It just takes me awhile and a cup of something to jolt me totally awake. I usually manage by lunch.
But last night--
Maybe it was that half-glass of merlot I had with dinner. Something in a red dances with something in my brain, then drains into my bones, rendering them useless. Not normally one to nap, that merlot set me up for losing a half-hour of the evening somewhere. Which probably got my sleep cycle all screwed up.

But a few chores and some reading, then some Facebooking and surfing got my head on straight and I didn't feel too off-kilter.
Then I decided to have some fun, where fun means working on some writing. Just messing around. Except it was way fun, and kind of, well, stimulating. I made myself quit by 11, being a working kind of girl.
At which time my body was ready for bed, but my brain was not.

How nimbly the mind moves at night! How insightful did I become, there in the dark, peeking now and then at the clock, where the hours that are so familiar to me in the afternoon--1:00, 2:00--became something interesting to explore, here on the tired, unfamiliar side of midnight.
And what a paradox--even I as knew I should sleep, that I would pay for this alertness at alarm time--that "gleaning my teeming brain" was almost ... enjoyable. That I was almost following myself around my head.

Perhaps something in the freedom of the hours--indeed, this time set apart not for work nor chores nor socializing, just sleep, merely sleep--was enticing.

Or perhaps the bit of merlot made things seem better than they were.

Eventually, my brain caught up with my body, and thoughts turned to dreams.

Leading me eventually to, the tired side of morning!

About January 20, 2009

2009-01-20T09:42:00.002-05:00

Shield your eyes,

For the view from the mountaintop

Is both blinding and terrifying.

We're too close to the sun,

And too far from familiar earth.

Up here it seems we could fly,

Just lean forward and and let the

Rare air hold us aloft,

Straining our eyes to look

Over the far, hazy, hopeful horizon.

Storm warning

2009-01-13T13:49:00.003-05:00

It's not frigid yet. That air is to come,
Packed isobars piling down upon us.
Right now it's tolerable, and I can tell
By the way the snow crunches underfoot.
When the arctic air comes, the snow will moan,
Although my boots will leave the same footprints
As I cross the street.
It's quiet on Hearthstone Drive this late afternoon.
Above me the sky is a placid, even grey
As if reflecting the snow beneath.
The air's dead. Calm.
Almost like there's no air.
It's so still that my short walk seems an affront
To a midwinter still life.
Like when you take a deep, deep breath
And hold it a moment.
You know your heart is still beating,
Yet there's a pause. And then exhale.

About the cleanliness of snow

2009-01-09T15:16:00.001-05:00

The cleanliness of snow

If defoliating, destructive winter
Tends to expose and exaggerate
The flaws of the flattened, bleak landscape
Perhaps we should all be more tolerate of
The clean, artful spareness
Of new snow.

About the dog always dies

2009-01-06T21:37:00.004-05:00

So I decide for Christmas break I'll pick up a little light reading.

And the commercial for the Marley & Me movie catches my interest, because I sis-love Jennifer Anniston and wish she were my BFF, and although I had resisted reading the book until that very moment, I decide it's exactly what I need to read.

So I buy it.

And as I read it, I realize it's as much the story of a family as of a dog. Luckily the family seems much more functional than the dog, because dude, that dog would have lasted about five minutes in my house. Who has time or patience to deal with a four-legged, tail-whipping, tornado of destruction?

Sorry, I just lied in the previous paragraph, about that five minutes thing.

Because although our dog, Buffy the Wonder Dog, has been gone from us for over 10 years, her memory lingers long -- longer than her smell did in the garage -- and I do her a disservice to say I would not have tolerated a Marley when I did, indeed, tolerate a Buffy, for 14 years. Fourteen loooooonnnnngggg years.

Buffy was a lifelong puppy, a cute and cuddly cockapoo who didn't know a stranger, full of energy 'til her end, tolerant of small children and unfailingly loyal to her family.

In other words, Buffy was hard to control, needed an expensive haircut every four weeks, was useless as a watch dog, asked endlessly to be taken outside, ate everything the kids didn't, and, after sneaking out of the house to roll in any pile of dog poop she could find, came home a happy conquerer, tail wagging.

Buffy developed epilepsy in her first year, which necessitated her being on medication. Which she needed twice a day. Carefully spaced. Without fail. From a prescription. That I needed to get filled. At the drugstore. Every month. For thirteen years. A prescription written in her name. Buffy Dog Dee. If we took a trip, if we just had a long day, if I had a full schedule that made it hard to get to the drugstore ... didn't matter. Buffy's medication had to be given, and/or I had to make one more stop. Which I did. For. Thirteen. Years.

Later in life, Buffy developed another condition that necessitated medication--incontinence. The good news, the pills only had to be given twice a week. The bad news, they were more expensive than the epilepsy meds. The good news, the pills worked pretty well. The bad news, who needs their dog peeing everywhere? Which is why she needed them in the first place.

She also developed a strange skin condition of knotty cysty things on her body, including one on her tail. They didn't hurt, they weren't malignant, they just ... looked like hell. So we had them taken off. Let's just say that one cost ... hundreds. That operation made the haircuts seem reasonable.

So why do people like us keep a poop-rolling, snack-eating, haircut-needing, medically challenged dog?

For one: she was ours. She loved us, so she was worth it.

And the other: she was Tony's little sibling--the one he could boss around, feel bigger than, baby. She was the youngest child's little sister. She cheerfully took the rough-housing, the bossing, the love. And Tony learned how to love someone weaker, littler, and even more ornery than him.

Worth a few dog-poop baths.

Even eternal puppies get old, and by the time the kids were young teenagers, Buffy was a senior citizen. Her heart grew feeble, as did she, and one fall day it was evident to all that Buffy had done her job as trainer of children. Her long-time vet helped ease her into whatever next world dogs go to--truthfully, he shed more tears than I did.

The years of haircuts, medication and clean-up had rendered me a little less grief-stricken than perhaps I should have been.

Which brings me back to Marley. Who, I should have guessed, dies at the end of the book.

And here comes the difference between Marley's family & me.

It seems the Grogan family had not had enough. Soon after Marley's departure, they adopted a new puppy. Brave, foolish souls.

Me, on the other hand, had had more than enough. Buffy the Wonder Dog did me in forever for dogs. No more dogs for us. Nope. Lesson learned.

Emphasis on dogs there.

Don't even get me started about the cat(s).

Merry Christmas, one and all

2008-12-25T09:17:00.004-05:00

Me and my tree have just a moment to say MERRY CHRISTMAS to everyone who stops by I Woke Up Thinkin' to read and comment.

I read dozens of blogs, and I've been blogging since 2002 (starting with my first blog, Common Sensibilities). I'm never less than amazed at the quality of writing, the range of subjects, and the dedication to updating this still-new way of publishing.

Here at Thinkin' Central in Fort Wayne, Indiana, we've been slip-sliding through an ice storm and its aftermath, so I apologize for the spottiness of posts.

Stay tuned!

Bloggers and readers both, thank you! Have a wonderful holiday.

(Oh yes, that is my Christmas tree.)

Lavender in winter

2008-12-20T10:19:00.000-05:00

If in summer
As I walk by
I can run my hand lightly
Along the tall spike
Covered with small flowers,
Releasing the sunny scent
Into soft air; it
Clings and lingers on my fingers.

Today I shuffled by
On ice-crusted sidewalk,
To find pale leaves buried
In last night's snow,
Bracts stiffened, color gone;
My gloved hand reached out--
To grasp only the faint memory
Of fallen flowers.

About Winter

2008-12-17T10:46:00.004-05:00

Oh anybody could write a bad poem, but some days you just need to read a good one. It's about hope:

The Darkling Thrush

by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

LEANT upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seem'd to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

You've got to love a poet who can combine both "The Century's corpse outleant" AND "Some blessèd Hope" in the same poem.

Seemingly, so little reason to sing--yet still he does. Still he does.

About snow blowers

2008-12-16T20:31:00.003-05:00

Astrological winter may not start for a week or so, but meteorological winter started December 1.

Given the little snow storm that I drove home in tonight, winter has settled in beautifully, and intends to linger long.

And if I dislike -- nay, why sugarcoat it, loathe -- any kind of cold weather, the first site of flakes stirs a different kind of feeling in the men of my neighborhood.

Those flakes stir a love, an excitement, an anticipation among the menfolk here on Hearthstone Drive. Also, a competition that rivals the lawnmower wars of summer.

It's a time to break out the snowblowers.

Honestly, I think the guys on our street, at the first hint of flake, glue themselves to window and weather radar, just waiting for that 1/16th of an inch coating they need to justify gassing up the snowblower and having at it on the driveway.

What is it about these things the guys love so much? Is it the satisfying roar of the engine at the turn of a key (or pull of a recoil starter)? And I mean roar. Is it the lurching thrust of the engine as the throttle is engaged and the monster takes off? Is it the graceful arch of said snow as the auger-thing sucks it up into the funnel then blows it into oblivian? Is it the site of of the newly cleared sidewalk, now safe for humanity to traverse?

I don't think so.

Rather: Is it the my-blower-is-bigger-than-yours competition, as evidenced by the covert looks given each other as snowblowers compete, driveway by driveway, seeing who can be done first?

Because the first one done then takes the responsibility of any sidewalk not already blown, any neighbor's driveway not already cleared, and any left-over patch of cement unfortunate enough not to belong to anyone.

It's like a fast-motion marathon of snow clearing, that begins at the first flake and doesn't end until the last wisp of wind has whipped the drifts to snowy peaks.

Because when you start with the first flake, one pass is not enough. Oh no. There's nothing better to a snowblower owner than a two--or even a three!--pass snowstorm.

The guys have all been out tonight--you can hear the noise on every side of the house. Radar looks like it's going to keep up most of the night. I'm guessing not one guy in the neighborhood is going to sleep well tonight--they're going to want to be up extra early tomorrow.

There's nothing like the roar of a nine-horsepower snowblower in the morning.

About how I feel on Mondays, graphic edition

2008-12-15T10:48:00.000-05:00

About stringing words together

2008-12-12T15:10:00.001-05:00

Night flurries

White out of blackness;
Driving through the snowy night;
Stars fall at warp speed.

School play

Rows of fresh faces;
Today they are eleven,
And sing without guile.

The tree

Pick out a good one;
Next place the lights, carefully;
Top with a bright star.

Friday morning

Sound of the alarm;
Another dark morning comes--
Motivation lags.

Presents

If I say I want
This, but you decide to buy
That--I won't be mad.

Full moon

Sharp through the skylight,
Moonlight falls on your face;
Ghost on the pillow.

About the three stages of belief

2008-12-10T08:47:00.004-05:00

I have no memory of believing in Santa Claus.

I don't mean I never believed--I may have. I just don't remember the belief. My first memories of Christmas Eve involved listening to my parents wrapping gifts and putting stuff together.

Plus, I don't think either of my parents were big on the myth. My mom, especially--she liked taking credit for the pile of presents under the tree. A child of the Great Depression, she loved that she was able to provide her four kids with the toys she never had. She loved being Santa.

I do have a hazy memory of being taken to talk to Santa, who was holding court while stuffed into a cold, little hut in uptown New London, in front of the Ben Franklin store. I didn't have much faith in the conversation, but I was okay with sitting on the jolly old elf's lap for a second with my brother and sisters. Might was well cover all the bases.

Last night, we attended the Christmas concert of the community band Angela plays in. Santa always makes an appearance during the intermission, talking to the kids and handing out candy canes.

So it was interesting to observe the reactions of the three kids we were with.

Julian, at 11, is well into the age of reason, and fully cognizant of where the presents come from. However, while he had no desire to talk to Santa, he did come down to the aisle to sneak a peek at Big Red Guy, and pick up a candy cane.

Caroline, who at a very pragmatic 5 you'd think would be in prime Santa territory, surprised us all by refusing to have anything to do with the process. She's not usually scared of anything, but she's developed an aversion to guys in red suits and stayed put in her seat.

It was Taylor, so intense and sensitive, who was more than ready to queue up with the other kids, sit on Santa's lap, tell him her request (a Dora vanity, I think), and gratefully accept the candy cane offered her. She even posed for pictures with Mr. Claus.

Julian has faith that his parents will fill his stocking on Christmas--he thinks he no longer needs Santa. Caroline must sense that Santa is not entirely who he says he is--she needs to hold back and assess the situation, but she knows that somehow there will be a package under the tree for her. Taylor is buying the whole deal--at three, she truly believes; her face as she talked to Santa was innocent and trusting.

Watching them, I realized I could connect with how each of them reacted to Santa--Julian's practicality; Caroline's reticence; Taylor's exuberance. It's representative of how individuals react to Christmas, isn't it? For some, it's a long to-do list; for others, it's something to avoid; for a few, it's a time to accept and rejoice.

As the band played the Hallelujah Chorus, and we rose to our feet, I could only hope that we could all be a little more Age Three at Christmas--accepting and rejoicing, exuberant and even innocent:

|: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! :|

|: For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! :|

For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.
|: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! :|

The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever,

King of kings, and Lord of lords,
|: King of kings, and Lord of lords, :|
And Lord of lords,
And He shall reign,
And He shall reign forever and ever,
King of kings, forever and ever,
And Lord of lords,
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

And He shall reign forever and ever,
|: King of kings! and Lord of lords! :|
And He shall reign forever and ever,
King of kings! and Lord of lords!
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

--by Georg Friedrich Handel

About John Milton

2008-12-09T09:42:00.002-05:00

Today is John Milton's 400th birthday, and if most of the world does not know or care, it's slightly comforting that some do.

Because when you are an English major, John Milton is very important, and when you have a good teacher explaining him to you like Hermine van Nuis, he even becomes accessible.

There may be some who would read Paradise Lost outside of a classroom--I wouldn't be one of them. But when it's for class, and for a grade, and ultimately, for your degree--you crack open the book and start reading. And thank God for an instructor like Dr. van Nuis, who helps you make sense of it, by taking it all apart so it means something, then putting it back together, so it's poetry again.

How long did she lecture on just these opening lines?

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse,that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos: Or if Sion Hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa's Brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.

So there's the whole thing he's going to attempt--just the fall of man. Just a little light reading for the weekend.

I wonder what Milton would have thought of what we do here, online--blogging, Twittering, updating Facebook and MySpace? Would he embrace it, or be abhorred?

Milton was totally blind when he began writing "Paradise Lost". He was 50. I'm going to remember that the next time I'm casting about for something to write about, or lamenting my lost youth and all the words I did not write.

For this is our journey, too:

The World was all before them, where to choose
Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:
They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,
Through Eden took thir solitarie way.

Happy Birthday, John Milton!

About an ode to cell phone talking

2008-12-03T17:52:00.004-05:00

(Apologies to John Keats)

O thou unravished bride of ringtones,

Thou foster-child of minutes lost,

Obsidian recorder of my spent time,

Flowery conversations less stately than this rhyme.

What mythical tale has come to thy ear,

Of husband or daughter or friend held dear,

In car or home or grey-walled cubicle?

What whacky people these? What friend gone nuts?

What errand gone mad? What struggle to escape?

What radio rhythm? What wild ecstasy?

Unheard conversations are sweet, but those heard

Drive you crazy. Therefore, keep thy conversations to thyself.

Not only to my ear, but to those

Fair friends, caught in cars or office near, who cannot leave

Thy voice; nor ever can that story be ended;

Bold talker, thou can never shut up

Though my hand hovers near your mouth;

Yet for this interruption I cannot grieve;

Volume cannot fade, for thou has not thy bliss

Forever wilt though talk, and me overhear!

O rectangle shape! Fair little keyboard!

If only men and women would text,

With quick fingers and quiet mien,

Thou silent form! Nothing teases us out of anger

As dost a hang-up. Dear reader, that's cold.

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of our communication,

So this, face to face, to thou I shall say,

"Shut up! or I shall throw that ******** phone into tomorrow" -- that is all

I need to say, or anyone needs to know.

Read the real thing here»

About thanking Bossy

2008-12-02T08:15:00.002-05:00

Because I was thinkin' it would be nice to be on her blog, and I got an early Christmas present! Me, on her blog!

[Just added a snip of her main page (left) with COULD IT REALLY BE ME? featured.]

Also, I must quote my co-worker Amanda, who spotted me on Bossy, and send me an email about it, proclaiming, "You are a freakin' celebrity."

Does that make a Tuesday awesome, or what?

If you're not already reading Bossy, you should be, so start now:
www.iambossy.com.

About how Christmas comes

2008-12-01T22:36:00.003-05:00

Christmas come quietly
Turn the calendar page.
Christmas come slowly
For children and their wishes.
Christmas come busy
Too much to be done.
Christmas come quickly
Full weeks fly by.
Christmas come softly
Carols on the stereo.
Christmas come tasty
Cookies in the oven.
Christmas come sadly
Missing you.
Christmas come anxious
Family dysfunction.
Christmas come tiny
Little kids' eyes.
Christmas come green
Tree twinkles in the window.
Christmas come bright
Lights on the houses.
Christmas come on TV
Grinch and Rudolph.
Christmas come presents
Did I choose right?
Christmas come stressed
Spent too much.
Christmas come empty
Lost the Christ.
Christmas come sweetly
Children being good.
Christmas come loudly
Noisy party.
Christmas come crowded
At the mall.
Christmas come peaceful
Midnight service.
Christmas come whatever
For whatever, Christmas comes.

Passing through Fitchville

2008-11-29T23:24:00.003-05:00

This small town, it's so little,

There's not even anything worth hating--

If you were so inclined--or loving, either.

You can't miss it, though;

Pay attention where the highway splits,

Go west to New London,

Or south to Mansfield,

Or straight, into the Vermilion River.

You won't be in Fitchville long,

Regardless; you would have passed

The American Legion, that big old barn

Just north of town.

You'll not have stopped in the cemetary,

Not your turn to take a place beneath

The big pine trees on the hill.

Don't take the right that leads past

The elementary school, no longer used,

Where once children shouted at play.

The white Methodist Church waits for

Sunday, austere and empty.

Only across the street, in the point made

By SR250 and Fitchville River Road

Is there life--gas station and mini-mart,

A modern marvel of convenience. Need anything?

No need to stop at the smallest rest stop

In Ohio, a wide spot to park and picnic.

Whoever stops there, anyway, ever?

Just pass on by, over the bridge

And past the turnoff to Ashland,

Fly right through your past.

What I found on West County Line Road

2008-11-25T21:43:00.006-05:00

So I hustled down Covington Road,

Right brain still sleepy,

Left brain full of to-do and on-the-agenda,

NPR turned up too loud,

Neal Adams too eager to tell me the new bad news,

Me too weak to say no.

Take a left on County Line and

Not much traffic this morning.

Some mornings this too-skinny, too-rolling,

Country road is a drag race, quick

And dangerous. I've fantasized

My death here. Probably a head-on.

Whitley to the west and

Allen to the east, when

It's summer and sunny the

Light streams in and out of my car, as I pass

Additions, the little woods past Aboite Center,

Then a white fence casting long, uneven shadows

I chase before me.

November days, through, start

Late and end early; twilight visits

Morning and night. The stratus clouds

Hang so low, they simply

Morph into the mist that

Ghosts over the fields on the Whitley side,

Fields spare and yellow-brown, newly shorn,

Somehow almost alive under the slightly shifting,

Strangely clear, silver light that this morning brings;

How far away the sun seems, far as forever--

Still, even as these few miles of County Line Road

Pass by, both counties lighten, west and east.

My little car slows and somehow the radio's off.

No one's around. The light gathers and grows,

And I roll my window down. It's cold.

I watch the field for a moment, breathing slowly,

And with the mist, a small quiet slinks inside,

Here on a hill just past Liberty Mills.

Inexplicable, still --

Light and quiet --

That's what I found

On West County Line Road

One Monday morning

In November.

About the rhythm of a Monday

2008-11-23T17:04:00.004-05:00

You wake up and for a moment
You don't remember just who you are,
Or maybe where you're at,
Or maybe just something you don't want to.
Remember.
And then -- oh. yea.
A great gathering happens,
--It might take a minute--
And you roll
Out of bed and into your life.
Before you know you're cleansed,
Baptized for the day,
And in the car, and here's a half hour
Free for contemplation and horror
Eyes wide open to what lies ahead.
Just Monday, sure, sure, just
One more Monday in a life's calendar
Of Mondays and all they can bring, or not.
So you take those thirty minutes and
And sink into some Monday place
Where you mix one part anticipation
With three parts regret and
One part ennui. Shake and share.
But your cubicle neighbors have
Stirred their own cocktails and
Want you just to keep to yourself.
Which you do.

But we're a strong, resiliant, stubborn,
Foolishly optimism, terribly forgetful people, and
There's much to be said for
A cup of coffee and a smile.
If we're self-absorbed and
Uncommunicative at 8, by
Nine some of us are rediscovering
Civilization -- such as it is --
And by 10, we've managed to dress
Ourselves in more than clothes.
Here's who we need to be,
Here's the face we couldn't quite manage
Back there at 7. It takes longer, doesn't it,
For us to pull it together.

On Monday.

About this afternoon

2008-11-21T15:14:00.003-05:00

A week's long days slide into
One last afternoon.
Staring out the small window.
A low bank of gray clouds,
A thin slice of blue sky,
A chill, autumn aspect.
Tall, tired oaks,
Their brown leaves puddled round.
Wind gusts, we're all startled by
A sudden burst of snow.

About if I ruled the livingroom

2008-11-19T15:28:00.001-05:00

If I ruled the livingroom, there would be no white cat hair on the brown microfiber sofa.
There would be no unknown food smears there, either.
If I ruled the livingroom, my favorite blanket would never move from my favorite place to sit. Oh, and no one would ever sit in my favorite place except me, either.
If I ruled the livingroom, I would have either 1) total control of the remotes we have or 2) exact duplicates of every one.
Come to think of it, if I ruled the living room, I would have a remote that controls everything.
One. Remote. Just. One.
If I ruled the livingroom, that remote(s) would NEVER get lost. Ever. Get. Lost.
If I ruled the livingroom, we would be watching something that doesn't involve a ball. Anything. Without. A. Ball.
Because I was in a meeting last week, and people were talking about the shows they watch, and they were like, do you watch The Office? Or CSI: Wherever? Or Boston Legal? Or "Fill in this blank with your favorite show I've never seen."
And the answer would be, mostly: "No. Because that show 1) has no ball, and 2) no ESPN logo in the lower right."
But do you want to know the Notre Dame score? I know it. How about Ohio State? Ditto. How about that Ball State game? Call me. Colts? All over it. Browns too.
If I ruled the livingroom, I'd be all about Brothers and Sisters and maybe even 30 Rock and ... hmmmm ... some other show I can't remember right now.
And I'd be about ruling the DVD player and watching all those movies I've missed, including most of last years' Oscar winners and I'd watch Sex and the City again.
If I ruled the livingroom, I might sometimes even turn the TV OFF, as in NOT ON, and turn on some Boney James or maybe John Mayer or even, in a more lively vein, Coldplay, oh and the Twilight soundtrack, and then I'd be able to concentrate even more on what I usually do in the livingroom when I'm not ruling it, such as:
Read.
Write.
Surf.
Repeat.
If I ruled the livingroom, everyone else would be bored to tears, and move to another TV in the house, none of which is HD, which they would complain about, so I would be lonely in the livingroom, but entertained.
So, I continue to abdicate the control of the livingroom, and the remotes, and the sound level of the TV (usually too loud for me), and queue up the above-mentioned music on Napster, with headphones, and do the other stuff.
Cause I don't rule the livingroom.

About Sunday night

2008-11-16T22:22:00.004-05:00

We're at the mall

And it's families and teenagers

And the little girls, cooped up all day,

Run through the crowds.

They want to ride the carousel

Which they do, but for some reason

The music is silent; they glide around the food court

On zebra and stallion, in strange silence.

We wander into Penneys,

Joining the mothers and daughters

Looking at drapes and linens

And the husbands, staring at where they'd rather be.

So then we're hungry and hike the long way

Down the main hall, through thinning crowds

For it's almost six; Fort Wayne closing up early

On the day of rest, at the church of mall.

To Red Robin, where it's warm and busy,

More families skipping right through meal prep

At home to full service at the restaurant;

It sounds good to us too.

We pile into a booth and assure the hungry girls

That we'll eat soon; it's menus and drinks

And want-do-you-want-from-the-kids-menu;

Cheeseburgers and corndogs and chocolate milk.

While we sip our drinks and wait we

Plan for the future: Christmas and Thanksgiving,

Ballgames and school programs; practices and

Shopping and visitors from out of town.

Like magic a meal appears, one we didn't shop for,

Cook, worry over, nor will we clean up--

Indeed, that seems like a perfect recipe for

A day of rest to us.

Soon we're done, and we tumble out of the booth,

Coats rescued, bags claimed, bills paid,

Girls bundled up, tired now, wanting carried,

We're all ready to head home.

Out into the night, a cold parking lot,

Wind whipping the big flag across Coliseum;

The little girls lift their faces to the sky:

Look, it's snowing.

About change

2008-11-12T18:08:00.008-05:00

Absence of change may bore us, or comfort us; slight change may amuse us, or annoy us; great change, of any kind -- it frightens us, even if we have longed for the change.

In the United States, when leadership changes hands, there's change. Nearly always, the change that's coming has been talked about, anticipated, stump speeched, beaten with a stick, villified and/or demanded.

But because we hand over power so peaceably here, sometimes the change seems a long time comin'. We are a democratic, bicameral, bipartisian nation, after all--we change by consensus.

Although "consensus" can mean, "by an electoral landslide but just 6.5% of the popular vote."

Which leaves a lot of people feeling, well, to use a politcally correct phrase, disenfranchised.

I don't think that change will be so slow, this time, and if that makes some people almost wildly optimistic, it makes some disenfranchised others so upset they fly their American flags upsidedown and half-staff in the breeze.

Now: If I asked you to name a time in our history that seems to stand for change, you might say the '60s. Rock and roll, Vietnam, woman's liberation, the civil rights movement, the Cold War--all signs of change, right? We've never been the same.

Except I think those symptoms were of a change that had taken place almost two decades earlier, and were the last gasps of a society long gone. I think the '40s were the decade when the country changed--I think WWII forced us to change for good; if we went into denial a bit (quite a bit, actually) in the '50s, the '60s were the result of what happens when an entire society tries to pretend that women hadn't contributed as equal partners in the war effort, that black and white could stand as equals on the battlefield or elsewhere, that the U.S. was the leader of the free world, and that for God's sake, can't we find some way to solve the world's problems besides bombing and shooting the hell out of each other's best and brightest young people?

The change we're seeing now? Just a few HUNDRED years in the making. No wonder some of us are so upset.

My 53rd birthday was election day. Middle age has brought me two things, one I thought I'd never learn, and the other I tended to anyway: Patience, and pragmatism.

The patience I've learned will help me wait on this new administration; I don't expect these newbies to solve all our problems in the first year--maybe even the first term. There's a lot that needs changed, and I don't forget about that bicameral, bipartisian, flag-upside-down part of our government.

Pragmatism--common sense--tells me that not everything advertised can be delivered; that great promise can lead to great disappointment; that sometimes leaps of faith can trip us up.

But hope, my native optimism, tells me that miracles can happen, change can work for the good, that those who have learned from the past are not doomed to repeat it.

Patience, pragmatism, hope, change--

Yes we can.

About Veterans Day

2008-11-11T16:07:00.001-05:00

We ask the brave to give, over and over.

Not to Keep

"Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest - and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

--Robert Frost

About when the world changes

2008-11-05T22:33:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, election day, I turned 53 years old.

The entire world had been counting down to my birthday for over a year. Consequently, I embraced the day, rather than practice the denial I've practiced of late. Why fight it?

Because it became evident early this year that one way or another, history would be written this day. Somebody, by virture of their gender or the color of their skin, would make history on a day that is usually devoted to me, plain white female, getting older.

But who knew, who KNEW, just what kind of a day this ordinary birthday of mine would be?

In the 53 years I've now had, I can count three times when I was aware of the world changing around me. Days that maybe started just like always, but ended as touchstones for generations.

In 1963, when I had just turned 8, it was the assasination of President Kennedy. So much sadness for a second grader to understand. What a changed world that day left behind--something intangible lost that I think we still mourn for. And I'll never forget that second-grade classroom--we all remember "where we were" that day.

In 2001, a beautiful late summer day turned into the tragedy of 9/11--the world gasped, trembled, crumbled and is only just now being rebuilt. We Americans will never feel as untouchable as we did before that day.

Two horrible events when time stood still--surely enough for any lifetime.

But I woke up thinkin' that I now had to add to my list of world-changing, life-defining, time-stopping days.

My 53rd birthday, November 4, 2008. Just another birthday for me. But for our country, for the world, when Barack Obama walked out on the stage in Grant Park in Chicago, Illinois, to the cheers of a million people around him, as the new president-elect of the United States of America, a black man with a strange name and a cool demeanor but a warm smile, who dared to tell a cynical nation, yes we can be something diferent --

Time stood still; the world shifted its course a little--for a second, I was a new 8-year-old who believed that anything could happen, something good.

Maybe we could change the world.

If I could reach the stars I'd pull one down for you
Shine it on my heart so you could see the truth
That this love I have inside is everything it seems
But for now I find it's only in my dreams

That I can change the world
I would be the sunlight in your universe
You will think my love was really something good
Baby if I could change the world

If I could be king even for a day
I'd take you as my queen I'd have it no other way
And our love will rule in this kingdom we have made
Till then I'd be a fool wishin' for the day

That I can change the world
I would be the sunlight in your universe
You will think my love was really something good
Baby if I could change the world
Baby if I could change the world

That I can change the world
I would be the sunlight in your universe
You will think my love was really something good
Baby if I could change the world

--Eric Clapton

About the ghosts of Halloween

2008-10-31T14:41:00.005-04:00

They're here in the aisles of a discount store long gone, where a little girl picks out a witch costume, and contemplates how scary she'll be in the short black skirt, the cape, the hard plastic mask with warts and a long, crooked nose.

They're flitting around a stuffy classroom in the elementary school in Fitchville, Ohio, where the kids have left their desks and ineptly frost cupcakes, and that same little girl is just a little disappointed when she doesn't win the contest.

They're lurking in the corners of a big house with a long driveway off a state highway, where the knocks on the door with cries of "Trick or Treat!" are few, but the excitement of giving out candy is great.

They're following a group of four little kids as they trail around Fitchville, a town without a stop light but with enough streets to make a Halloween bag pleasantly heavy. The sharp fall wind might whip through her costume, and the little girl wonders why that lady always gives out apples (who needs an apple? There are plenty at home!), but she and her sisters and brother will have plenty of good stuff, anyway.

The ghosts whisper to me, reminding me of that little witch of long ago, and for a moment I ride a broom high above the few streets of Fitchville, catching a glimpse of the pumpkins flickering in the fall night, hearing the children shrieking between houses, feeling the wind that rustles the last leaves off the trees.

The ghosts of Halloween fly with me, always.

About a chance of snow

2008-10-28T15:25:00.003-04:00

Hearing the furnace kick on in the night,
feeling the warm air on my face. A drowsy sound.

Waking up and it's dark; reluctant to leave the warm flannel sheets.
A great act of will power to arise.

Peeking out the window. Afraid to see white.
But just the darkness of the lingering night.

Opening the door, letting the cat out, a blast of chill air wakes me up too quickly.
The wood floor cool to my feet.

In the sanctuary of the kitchen, I begin the liturgy of the coffee.
Its incense fills the house, a simple gift.

Getting ready, a shower cleansing and reviving me.
Blessed water.

Donning my office armor.
Putting on my game face, a sturdy defense against the day.

Turning on the radio to a litany of bad news.
Not the least of which is, a chance of snow.

About what might, or might not, be important

2008-10-24T10:27:00.002-04:00

Actually, I woke up thinking about a dream I'd had, which starred someone I really don't care about. And wondering why I'd dreamed about THEM--what did that MEAN? Then deciding ... that the dream just wasn't important (sorry, Dr. Freud).

Then I started thinking about today, and being glad it was Friday, and about how our work lunch bunch is going to a new Chinese buffet today, and that it would be fun. (And, hopefully, tasty.) And how a small thing like lunch with friends is important, because it means you have friends whom you want to be with.

Even if you end up talking about about politics, which is important, but sometimes depressing. Because we are a polarized society, and divisions among voters can be so ... divisive. Debating politics, rather than arguing about them, seems impossible in the current climate, but some of us try. And being judged on one's politics--that's what hurts the most. That if you are of a certain political bent, you've less patriotic, or even, sadly, less MORAL--that's hard to take. I might not be Joe the Plumber, but I am Cathy the U.S. citizen, and hopefully I'm just as American as Joe.

And I turned on the radio to the news on NPR that world stock markets were tanking--same song, third or fourth verse. And I got to thinking maybe I should change allocations around in my 403(b), even though I have no idea what I should move money TOO, or even if much is left to move....

So then I got to thinking about last night, when I was taking care of two of the little girls for a short time as their parents were at a parent-teacher conference for their big brother. Tay wanted to play her new memory game, so we got out the pieces and spread them on the floor. C-dawg wandered over and we tried to match up the Mickey Mouses and Goofys and Mickey Mouse Clubhouses (it's a Disney set).

We weren't having much success until we started cheating by turning all the pieces right-side-up. Since we all did it, I guess it's not cheating.

C-dawg had a piece with two bees on it, and couldn't find its match. "Are some pieces missing?" I asked. "Maybe," Tay said.

I made a sad face and in my full-of-fake-tears voice said to C-dawg, "Oh, these bees are all alone! We can't find the match."

She looked at me with 4-1/2 year-old disdain: "It's only a CARD," she told me.

I just laughed. I should have known better than to try to pump up sympathy for some cardboard bees.

That girl's got her head on right. She's not wasting any tears, or even fake sympathy, over something that isn't important.

But I still wonder where that other bee card went.....

About if I ruled the world

2008-10-21T16:17:00.001-04:00

And the song that is in my head today, maybe because of the proximity of the election, and the rueful look on President Bush's face every time I see him on TV lately:

Viva La Vida--Coldplay

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own
I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing:
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you go there was never, never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become
Revolutionaries Wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

Hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter will call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

About getting crowned, and I don't mean on your head like a queen or even a princess

2008-10-17T11:31:00.003-04:00

First it's the bad news during your teeth cleaning when the hygienist says, oh what is that? It might be a crack.

And she looks closer and puts the little camera in my mouth and suddenly there is my entire mouth cavity in all its pale pink moistiness on TV in front of everybody.

And she zooms in on the suspicious tooth and runs her little pointy instrument of death and poky torture over it and says, yes you have a crack right there see it?

And after trying not to look at all that mucous membrane grossiness but now I must look and just say, yea.

Because what to Miss Hygenist is just a crack in Number 18 Distel or Buckle or whatever that must be fixed is a future of pain and hurt and several hundred dollars for She Who Must Sit All Uncomfortable In the Dental Chair.

Then Miss Hygienist calls in Dr. Dentist and I'm thinking maybe he is waaay too young to even know what he's talking about and I ought to get up and go somewhere else, somewhere with a nice, old, cheap dentist, but this young one, when my pale pink moistiness is not filling the TV screen, he lets me have the remote and I can watch anything I want to during cleanings and get headphones too. So I guess I'll stay.

So Dr. Too-Young looks up on the screen then down in my mouth with his little mirror of decay detection and says, yep, she's got a crack in Number 18. She needs a crown. Let's get it scheduled.

And right then I am not wanting a crown, but some crack sounds good.

So I make the appointment at a time in the future that seems really far away but I know it's not. It's just long enough for the nice ladies at the front desk to send away for an insurance estimate, and yes, I take time to thank God I have dental insurance, and I get the estimate back and it's four figures, and no the insurance doesn't pay anywhere near that much so I'm wanting that crack again.

But that tooth, when the hygienist touched it with her shiny sharp instrument of death, it did hurt, so I know I better get crowned.

Which I did: After an hour of needles jabbed into my gums, numbing me to the point of drooling, jaws of life keeping my mouth open to the procedure, the high-pitched wail of the drill vibrating my whole head, my mouth filled with fluffy white putty stuff, the pungent airplane-glue-stuff that keeps the temporary crown on, not even CNN's Most Political News In the Morning could keep my mind off my mouth.

I just want to go home--and I can't even to that, because I have to go to work.

Where I sit, numb from lip to ear, tongue to cheek.

Queen Catherine of Novacaine. All hail. Sorry about the drool.

About 10 questions regarding Cathy's trip to Minnesota, for the2nd time this year

2008-10-12T21:53:00.005-04:00

Cathy spend the weekend coming and going to Minnesota! Let's find out more!

1. Cathy, why did you go to Minnesota AGAIN?
To a wedding, of course, my nosy friend! My BFF's youngest son was married in Mille Lacs/Onamia.

2. Where/what the heck is Mille Lacs?!
It's a beautiful area about 2 hours north of Minneapolis, my geographically challenged friend. On an Ojibwe Indian Reservation, there's a big casino and resort. There's also a big lake. And did I mention the casino?

3. Okay, we'll bite on the casino. How'd you do?
Your concern is appreciated, my thoughtful friend. I'm chicken to play 21 and I suck at slots. Even penny slots. In other words: I did badly. But it was fun trying because they have free pop.

4. Free pop? Weren't you too sloshed from the free booze?
Unfortunately not, Kemosabe. Mille Lacs is a dry county. I mean, desert dry. Nada. Smoking at the casino--okay. Drinking at the casino--doesn't happen.

5. So how cold was it in Minnesota? We're sure winter has hit up there.
Not so much, my meteorologically inclined friend. While no record warm temperatures were set, it was a balmy 66, although much more cloudy with more chances for rain.

6. How about the fall color? Past peak?
I'd say, just at peak, my nature-loving friend. Many more reds and yellows than we see here. Also, more evergreens of the pine persuasion.

7. Okay, so you flew into Minneapolis. We know the airport is right next door to THE MALL of America and your personal Mecca, IKEA. Did you bite?
Fifty-fifty, my shopoholic friend. Indeed we could not pass THE MALL without a short lunch stop at Bubba Gump's and a quick dart into Marshall's. So sadly, IKEA must wait for another day.

8. In this time of financial crisis, how do you gauge the mood of the traveling/gambling public?
A discerning question, my inquisitor. Airports: busy. Airplanes: VERY full, to standby levels. Mall: Busy. Casino: Packed. Topics of conversation: Anything BUT the value of one's 401K.

9. And how was the wedding?
Tip-top and smashing, Miss Manners. The bride and groom, teachers both, were young and beautiful; the bridal party a fun-loving bunch; the families pleased with the union; the ceremony, heart-felt and joyous; the reception, a damn fine party. And did I mention the cake?

10. So, was the manic pace of the trip worth it?
Any trip that includes a visit to the Mall of America and wedding cake, my solicitious friend, is more than worth it. Plus, we saw two windmills on the way to the event. And, we got to dance to Hey, Ya! Now that's my kind of reception.

About the fear of fear itself

2008-10-09T09:59:00.004-04:00

Sometimes we need to listen to the pastor; sometimes to the poet; sometimes to the professor. In these days, we are often left listening to the politician and the pundit--unfortunately.

The politicians have too much at stake to be able to speak candidly--dare I suggest, even honestly? A handful of votes can decide an election, even a national one--hello, Florida. And the pundits have too much at stake, too, for common sense to prevail over hysteria--a ratings swing to another channel can mean one's job.

So I got to thinking about President Roosevelt's speech, which seems to be getting quoted by left and right, in miniature. How much more do we know of it than the "fear of fear itself" line? And if indeed that snippet is painfully true this October, how much more of the speech can we learn from?

There is much, and in that spirit, I reproduce the text and offer a video. The speech is President Roosevelt's First Inaugural Address, on Saturday, March 4, 1933.

President Hoover, Mr. Chief Justice, my friends:

This is a day of national consecration. And I am certain that on this day my fellow Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency, I will address them with a candor and a decision which the present situation of our people impels.

This is preeminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great Nation will endure, as it has endured, will revive and will prosper.

So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life, a leadership of frankness and of vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. And I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days.

In such a spirit on my part and on yours we face our common difficulties. They concern, thank God, only material things. Values have shrunk to fantastic levels; taxes have risen; our ability to pay has fallen; government of all kinds is faced by serious curtailment of income; the means of exchange are frozen in the currents of trade; the withered leaves of industrial enterprise lie on every side; farmers find no markets for their produce; and the savings of many years in thousands of families are gone. More important, a host of unemployed citizens face the grim problem of existence, and an equally great number toil with little return. Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment.

And yet our distress comes from no failure of substance. We are stricken by no plague of locusts. Compared with the perils which our forefathers conquered, because they believed and were not afraid, we have still much to be thankful for. Nature still offers her bounty and human efforts have multiplied it. Plenty is at our doorstep, but a generous use of it languishes in the very sight of the supply.

Primarily, this is because the rulers of the exchange of mankind's goods have failed, through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted their failure, and have abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men.

True, they have tried. But their efforts have been cast in the pattern of an outworn tradition. Faced by failure of credit, they have proposed only the lending of more money. Stripped of the lure of profit by which to induce our people to follow their false leadership, they have resorted to exhortations, pleading tearfully for restored confidence. They only know the rules of a generation of self-seekers. They have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish.

Yes, the money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of that restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit.

Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy, the moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days, my friends, will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves, to our fellow men.

Recognition of that falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. Small wonder that confidence languishes, for it thrives only on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection, and on unselfish performance; without them it cannot live.

Restoration calls, however, not for changes in ethics alone. This Nation is asking for action, and action now.

Our greatest primary task is to put people to work. This is no unsolvable problem if we face it wisely and courageously. It can be accomplished in part by direct recruiting by the Government itself, treating the task as we would treat the emergency of a war, but at the same time, through this employment, accomplishing great -- greatly needed projects to stimulate and reorganize the use of our great natural resources.

Hand in hand with that we must frankly recognize the overbalance of population in our industrial centers and, by engaging on a national scale in a redistribution, endeavor to provide a better use of the land for those best fitted for the land.

Yes, the task can be helped by definite efforts to raise the values of agricultural products, and with this the power to purchase the output of our cities. It can be helped by preventing realistically the tragedy of the growing loss through foreclosure of our small homes and our farms. It can be helped by insistence that the Federal, the State, and the local governments act forthwith on the demand that their cost be drastically reduced. It can be helped by the unifying of relief activities which today are often scattered, uneconomical, unequal. It can be helped by national planning for and supervision of all forms of transportation and of communications and other utilities that have a definitely public character. There are many ways in which it can be helped, but it can never be helped by merely talking about it.

We must act. We must act quickly.

And finally, in our progress towards a resumption of work, we require two safeguards against a return of the evils of the old order. There must be a strict supervision of all banking and credits and investments. There must be an end to speculation with other people's money. And there must be provision for an adequate but sound currency.

These, my friends, are the lines of attack. I shall presently urge upon a new Congress in special session detailed measures for their fulfillment, and I shall seek the immediate assistance of the 48 States.

Through this program of action we address ourselves to putting our own national house in order and making income balance outgo. Our international trade relations, though vastly important, are in point of time, and necessity, secondary to the establishment of a sound national economy. I favor, as a practical policy, the putting of first things first. I shall spare no effort to restore world trade by international economic readjustment; but the emergency at home cannot wait on that accomplishment.

The basic thought that guides these specific means of national recovery is not nationally -- narrowly nationalistic. It is the insistence, as a first consideration, upon the interdependence of the various elements in and parts of the United States of America -- a recognition of the old and permanently important manifestation of the American spirit of the pioneer. It is the way to recovery. It is the immediate way. It is the strongest assurance that recovery will endure.

In the field of world policy, I would dedicate this Nation to the policy of the good neighbor: the neighbor who resolutely respects himself and, because he does so, respects the rights of others; the neighbor who respects his obligations and respects the sanctity of his agreements in and with a world of neighbors.

If I read the temper of our people correctly, we now realize, as we have never realized before, our interdependence on each other; that we can not merely take, but we must give as well; that if we are to go forward, we must move as a trained and loyal army willing to sacrifice for the good of a common discipline, because without such discipline no progress can be made, no leadership becomes effective.

We are, I know, ready and willing to submit our lives and our property to such discipline, because it makes possible a leadership which aims at the larger good. This, I propose to offer, pledging that the larger purposes will bind upon us, bind upon us all as a sacred obligation with a unity of duty hitherto evoked only in times of armed strife.

With this pledge taken, I assume unhesitatingly the leadership of this great army of our people dedicated to a disciplined attack upon our common problems.

Action in this image, action to this end is feasible under the form of government which we have inherited from our ancestors. Our Constitution is so simple, so practical that it is possible always to meet extraordinary needs by changes in emphasis and arrangement without loss of essential form. That is why our constitutional system has proved itself the most superbly enduring political mechanism the modern world has ever seen.

It has met every stress of vast expansion of territory, of foreign wars, of bitter internal strife, of world relations. And it is to be hoped that the normal balance of executive and legislative authority may be wholly equal, wholly adequate to meet the unprecedented task before us. But it may be that an unprecedented demand and need for undelayed action may call for temporary departure from that normal balance of public procedure.

I am prepared under my constitutional duty to recommend the measures that a stricken nation in the midst of a stricken world may require. These measures, or such other measures as the Congress may build out of its experience and wisdom, I shall seek, within my constitutional authority, to bring to speedy adoption.

But, in the event that the Congress shall fail to take one of these two courses, in the event that the national emergency is still critical, I shall not evade the clear course of duty that will then confront me. I shall ask the Congress for the one remaining instrument to meet the crisis -- broad Executive power to wage a war against the emergency, as great as the power that would be given to me if we were in fact invaded by a foreign foe.

For the trust reposed in me, I will return the courage and the devotion that befit the time. I can do no less.

We face the arduous days that lie before us in the warm courage of national unity; with the clear consciousness of seeking old and precious moral values; with the clean satisfaction that comes from the stern performance of duty by old and young alike. We aim at the assurance of a rounded, a permanent national life.

We do not distrust the -- the future of essential democracy. The people of the United States have not failed. In their need they have registered a mandate that they want direct, vigorous action. They have asked for discipline and direction under leadership. They have made me the present instrument of their wishes. In the spirit of the gift I take it.

In this dedication -- In this dedication of a Nation, we humbly ask the blessing of God.

May He protect each and every one of us.

May He guide me in the days to come.

And may cooler heads, common sense, and wise policies prevail!

About the conversations I overheard

2008-10-06T15:20:00.002-04:00

Just walking around at the Apple Festival on Sunday.

"... I think there's a entrance in the fence over this way by the grandstand...."

"What is that?" "It's from the basket-weaving tent." "But what is it?" "It's a potholder or something."

"Did you see the debate the other night?" "Yea, I thought Sarah Palin...."

"Your candle looks like a banana."

"Do you want to make a doll?" "That's not a doll." "It's a doll made of corn husks." "That's not a doll."

"Mommy I need a drink." "Do you want some root beer?" "Mommy do I like root beer?" "Yes."

"I might buy that basket." "What's it for?" "For the cat." "I don't think the cat will sleep in that basket."

"Where are the elephant ears?" "That booth is closed." "But I saw people walking around with elephant ears!" "Don't ask me."

"Do they have caramel apples without the nuts?" "Do you want a whole apple or one cut up?" "I don't care, I just don't want nuts."

"And I think he is for McCain, but there's no sign in the yard...."

"Where did all these people come from?" "Can't just be Kendallville."

"Let's go listen to the music." "I want to dance." "You can dance." "You dance with me." "Ah, no."

"Let's go to the craft area." "It's in the livestock barn." "Well I hope they cleaned it out."

"They're shearing sheep over there." "Why do they do that?" "We make clothes from the wool." "Oh, yuck!"

"Did you hear this joke on Fox News? No African-Americans are going to vote for Obama because...."

"Did we have that last year? I thought we had the Caramel Apple Sundae...."

"Yea, it goes until 5...."

"Where'd we park?"

About the library on Friday afternoon

2008-09-28T20:15:00.003-04:00

The scent. Always the scent for me, of books and books and books, stacks of books, rows of books, piles of books, old books and new books, fiction and non. Breathing in deeply and feeling so at home among the dusty, papery smell of all the books.

The muted busyness of the library. The quiet calm of yesterday's libraries long passed. The murmur of conversation, the click of computer keys, the beep of the computer scanner, the laughter of children.

Overhearing the conversations: "Have we seen this one? I think we've seen this one." "Can I get another, Mommy? Just one more?" "That's his latest one. Did you read the one before?" "We don't have it but can get it from the main library." "If you like the Weepies, you'll like this one."

My books on hold, treasure just for me, I quickly find, and move to the shelves that always have the newest books, then to the stacks by letter, looking for this favorite author, that favorite author, always searching for that new book I can't resist.

Shelves of books, chaotic rainbows of book spines, hypnotizing me as I walk up and down, looking for the book I seek. So many books I've read and so many yet to go.

My library card in hand, burning like a credit card with no limit, and I am so tempted by all the books, the many many books, that I reign in my need to just check them all out--I can't carry them all.

A long line waiting to be checked out by a very-black-haired, many-pierced, way funky librarian, not named Marion, but Josh.

Finally my turn with my precious pile of books. Josh lets me know I owe $4 in overdue fines from my last fix.

A small price to pay.