The Wreath

The satin ribbon, months earlier faded from the summer sun beating down upon it, blew haphazardly in the November wind. A dull gold bead, once a glittery spot in a nest of greenery, plopped down onto the floor, rolled into the crevice between the boards and disappeared under the porch. And the ragged pine needles, though artificial, looked weathered and worn from hanging there since the Christmas before.

Although I’d turned my head and glanced at the wreath every time I left the driveway, something inside me could not bear to take it down. Not yet.

The wreath was just one of a few Christmas decorations that never made it back into the box that January.

The January that my life stopped in its tracks.

And because of that, I couldn’t take the wreath down. I just couldn’t.

The wreath was a part of what defined my life before, before my life changed that cold and bitter day. Looking at the wreath reminded me of what I had lost and the pain that I still felt. Taking it down would somehow signify that life was normal again - except it wasn’t. And I didn't want to pretend that it was.

As the winter snow melted, exposing the fresh new sprouts of grass, the wreath hung there. Dandelions speckled the spring lawn like yellow bursts of star light in a dark green sky.   The wreath hung there. Through the hot summer days, the wreath was dry and parched, only to be dampened by the humid clouds that created a hazy backdrop. The seasons came and passed, and still as the cold autumn winds of November rustled through the brown corn tops in the field, the wreath hung there.

Almost a year had passed, and I was still not able to take it down.

I prayed for a Divine intervention.

A week later,  returning home from a day at work, I walked up the sidewalk to the kitchen door.  As I swung the door open, there on the kitchen table, I saw a new green wreath, embellished with a red and silver satin ribbon, sparkling burgundy poinsettias, walnut colored pinecones, and shiny red cranberries.

The boys bought it for you, my husband explained.

Heaviness was lifted from my heart that afternoon, as I took the lifeless wreath down from its hanger on the front door. The wreath had served its purpose. A symbol of pain and suffering no longer, I tossed it into the trash, held the match close enough for the flame to set it afire and watched it disappear.

As I hung the new Christmas wreath on the front door, I stood back and marveled at its beauty. Its freshness indeed signified a fresh start, a new beginning.

A perfect circle- of unending love.
.

True Meaning

The old man sat on the edge of the bed. I watched him with utmost preciseness tear off exactly the right amount of tape. He knew the routine well. Five pieces of tape, criss-crossed over each other in the shape of an asterisk would cover her incision perfectly.

His eyes were filled with love. Love for this woman he met over fifty years ago. A woman he had spent most of his life with.

Fifty years ago, vows were said.

At that time, he probably wasn’t paying much attention to the words. He repeated the words “to love and to cherish”. He repeated the words “in sickness and in health”. And he repeated the words “‘til death do us part”. Fifty years ago they were likely just words.

It would take a lifetime to bring true meaning to them.

A lifetime learning to truly care about this other person.

Caring through sharing life’s experiences – the happy times, the sad times, and even the angry times.

As he placed the last piece of tape over the incision she muttered something he couldn’t understand. To satisfy her inquisitiveness, he calmly agreed with her.

Fifty years ago, vows were said. Today they have true meaning.

The Owner's Manual

The wiper blades scrambled back and forth, trying to keep up with the raindrops that were pelting the windshield. The outdoor thermometer in the Tahoe read 43 degrees, but even so, the drops kept getting larger and thicker – like tiny snowballs splattering on the glass.

Yes, it was a wet and chilly October morning and Mickey and I were on the way to the orthodontist for her monthly braces adjustment. Mickey sat entranced by the rhythm of the wipers, while I was just plain annoyed that I had to have them on at full speed. A summer as dry as can be, and now – when we don’t need the rain – here it is, and has been for the last couple days.

Rain, rain, go away – come again some other … hey, what is that little red light on my Tahoe’s instrument panel? I’d never seen that one before. Usually the amber colored light indicates whether the vehicle is in 4-wheel drive or 2-wheel drive. It looks like the letter “N”. And it’s red. I press the button for 2-wheel drive. No response. I press the other button for 4-wheel drive. No response.

“Well, I’m going to pull over and stop,” before Mickey could ask me what in the world I was doing.

Just like my computer, I’ll bet this one just needs to be rebooted. So I pull over on the side of the road, put the ignition in Park, and shut off the engine. One, two, three … I count to ten and start the engine again and pull out onto the highway.

Darn, the red light is still on.

“Grab my cell phone out of my purse…I think it’s in there,” I say to Mickey – jolting her out of her trance.

“Call Dad – press 2 – I’ve got him on speed dial,” I add, keeping my eyes on the road – and the red light.

Amazingly, he actually answered his phone!

“Yeah, I’ve got this red light with a little “N” by it on the panel where it should say 2-wheel drive. What’s that all about? It wasn’t there when I left. I’ve never even seen it before.”

“I dunno. Must be in Neutral or something,” is his reply.

“Well, is that dangerous, I mean will it stop moving while I’m driving or something?"

“If it was in Neutral it shouldn’t be moving at all,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Should I stop somewhere and have it looked at?”

“I dunno.”

I could see this conversation was going nowhere. So I said goodbye and shut my phone.

Mickey grabbed the Tahoe owner’s manual out of the glove compartment. She said, “I can look it up.” I thought, why not? So I told her to search the Table of Contents for 4-Wheel Drive, as I continued down the highway.

Oh, she found it right away.

“SHIFT THE VEHICLE’S TRANSFER CASE TO NEUTRAL ONLY WHEN YOU ARE TOWING THE VEHICLE”, read the warning letters in bold and caps.

Well, we were obviously not towing the vehicle, we were bounding down the highway at about 56 miles an hour and all I could think of is CRAP. Now what?

Mickey turns the page. “Oh, here it says what to do!” she exclaims – and begins to read more. “Set the parking brake and apply the regular brake pedal. Shift the transmission to Neutral and turn the ignition to Run with the engine off."

“Wait, I’ve got to pull over,” I beg, “then read it to me again, step by step.”

I quickly exit to the side of the road again and she continues reading – as I follow her directions.

“Press the button for the desired transfer case shift position. After the transfer case has shifted out of Neutral the Neutral light will go out.”

GUESS WHAT - IT DID!

“Now, Mom – release the parking brake. Start the engine and shift the transmission to the desired position.”

All was well except for the red brake light which followed simultaneously. By now, Mickey is flipping through the owner’s manual at an expert’s pace. I know that when I released the parking brake it must not have released fully. But she doesn’t. And so I pull over – again – to fiddle with the parking brake as she is reading me the instructions on how to get rid of the red brake light.

When that was gone, and we were back on the road again, I wasn’t annoyed by the hyperactive wipers anymore. I was just happy as can be that we only wasted ten minutes of our time this morning.

Mickey turns to me and bursts out excitedly, “See Mom, we don’t even need men. We fixed this all by ourselves!”

“Yup, we did a good job, didn’t we?” I agreed, thinking most men don’t usually get the owner’s manual out.

We pulled into the parking lot at the orthodontist right on time – and I added, “See Mickey, that’s why we always leave a tad early – just in case … we have to fix our car or something along the way.”

Maybe Tomorrow

I’ve driven past the spot many times. No, I will never forget what happened there. Each and every time, my mind pauses for a second as I remember.

But tonight I’m all alone. It’s dark. As I crest the hill, like a skipping record, the scene plays over and over just as it has a hundred times before in my mind. His car was on the wrong side of the road right here. And in a split second, quicker than I can inhale a breath of air, I’m over the hill.

A tear escapes the confines of my body and gently rolls down my cheek. It had to have happened that quickly.

The event had one common thread – it changed the lives of six families forever. Some lost their lives and some lost life as they knew it.

But everyone lost something that night.

Something that they will never get back.

Whether we’re struggling to recapture a piece of ourselves that we lost that night, or struggling to hold on to the memories we have – I’m sure we’re all still struggling.

Because life changed forever that cold January night.

Tonight as my car drives past the spot, I can’t believe I’m still stuck in this whirlwind of life – trying desperately to find something tangible to cling to - something to help define who we are now – anything at all to comfort me and reassure me about the doubts I have for our future.

No, it never goes away.

I wipe away the tear with the back of my hand.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I will find it.

Mmmm...

I shoved the half-eaten Ghirardelli caramel square in my purse, quickly folding over the opened end of the wrapper. I didn’t want my daughter to see me eating candy, after all, we had just eaten lunch and I wasn’t even hungry. And she is so health-conscious.

Me – not quite so. I mean yes, I am concerned about my health, but for some unbeknownst reason I frequently (every day) feel the urge to finalize my noon lunch with something sweet. Just a bite.

Why? BECAUSE I'M PART NORWEGIAN, THAT'S WHY!

After all, my Grandma Ollie always had to have just a bite of something sweet after lunch. Or with her coffee.

To further validate my theory – the next day at work we somehow got on the subject of those who salt their tomato slices versus those who sugar them. “Norwegians sugar everything,” Jay, a co-worker of mine stated matter-of-factly, as if there were to be no debate on the matter.

Which brings me back to the Ghirardelli square.

I tossed my purse into the back seat, and temporarily forgot about the candy bar until the next day at school.

Bounding into my office between classes, Mickey asked “Do you have any gum in your purse?”

“Yup, here – grab it,” I replied.

Mickey unzips my purse, sticks her fingers into my purse to grab the gum, when she all of a sudden spouts, “Ewwww….what’s this?” Her hand comes out of the purse with a long string of caramel attached to a couple of her fingers.

“Oh, just some candy. I forgot it was in there,” I said, trying to act like I hadn’t snuck it the other day without her knowledge.

She licked her fingers and took a piece of gum. “Mmmm,” she said, turning around and scooting out, just as quickly as she had come in.

When I got home from work I emptied the contents of my purse out onto the kitchen table and proceeded to wash the caramel off EVERYTHING.

Why do I get these urges? Because I’m part Norwegian – yes, I’m convinced.

Today when I grabbed my appointment book out of my purse I struggled to get the October calendar page open.

Because it was stuck to September. And November. And December. And the subsequent three months in 2010.

So I got the scissors out of my desk drawer and cut the caramel off the corner of each page that was infected with this gooey, sweet mess.

Mmmm…

A Special Gift from God

“Mom, I think he’s the one,” the daughter excitedly bursts out. Mom tries to hold in her joy so as to not look overanxious, even though she’s doing flips in her head. Mom is there for her daughter, her best friend. Mom listens when needed, and gently gives advice. Mom and her daughter are connected, just as they were in the beginning.

Dad watches his daughter from afar. As she matures and blossoms into a beautiful young woman, he can’t help but think of all the times he pushed her on the swing – her feet almost reaching the clouds. He can’t help but think of the times he helped her with her homework – even when he really didn’t remember Algebra that well. He can’t help but think of the times he changed the tires on her car – so that she would be safe on the road. And he can’t help but think of the time he proudly watched her walk down the aisle at commencement.

A mom and her daughter plan the wedding. It will be the day of her dreams. They choose the dresses, the wedding party, the reception, the food. They get their nails done. They get their hair done. A mother and her daughter share each other’s company and each other’s time – precious time together.

Truly, Mom and daughter share a special connection – woman to woman. But Dad and daughter share a special connection as well – he is the man in her life. Dad holds her tightly in his arms so nothing can harm her. He is her rock; her strength.

As she walks down this next aisle – the wedding aisle, Dad will be there to guide her on the way – but then must carefully let her go, as she begins the next part of her journey in life. He will no longer be the only man in her life, and he lovingly entrusts her to another.

God plants the daughter in her mom and dad’s life as a seed and entrusts them to nurture, care for her and watch her grow. God stands by her mom and dad as they protect her from harm. God helps Mom and Dad keep her from growing in the wrong direction, to stand tall and to reach towards heaven.

A daughter is truly a special gift from God, and as my two friends prepare to let go of their baby girl, I wish them all the most joy that life can offer.

Are we coming or going?

What a week!

Mickey’s week anyway. She was spreading herself thinly between volleyball and football cheerleading. And school. Volleyball practice after school on Monday was followed by a quick shower at school and cold lunch in the car on the way to cheerleading practice at our co-op school, twenty minutes away. Cheer practice was especially important this week - Homecoming Week. The dance routine had to be perfect – the lift had to go off without a hitch. Or Mickey would tumble to the grass.

Game day was Tuesday. This one would be a home volleyball game. Mickey rode home from school with me. She did some homework, grabbed a quick sandwich, her duffle bag and I took her back to school – under directions from the coach to have all players on the floor by 5:30 p.m.

Wednesday was another normal day at school, followed by volleyball practice. The after-practice shower was repeated as the Mickey departed again for her cheer duties, this day with a roast beef sandwich, two pop tarts and a banana in hand. Spirit games for homecoming would begin at 7:00 and conclude at 9:00. Mickey made it to bed earlier tonight – by about 10:00 – and went on her own will – without any prodding from me.

Thursday’s away volleyball game was just about as far away as one could imagine – an hour drive over the hills and through the valleys to a town nestled in the middle of nowhere. With another cold lunch for the bus ride, yesterday’s roast beef was replaced by two peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. Homework was completed on the bus. Thankfully for Mom, (but not for the team) the volleyball games were over in three, lending an earlier-than-normal departure for home. As the phone rang at about 9:15 p.m., Mickey was on the other end, “Mom – we stopped for something to eat – but I have no idea where we are. I’ll call you when we get closer to home.” (Mickey only knows the whereabouts of the mall…nothing else.) By ten o’clock the phone was ringing again – this time her call to be picked up at school.

After a quick shower, Mickey was in bed by 10:30.

Jolted out of bed at 5:30 a.m. by her alarm clock – set about forty-five minutes earlier than usual, Mickey had to be at school by 6:30 a.m. today to catch the football & cheerleading bus on its way to an early morning church service and breakfast – a longstanding homecoming tradition. How did she get to school? Her mother had to get up earlier as well. With only one full bath in the house, I didn’t want to be rubbing elbows with Mickey any more than I had to while we were both standing in front of the sink.

So I grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste and went into the kitchen to brush.
Scrounging through the refrigerator, I decided today we would have turkey and cheese sandwiches. I made one for Mickey and one for myself.

I haven’t seen my daughter very much this week, even though I work at the same school she attends. Even though she sleeps in her bed every night. Even though we bump elbows in the bathroom every morning. When I got to the football game Friday night, I proudly watched Mickey perform her part in the dance routine, flawlessly (from my viewpoint). After the game she came over to me and a friend who were talking.

"I’m so tired," she said. "I was tired all day. I’ve got to tell you what happened during Science class today."

Here’s her story-

After lunch we had study hall in the library. I was so tired, so I got a book and pretended to read it, but really I was just sitting there with my head tilted down so I could rest my eyes. The next hour was Science class. We were supposed to be doing a lab. I sat on the edge of the chair and put my elbow on the table. I could hear the teacher talking, but eventually the sound of her voice started to fade and all I could hear was very far away – words that I couldn’t quite make out. My head nodded a couple times, and I jolted it back, trying to resist the blanket of sleep which was surrounding me, wrapping me tighter and tighter.

A few seconds later I found myself on the floor. Bryce was the only classmate who saw me slide out of the chair and onto the floor. He came to my side and said, “Are you okay?” I looked at him, kind of confused and said, “What happened?” At that point I realized that I fell asleep in class and fell out of my chair onto the floor!

By now Mickey is laughing as she is telling us this story over and over again.

Thankfully, Mickey slept in Saturday morning. And lounged in front of the television all day. Until it was time to get ready for the event which would be the culmination of the whole week – the Homecoming Dance.

We started with her hair at 5:00 p.m. and by 7:00 she was ready to go! I took her to her date’s house where both of us moms took a few pictures of the semi-cooperative couple. I had to stay awake until it was time to go pick them up at the dance at midnight. And take her date and another friend home.

Not all weeks are like this. We crawled into bed at 1:00 a.m.

Mickey’s going to lay low today – after she gets home from church, where she had to wait tables from 10:30-12:30 for the fall festival.

I’m sure next week will be better …

Random Thoughts Not Worthy of an Entire Blog Post

My son is downsizing. When he moved away he took with him the contents of his refrigerator: 10 bottles of hot sauce. When he moved back a year and a half later, he brought with him the contents of his refrigerator: 6 bottles of hot sauce.

Lest I shall lose my mind over the fact that my back yard is all dirt and grass seed, I decided there is one tiny advantage (only one) to having your back yard torn up. You can shake the rug right out the door without having to step outside. The disadvantage is the need to sweep the floor every 30 seconds.

Just found my husband’s list for hunting in Colorado: reading glasses, long underwear, socks, beer, pop, ice, meat. Looks like all the essentials to me. Wish I could write lists that short.

Sister and I went out on the town this weekend. The walk- in-clinic, Kwik Trip for a cup of decaf coffee, and then home. Nothing like it used to be. Twenty years ago we could be found on a Friday night out on the town with friends, staying up into the wee hours of the morning and repeating the whole thing on Saturday night. Thanks for driving me, sis – and giving up your snoozing time on the sofa! P.S. I’m okay…nothing compared to the lady in the clinic who came in with a mask and sneezing!

Trying to get dressed for work and leave the house on time, I know now why Grandma wore a big string of beads around her neck. She could slip the necklace right over her head without trying to unhook a tiny, tiny, tiny gold clasp. I’ve now added a pair of glasses to my dresser also.

Back to my son – Mickey says most of her friends are sad that their older brothers and sisters have moved away to college. She told them “at least your older brother hasn’t moved back home!” Mainly, she doesn’t want to share the television with him now. And put up with his teasing. But he did let her drive his car on Sunday – just up Grandma’s driveway.

I’ve decided that when you get to be 49, it’s not a big deal what you wear to the class reunion. By this age, everyone’s either got too much gray, not enough gray, or too many love-handles (speaking for myself of course). Most importantly, no one cares anymore. It’s just good to see old friends!

Speaking of 49, I told my granddaughter Chrissy on my birthday last year that I’m not having any more birthday parties “I’m not going to get any older,” I stated to her matter-of-factly. She looked at me, the wheels turning in her head as she tried to create a vision of me getting younger instead of older and said, “well, Grandma, you’d better start eating healthy stuff then.”

Have a good weekend!

Off To College

Reprinted from August 28, 2008 - in honor of all the moms letting go as their kids pack up and head out to college.

I could just tell they were “college shopping”. The mom and her son were putting a set of bed sheets into their cart. Right away I thought of the day ten years ago that Jonathan went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

Oh my gosh, I thought we would never get going because he waited until the day before to pack. That night when he was wandering around aimlessly, I made him a little checklist. Good thing I did, because he would have forgotten his alarm clock.

In less than 24 hours I think I managed to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Not that I hadn’t been trying to teach him all along, but you know – it’s the last minute second-guessing, wondering if you did the parenting right that gets you.

The drive into unknown territory took a couple hours. As we were parked outside his dorm unloading our car, I quickly realized that the girls I saw moving in were carrying quite a bit more than we were. Lamps, furry chairs, bulletin boards – lots of big stuff. I do remember picking out a set of extra long twin sheets for his bed, plus a basket to carry his shampoo and soap in to the shower, but other than that – he packed up the most important things – his computer, stereo and television. Oh, and some clothes. Plus his school supplies - a pen, notebook and folder.

As we stood in line to check in, I found myself leading the way. All of a sudden I realized – I have to let him do this by himself. So I stepped back.

And waited.

Finally he got in line. He picked up his keys, filled out the paperwork and we trudged upstairs to find his room. Why are dorm rooms always on the top floor?

I did the introductions to his roommate. Well, someone had to say something! You guessed it, he is very shy. So shy in fact, that he proceeded to put his computer together without even looking at the other guy in the room. So I did the small talk - my thoughts are in parenthesis here for you to read.

Where do you live? (Just got out of prison.)
What do your parents do? (Alcohol and drugs.)
Do you have brothers and sisters? (In half-way houses.)
What are your hobbies? (Playing with knives and guns.)

We walked around campus and took care of some business. I think we walked about ten miles – or at least long enough for my feet to really hurt. We ate some lunch and then went back to the dorm room. His roommate wasn’t there right then, so I thought we should say our good-byes and get going. No eighteen year old guy wants a kiss from his mom in front of his new roommate. Plus, we had to pick up Mickey at Grandma’s.

That’s right, I still have a 5-year old at home to take care of. Almost forgot.

I gave my son a big hug and kiss and told him I loved him. I told him to call me. (This was before cell phones, texting and even before instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About twenty-nine miles out of town, my eyes welled up with tears. I silently sobbed for a half hour and then was real quiet the remainder of the trip. Finally I was okay - until that evening, when I went downstairs to his bedroom.

As I got to the bottom of the steps I looked around. A lot of his things were gone – but a lot of stuff was still there. His golf ball collection and the posters on his wall. His cds and dart board. Plus the clothes he didn’t need to take along.

I don’t know why, but I opened his top dresser drawer.

Staring at me were fifty-two white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

Truffles, Anyone?

I’d been driving for the past two weeks with my car’s amber check engine light staring me in the face. But since the car wasn’t spitting or sputtering, I was in no hurry to take it over the bluff once again to see what the dealer’s computer had to say about the little light. Until I realized that this weekend I would be driving my daughter and a friend, plus my two granddaughters and their mother on a two hour adventure across the Mississippi River into Minnesota. Safety is of course, a top priority.

So I called for a service appointment.

The drive over the hill was pretty. Queen Anne’s lace and black-eyed Susan’s were in full bloom along the roadside. Corn stalks yielded fuzzy tassels billowing in the gentle breeze. I even spotted a white-tailed deer grazing in the soybean field – wary of my passing through, but not quite enough to make him bolt. And as a bonus, the pot holes in the road were freshly filled.

I dropped the car at the dealership and Mickey and I decided to take a stroll around the block. It had been years since I had explored the little town of Wabasha, Minnesota. Lots of things there have changed – the dime store is gone, the grocery store has built a new building closer to the highway, and the local mercantile is now office space. In their place, Wabasha has focused its energy on the new National Eagle Center and several small specialty shops and antique stores.

And a chocolate store. An awesome chocolate store. Filled with chocolate.

I knew right away I was not leaving this place empty-handed. The only question in my mind was - which treat would I choose? The weathered pine floor boards in the old brick building creaked as I paced back and forth in front of the counter. Peering through the glass with my taste buds practically jumping out of my mouth, I spotted some cashew turtles. And some butter almond toffee. And truffles of every flavor – raspberry, mint and even oreo.

A half-pound of turtles lends you about six of them. Of course the box was too big so I told the clerk to add two more. At least that filled the box – and it looked a lot better. The half-pound of butter almond toffee fit into a box about four by six inches.

Mickey and I stepped outside and sat on the bench in front of the bookstore. I couldn’t wait and cracked open the box of turtles. The caramel enveloping the cluster of cashews was homemade as well. Sticky and buttery, it stuck to my teeth. Mmmm. The chocolate melted in my mouth (and my hand). Mmmm.

Back at the car dealership, I was happy to find out that they were able to diagnose and fix my vehicle on-site so I didn’t have to come back tomorrow. The gas cap had a leak in it. Which I guess can be a safety factor should you roll the vehicle over. So they fixed it – with a $81.17 gas cap.

Oh, and don’t forget the $26.95 worth of chocolate.

Hmmm…maybe it would have been fun to have to come back tomorrow.

To try the truffles…

Fancy Schmancy

A fancy, schmancy storm door sat on my back porch for a month. Until one day when I told my husband that we didn’t need a carpenter, we could put this up ourselves.

How hard could it be to hang a storm door anyway?

Knowing that my husband doesn’t normally read directions, I pre-empted his potential answer with, “if we read the directions carefully and gather all the tools we need ahead of time, I’m sure it will be easy.”

For the record, here are five things the directions don’t mention: a flashlight, reading glasses, caulk (the magic fix-all), shims, shims, shims (I'm counting this as one word), and patience (better know as the ability to re-do something twice without getting mad and throwing hand tools).

He lay down on the deck to try and see the tiny little spot where the bottom screw should go into the frame. But without his reading glasses and a flashlight, this was just a spot in the dark – literally. Like a surgical assistant holding the flashlight, on-cue I handed him first his glasses, then the screwdriver, and finally the screw.

After four hours, we had the frame up. This took longer than expected because we had to shim out the door jamb on the right side to equal the left side. An episode from This Old House? And then I had to paint the shims white to match the frame. Finally, caulk – the magic fix-all – covered the holes where the wood chisel made too deep of a gouge in the jamb.

By now, dusk was slowly drifting the back porch and the glow of the flashlight was no longer enough to see by. We temporarily hung the door in the frame and braced it with a big flower pot, just in case the wind decided to try and take the door away from us overnight
.
Two four-hour-days later, (which equals eight-nine hours) our fancy, schmancy storm door was completely hung and operational, double closer and all.

Nobody will ever notice the shims. You can’t tell because of my marvelous paint job.

Nobody needs to know that we hung the top door closer in the wrong spot and had to re-do it. You can’t tell because of my marvelous caulk job.

Hanging the storm door was not hard - just terribly time-consuming.

But it sure does look awesome. You might even say fancy, schmancy.

The Casino

Until this past May, I had never been to a casino in my life. The only casinos I’d ever seen were in the movies. You could say it was a life-long dream of mine – to experience it, anyway. To experience the mystery and intrigue of it all... To satisfy the urge to find out what it’s all about...

So, when Jonathan and I attended this year’s Brain Association of Wisconsin’s annual convention in Green Bay, suddenly my life-long dream became reality. Our motel was attached to the casino. We were literally just steps away from potential wealth. (Or more likely from the slim chance that this would ever happen to us.)

With twenty-dollar bills in hand, Jonathan and I made our way past the security guard at the door and strolled on into the casino, trying to look like we belonged there – or at least like we knew what we were doing. We wove our way around the various slot machines, past the black jack table, circled around to the beverage station and then back again. This casino contained probably ninety percent slots, ranging from penny machines to five dollar machines. The slot machines were alive with blinking colored lights, sweet sounding beeps, bells and whistles. And fingerprints.

(Only the second week into the swine flu outbreak, I made a mental note to myself to keep my fingers out of my mouth and to stop at the restroom to wash my hands before we left.)

Neither of us quite sure what to do, Jonathan finally sat himself down at one of the dollar machines.

Twenty seconds later his money was gone.

We walked around some more, thinking and talking potential strategy– we’d better find a different machine or we’d be out of money in a few minutes. Or at least practice on the penny machines first.

He chose a two-cent machine and I sat down beside him. The lady two stools down looked as if she had been there a while. Her elbow rested on her crossed legs as she propped her cigarette precariously on the edge of her lips, leaving her other hand free to spin. Obviously a veteran slot player, I decided to watch this woman.

She had quite a few credits (apparently they don’t spill out buckets of coins anymore) to her favor. When I figured out how she was playing the game, I decided to try it on my own. I decided to go big and risk a five dollar bill. I selected twelve rows and doubled down.

My credits lasted quite a while. I was actually up to $13.85 at one point.

But as my wealth grew, my desire to keep on spinning grew as well. I drove the machine down to zero.

We spent about forty bucks each in two days at the casino. Cheaper than dinner and a movie? Yup. Time spent with my son? Priceless.

Do I need to go again? I think it’s safe to say I’ve satisfied the urge.

Rules, Rules, Rules

A blog post takes me about fifteen minutes once the idea pops into my head. Writing a short story takes quite a bit longer. Especially if you follow the rules.

That’s the main thing I learned in my online writing class. There are rules. Rules that seem to take the joy out of writing from the heart.

But I guess it’s good to know the rules. Even if you don’t follow them.

My first assignment was to write a 250-500 word story using all five senses to describe things. No problem. I have no problem finding the words. I do have a problem with a particular word count limit. I can get really wordy – you probably know that about me already!

In my second assignment I had to interview someone. I learned from this experience that I definitely need to carry a voice recorder with me if I ever plan to interview anyone. So as to not inaccurately quote someone!

The purpose of assignment three was to give me an idea of the structure of a story. I focused on creating a hook – a grabber lead to a story. I had the hook. But apparently I didn’t have the internal conflict figured out. My instructor gave some very thought-provoking comments and set me on a search for my internal conflict.

I searched all week. Submitting assignment four, I felt slightly confident I had found it. But alas, I didn’t. My instructor again poked away at my brain, sending me back to the drawing board to find my internal conflict to interject into the story.

Rewriting parts of assignment four, she was happy with my changes. At last the conflict was identified!!

Assignment five was a big one. 1500 words - using all rules learned. I worked on it for a long time. I submitted it, not quite sure that it was written correctly. And I was right. I found the conflict, but now I need to define the form. Whose story was it? Mine? Was I going to write it as a personal experience, personal essay, as-told-to, or profile in third person?

CONFUSED, I went back to the drawing board and made the changes I could and resubmitted the same story for the sixth and last assignment.

In the end, my instructor told me a lot about myself. She commented, “You are a strong storyteller. Your storytelling skills are evident in this piece as you use dialogue to build your scenes and create suspense for the reader. But you do need to decide on the form and whose story you really want to write.”

So I finished my online non-fiction writing class a bit smarter, but unfortunately, a bit less enthusiastic about having the ability needed to write a book. And a bit less enthusiastic about writing being enjoyable. I’m currently contemplating if I would like to take another class from her this fall.

But blog posts are much easier.

Oops, this post just went over 500 words. Wordy me.

My Plate is Full

I’m slacking. In the blogging department, that is.

You may have noticed that my posting has been less frequent lately. I’ve been desperately trying to get my life organized! Literally. I’m tackling years of neglect, closet by closet – room by room.

And next on my plate – an online writing class.

Yes, I finally took the plunge and went ahead with something I’ve been thinking about for the past year. I begin my class on May 21st. Just when my life is always the busiest.

With my job. And my rental properties (my other job).

Only I would have such perfect timing. And yes, I’m being sarcastic!

That’s why I introduced you to Email Notification by Feedburner a few weeks ago. In preparation for what lies ahead.

So you won’t have to wonder if I’ve written anything new. So you won’t get sick of checking my blog for new stuff. So you won’t give up on me!

I don’t want to lose my loyal readers!

So please, sign up to receive email notifications from me.

The Dishes Will Wait has to wait.

While my plate is full, at least.

M-O-M

Yesterday at a trip to the garden center, I spied something that immediately brought me back about ten years, when Mickey was just four years old.

Mickey and I were shopping. Just like always, I got to push the cart and she got to add things to it. In the same way, she usually got to take the things home and I got to pay for them. (Unless the things I bought were groceries, then I also got to cook with them, do the dishes, plus clean up the kitchen after them.)

Sorry, I got sidetracked.

Back to ten years ago, when we were shopping. This time it was for flowers for our garden. We chose yellow marigolds and put them in our cart. (They don’t smell so pretty, but they are very hardy and look pretty from a distance.) We added pink and purple petunias, which of course were Mickey’s favorite colors. Finally, I spotted a beautiful red geranium – my favorite.

Our cart was full.

At this point, I had to take over steering the cart through the maze of aisles, past the sprinklers and over the garden hoses. Nearing the checkout, Mickey stopped, grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “Oh, Mom, look at this!” she exclaimed. “I want to get you these for Mother’s Day!” (I forgot to mention that at this point in the school year, her four-year-old reading vocabulary included recognizing the important words - Mom and Dad.)

Mickey saw a beautiful flower arrangement, with purple, pink and white carnations arranged in perfect formation, spelling out her favorite word, M-O-M.

I gasped.

What she didn’t know was that it was a memorial arrangement, one made to put in the ground in front of a headstone.

In a cemetery.

I smiled at Mickey, trying not to laugh. “They really are beautiful,” I told her. Hugging her, I added, “you can get me one like that when I’m older … (hopefully a lot older, I thought).”

So Mickey went home with her M-O-M and we planted our flowers. Yellow marigolds, pink and purple petunias, and one red geranium. And they were beautiful.

Faded White Letters

As we came closer to the homestead in Little Tamarack Valley, a red barn came into view. The faded white letters K.K.J . stood out against the red barn boards. I knew that these were the initials of my great grandfather, Knut K. Jordet.

In 1865, after coming from Norway to America, Knut Jordet and his wife Olia left southeastern Wisconsin and settled on eighty acres of fertile land in west central Wisconsin, in Little Tamarack Valley. On this homestead, my great grandfather Knut K. Jordet was born.

In the front of the house, perched up on the gable of the porch roof, friends and family were greeted with this carving, made by a local woodworker.



Translation:
Knut K. Jordet settled here in the year 1865.
Stands here my house in peace for every envious eye, and to the ground that lets itself be plowed.
Here I eat my bread, Here fear I my God. Blessed is whoever here goes in and out.
Modena 4 December 1896

The year was 1895. Knut K. Jordet and his wife, Gunhild Bjorgo were young newlyweds. They raised seven children here, one of whom was my grandmother Olia, the oldest Jordet daughter. My great-grandfather lived his whole life in Little Tamarack Valley. He worshiped the Lord at Lyster Lutheran Church, just a few miles over the bluff, and in fact, was the first child to be baptized there. He walked this land in Little Tamarack Valley, plowed the soil, and raised his family here. He died on the farm in 1954.



Knut K. and Gunhild Jordet

As we rounded the curve in the patched blacktop road, I couldn’t help but think about my great-grandfather. I wondered if he drove his horses over this road in the cold Wisconsin winter, the sleigh packed with his family as they headed to Sunday worship at Lyster. I wondered what he was like. I wondered what it would have been like to meet him.

Although the buildings at the homestead are still there, visible to anyone passing through, by far the most meaningful to those of us who remain are the faded white letters.

K.K.J.

To most they are just letters. But to me, these letters fill my heart with love for a great-grandfather I never even knew. A man who walked this land. A man who raised a family here. And a man who helps me define my place in this world and who makes me a part of who I am today.


Note: Thank you to my Aunt E. for recording the Jordet family history back in 1978 – where the historical information in this writing comes from.

Food For Thought

My mom was usually in the kitchen when I got off the school bus, sometimes surprising me with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of fresh, cold milk. Sounds cliché, but really, it’s true.

Other days my sister, brother and I raced into the house, threw our coats haphazardly down on the floor, and high-tailed it to the kitchen. Once there, we flung open the pantry door and fought for the box of Rice Krispies on the top shelf. Mom was at the oven, tending to the dinner. The scrumptious smell of roast beef poured out of the oven door, permeating our taste buds.

In either scenario – Mom was there. And my life was comfortable and secure.

Today my daughter beats me home. I surprise her with a phone call, asking her if we need anything from the store on the way home. She usually says, “Milk”.

I arrive a little later. By then Mickey is doing her homework. Or chatting on the computer. I sort the day’s mail – tossing the junk, keeping the rest. Mickey and I have a short chat about today’s events. We go about our business – homework and the ever-present, burning (no pun intended) question of what to make for dinner.

Quite a different scenario, isn’t it?

Thirty-five years ago my mom being there for me when I got home from school was comforting. It made me feel safe and secure.

Our world has changed.

How can I give Mickey that same sense of comfort and security? Or better yet …

What exactly is the comfort and security – the chocolate chip cookies or the fact that we know what to expect when we walk in the kitchen door?

Think about it. Food for thought, if you will.

A Spur-of-the Moment Disaster

Mickey loves superheroes. We had to stand in line for an hour at Universal Studios in Florida four years ago to have her picture taken with Spiderman. She plays the Batman DVD over and over again. And she fell in love with the fireball from The Fantasic Four named Johnny Storm.

So when she asked me to make a spur-of-the moment decision on seeing a movie about superheroes, I simply thought - she will love this.

Until I found out it was rated R. I thought, I suppose there is some violence. Can’t be worse than a C.S.I. episode, could it? I thought, I suppose there could be some bad language. Can’t be worse than what I hear in the halls at school. And after all, Mickey was raised in the real world. But she has also been taught that even though it’s all around us, it’s not right. And she lives by that.

Mickey twisted my arm as we stood in line at the box office. My niece was agreeable to whatever movie we decided on. With hesitation in my voice I said, “ohhh, I don’t know…”

She asked for a synopsis of the plot for me. My niece read aloud as I heard the words Cold War and Soviet Union. I thought, this doesn’t really sound that good.

But Mickey persisted….

So we got our popcorn and found a seat.

An hour into the movie, I kept hoping it would get better. I kept hoping the dark, wet streets of the city would lend their way to sunshine and daytime. But they didn’t.

Two hours later I asked Mickey to text her dad to tell her where we were, so he didn’t wonder.

The blue man (a victim of a radioactive accident in 1961) could make himself twenty feet tall. His blue skin was translucent, giving view to his skeleton beneath. He had a gentle voice. He went to Mars, where it was quiet, to think. And he was naked.

The man with the mask cut the villains’ arms off with a grinder. But it wasn’t very realistic … thankfully.

There were a few humorous punch lines. We laughed.

By eleven p.m. I said to the girls, “Oh my gosh - this has to be almost over, doesn’t it?” We decided we all hated it.

Finally as the credits began to roll, we grabbed our stuff and headed to the parking lot.

There the truth spilled out of my mouth.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this movie. I’m picking the next one!”

And more to my niece – “Your dad will never let me take you to a movie again!”

I would bet that spur-of-the-moment decisions in life almost never turn out to be good things. I guess that’s why our parents try to teach us to think first. So our spur-of-the-moment decisions don’t become disasters.

Guess who couldn’t sleep that night?

Mickey slept fine. My niece slept fine.

I kicked and screamed “help!” in my sleep that night - my husband had to wake me from the train ride I was on. And believe me, I was thankful he did.

BECAUSE SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO GET ME!

Next movie? Rated G, please.

And an after-thought: If you don’t like the movie you are in, just get up and walk out for heaven sakes!

Look To The Left

What is a feed? It could be a cookout. It could be filling the dog dish every morning.

Or not, if you’re talking about the web.

(Oh gosh, not a spider web. The world-wide web. )

What is RSS? It is, and this comes straight out of Wikipedia, an abbreviation for Really Simple Syndication. Further explained in Wikipedia - a family of web feed formats used to publish frequently updated works—such as blog entries, news headlines, audio, and video—in a standardized format.

You can subscribe to this blog by signing up to receive the RSS feed. It’s the little orange square at the top of your browser. But I think that’s kind of complicated. Because then you need Google Reader or some other service to send you the feed.

Enter Feedburner. What in the world is Feedburner? FeedBurner is a web feed management provider.

You’re asking – so what? Where is this going? When is she going to quit talking with all these strange words? Well …

Here is what this is leading up to. If you like reading this blog but get sick of checking it to see if I’ve posted anything new, now you can LOOK TO THE LEFT of this post and click on the link - Subscribe to The Dishes Will Wait By Email.

Fill out the information requested and you’re set!

Every time I post a new blog entry, you will get an email.

Simple as that.

Feedburner makes it possible.

Feedburner, the provider that now manages this web feed.

P.S. A few select people already receive blog notifications from me by email. That is something entirely different. That is a service provided by Blogger that allows me to enter up to ten email addresses that I choose to receive notification. So if you are one of those people, DISREGARD THE ABOVE!!

Scrappy's Big Adventure

He sits by the patio door looking out at the farm cats on the porch. Once in a while he scratches his paw on the window, trying to catch their attention. His ears perk up as he hears them bickering with each other outside.

Scrappy wonders what it would be like to be out there with the farm cats.

After all, he used to be one.

Separated from his mother as she coyly moved her litter from the back of the barn to the front of the house, he spent the cold, dark November night crying in desperation. Longing to find the warmth and comfort his mother’s thick fur coat offered, he scrunched his body tightly into the corner of the window well, slightly protected from the impaling winter wind. Disoriented and literally lost, his cries went on into the night.

Until I tucked myself into bed for the night, pulled the warm quilt up over my chin and reached over to flick off the lamp.

It was at that precise moment of silence, in a house that had went to sleep for the night, that Scrappy’s cries could finally be heard.

I crawled out of bed and grabbed the flashlight from the drawer. Slipping my feet into my boots and throwing on my winter coat over my robe, I headed out the door. As I rounded the corner of the house, a gust of wind blew a swarm of leaves into my face. I pulled my hood up and held it tightly around my neck. Holding the flashlight in the other hand, I pointed it into the well below my bedroom window.

Picking up the little kitten and tucking him inside my jacket, I quickly ran back to the house.

This little yellow and white ball of fur quickly became my Scrappy little cat, the cat who I rescued from the throws of another impending Wisconsin winter.

With the snow gone and the sun shining brightly, yesterday Scrappy wanted to go outside. He wanted to explore. He wanted to check out those cool farm cats he was always gazing at through the patio door all winter long.

So I let him out.

Eight hours later, as the sun began to set and the cold March air returned for the evening, I began to call for him. And call for him.

There was no sign of Scrappy.

Not that I was worried, after all – he was just a cat.

And cats love to be outside. And explore.

But it was a little chilly for a cat with no winter coat.

It wasn’t long and the morning sun was peeking in my bedroom window. I got up to make myself a cup of coffee. As I walked past the patio door, who do you think was there?

Scrappy.

I opened the door to greet him, but he dashed right past me to his dish. Lily, our veteran house cat, immediately bounded into the kitchen to see what the ruckus was all about. Right away, Lily put her nose into gear, checking out something different about Scrappy.

He smelled different.

Like outside.

She looked at Scrappy as if to ask, “What was it like out there?” She wanted to know, “Did you have fun?” Still uncertain, she pressed him for more answers, “Were you scared?” “What did you do?” “Are you going back outside?”

Scrappy, truly exhausted from his big adventure and subsequently all the questions Lily was bugging him with, jumped onto my bed and slept the rest of the day.

Yesterday Scrappy had a big adventure. But today he didn’t want to go back out.

He just wanted to sleep.

Faith

A young woman I know who had just lost her mother to a three year battle with cancer summed her feelings up by saying, “even though I’ve prepared myself for this day for the last three years, there is never a right time to let go, it’s still so hard.”

A friend of mine who had unexpectedly lost her mother over a weekend’s time summed her feelings up by saying something very similar. Even though she knew her mother was now where she wanted to be, the loss of someone we love is never easy.

And a young man, whom I didn’t even know personally - who lived so many more years than any doctor had ever expected him to, left his family on earth just recently. His aunt says, “We were all blessed to have him in our life to teach us many things. I’m glad he is at peace and no longer in pain.”

Still, loss is more than a human being can handle alone. It takes years for the pain to subside. It takes years to turn heartache into memories. And whether our loss is a loss of a human life, or a loss of a part of ourselves through accident or injury, we need to pray for the strength to overcome. We need to pray for the strength of our faith to carry us through. And we need to pray for the strength of our family and friends to help us live again.

Because that’s the hard part. Living again. While the world around us moves on with each sunrise and sunset, our world is at a standstill, empty and void. It takes a lot of patience, perseverance, and prayer to overcome this loss. And faith that God will show us the way – to find our lives again.

As written in Hebrews 11:1, "Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see".

These are truly comforting words. Faith that our loved ones are at peace with the Lord. Faith that we will see them again someday.

Colors of Spring

They sat side by side in perfect rows, the colors of spring popping out before my eyes. Spring green, yellow and pink. Stripes in tan, pale orange and light blue. Bursts of multi-colored flowers and geometrics. One couldn’t escape this freshness, this newness of the season.

My eyes were drawn to the spring green color. I picked it up. I contemplated its size. I could see my sister with this one. Or the yellow one. I wondered - could I be the green one?

So many sizes to choose from. Where to begin? My desire to downsize led me to the smaller versions. But past failures still fresh in my mind, I quickly remembered the contents of my life spilled out upon the seat of my car or the kitchen table as I frantically rummaged for a pen – or my cell phone – or my tube of Chapstick. I have so many in my closet already – remnants of those failed attempts to downsize. Useless for anything, other than taking up precious space in my unorganized life.

I held the small green one. I looked inside it. I put it over my shoulder. I put it back.

I held the larger green one. I looked inside it. I put it over my shoulder. I put it back.

I held the striped one, the yellow one, the flowered one and even a tan one. I looked inside them all. I put them over my shoulder. I put them back.

Tucked in on the top shelf at the end of the row I spotted it.

A black one. Just the right size. I loved everything about it. The color. The size. The style.

Everything except one thing.

The price. I turned the price tag over. Forty-eight bucks – even on sale!I put it back.

After all, who would pay more than twenty bucks for a purse? Not me.

Besides, I already have a black one.

So I will go through the next couple months, envying every green or yellow or pink purse I see slung over the shoulder of women who are obviously more gutsy than me.

Until the fall colors come out – and then maybe I’ll spring for brown.

Or maybe not.

Our Comfort Zone (Or Discomfort Zone)

My almost five-year-old granddaughter walks in the door with her footed jammies stuffed into her snow boots. With a tremendous tug we finally get the boots off. She runs to the living room to play. What could be better than spending all day Saturday wearing your jammies?

Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to play outside in the snow later on this afternoon. Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to run errands with me.

She’s my jammie girl. And she would go to school every day in her pajamas – if her mother let her. And I can understand how she feels tucked in her snuggly fleece. It’s kind of like having your blankie wrapped around you all day long.

We’ve all had days in our comfort zone, right?

My almost forty-five year old sister gets dressed for a trip to town – bra and all. (She works at home- and I swear, wears her jammies all day long too.) Her car whizzes down the street and out onto the highway. A couple miles farther and she begins to squirm back and forth – trying to adjust the position of her bra. It doesn’t feel quite right – probably because she hasn’t worn one all week.

She wiggles some more but by now the bra has become alive and starts sucking the air out of her lungs. In desperation to get her breath, she pulls her car over into the parking lot of a vacant school building. Driving behind the building she quickly slams the car into park, sending the loose gravel flying.

My sister swiftly rips her bra off and fires it into the back seat, as her fifteen year old daughter’s eyes nearly pop out of her head in disbelief. In the wink of an eye and the squeal of a tire, the car is back on the road, headed toward town.

As they pull into the parking lot at the mall, her daughter nonchalantly remarks, “You should probably take that bra out of the back window, Mom.”

We’ve all had days when we were in our discomfort zone, right?

A Revelation of Sorts

This past Wednesday, Ash Wednesday - marked the beginning of the Lenten Season in the Christian church. I have never been on board one hundred percent with some of the traditions and symbolisms found in my church, but instead, choose to worship in my own personal way – quietly and by myself.

But as the parishioners made their pilgrimage to the front of the church on Ash Wednesday to have ashes traced onto their foreheads in the formation of a cross, I couldn’t help but notice something very special.

In front of me and behind me, no longer did anyone differ by the color of their hair. No longer did anyone differ by the color of their skin or other features of their face. No longer did anyone differ by the clothes or jewelry they wore. No longer were there people of different occupations, different intelligence, and different opinions. No longer were there men, women and children filling the pews.

As I gazed out across the people before me all I saw was crosses – made with the ashes of this very special Wednesday in our Christian faith.

Behind the crosses I saw people, myself included, humbled, and filled with the desire to become closer to God and to share in the promise of God.

Amidst all this symbolism I had a revelation of sorts, and feel I have gained an understanding into one of the most revered traditions celebrated by Christians over the world.

Thank you, Lord.

No Milk

We finally arrived in Milwaukee at about 7:00 on Friday night, after a long, leg cramping, shoulder tensing, four hour drive in 75 mph traffic. It felt so good to get out of the car and stretch. And carry in our bags. And quickly greet Jonathan, who we hadn’t seen since Christmas.

Of course, he was waiting to go and eat dinner with us …

You see, I had emailed him that morning. “Are you going to have dinner ready for us when we get there tonight or should we stop on the way and grab something to eat?” I asked.

“We don’t have any milk in the house,” he replied. “Maybe we could go out for dinner – a family dinner?”

Family dinner in my family usually means one thing.

Mom and Dad’s treat.

Whether it be my mom and dad taking us out.

Or me and my husband taking our kids out.

It’s just the natural order of things in this family.

Anyway, I don’t really know what not having milk had to do with any of it but our plans were made – and we enjoyed our dinner. And our conversation.

Waking up to a winter snowstorm on Saturday morning put a slight damper on the remainder of our weekend plans. After I looked out the window and saw at least six inches of snow on the car, I decided I didn’t even want to go outside. We cancelled our trip to the big mall, and settled instead on visiting the smaller mall close to Jonathan’s house, so Mickey could check out what it was like to shop in Milwaukee.

I bought vacuum cleaner bags.

And soap.

Because I felt the urge to take care of a few things.

Like vacuuming.

And just a little cleaning.

You see, my Grandma Vera could often be seen with dish rag in hand. I can still hear my mom saying, “Mom, please put that rag down and visit for a while. You don’t need to wipe that off right now.”

But Grandma was happiest with dish rag in hand.

And I was too – this weekend at Jonathan’s. I vacuumed the carpets and then cleaned both bathrooms. I washed the dishes and wiped off the countertops and stove. I swept the floors and shook and washed the bathroom rugs.

I was happiest with dish rag in hand.

Just like my Grandma.

… Oh, and I did buy him some milk.

bap⋅tism [bap-tiz-uh-m] –noun

 

1. a ceremonial immersion in water…

I opened the kitchen door, just back from visiting Mom. Right away I spotted the little snow boots on the rug. Peeking around the corner I saw Kaitlyn, perched on a kitchen chair in front of the sink.

“Hi sweetie! What are you doing at Grandma’s house today?”

Kaitlyn’s face breaks out in a big smile, “I’m washing dishes!”

Grandpa is at the counter, getting ready to put fish sticks in the oven. He smiles at me and says, “Kaitlyn and Chrissy came over today to go sliding, but weren’t ready to leave yet, so they are staying for an hour or so."

I’m thinking – what a bonus – I get to hug my sweeties plus I get my dishes done – all at the same time!

Kaitlyn has dishcloth in hand, washing up a storm. The sink is filled with a couple inches of warm, soapy water and she meticulously scrubs the plates, forks, spoons and cups. I cringe as she picks up a glass – I can just imagine her breaking the glass and cutting her finger. Seeing the distress in my eyes, Grandpa quickly comes to the rescue, trading the glass for a plastic cup.

“Grandpa, this chair is getting really wet,” she remarks, and he gets a towel for her to stand on. “My pants are getting really wet too, Grandpa.”

I look at Grandpa and we both smile, as we continue sopping up water from the chair, floor, and surrounding kitchen countertop.

Chrissy is rinsing and then drying the dishes. A six year old with much more dexterity than her four year old counterpart still complains that Kaitlyn is washing too fast – she can’t keep up rinsing and drying. I notice the cold rinse water and think, while it may not be the recommended method, it is certainly not going to hurt us just this once.

“You’re doing a good job, Chrissy! You must help Mom at home all the time with dishes,” I tell her.

In a whiny, but still forceful voice my strong-willed granddaughter replies, “MY MOM NEVER LETS ME DO DISHES!!!”

(In defense of my daughter-in-law, I can assure you that there is another side to her story…)

Grandpa inspects the dishes as he puts them away, returning a couple bowls to Kaitlyn for a second wash. As quickly as our girls came, they were gone - Mom and Dad returned to pick them up – and the dishes were done and put away.

By now, moonlight is peeking through the window. As I get ready to turn the lights out in the kitchen and head to bed, I notice a glistening spot on the end of the kitchen countertop – under the box of Kleenex.

A puddle of water.

I smile to myself as I get yet another towel and wipe up the water. It appears that my new kitchen got quite a baptism tonight.

What a fitting end to a splendid Sunday.

I'm a VP

VP. More than two letters in the alphabet. They stand for Volunteer Partner and I just finished my training today to become one.

A program which is now being implemented by the Brain Injury Association of Wisconsin (BIAW) is called Supportive Partner-to-Partner Network (SPPN). Its purpose is to provide support to families whose loved one has sustained a brain injury.

We are very fortunate living here where we do, to have access to some great brain injury support groups in our area. I learned today that many areas in Wisconsin (where the population is quite sparse) are not as fortunate. This makes the SPPN Program all the more important.

My role as a Volunteer Partner is to listen, encourage and empower family members to make their own decisions regarding their loved ones. I will work with my Supportive Partner via telephone, with a mutually scheduled time for our conversations.

I learned a lot at my training today – including some interesting facts and figures.

-Did you know that brain injury is the leading cause of death and disability in children and young adults and the leading cause of death until age 44?

-Did you know that 3 million Americans suffer disability from stroke – but 5.3 million Americans suffer disability from traumatic brain injury?

-Did you know that more Americans died as a result of traumatic brain injury between 1981 and 1993 than have been killed in all the wars in our history combined?

-Did you know that a mild brain injury is also known as a concussion? That’s right – even if you don’t lose consciousness you could have sustained a mild brain injury. The symptoms might not appear until much later.

-Did you know that many survivors continue to recover for years? Yes, years – 5, 10 or even 25 years.

Now try this-

Slightly lift your right foot off the floor.

Begin circling that foot clockwise, then at the same time …

Pick up a pen and write your name in cursive.

I don’t know about you, but my foot started circling counter-clockwise when I tried to write my name, and my name did not turn out quite right. This is an example of how difficult it may be for a person with a brain injury to use their motor skills.

Educating the public about brain injury is important. And helping out families whose loved ones have survived a brain injury is critical. I feel lucky to be able to be a part of this very important network and look forward to putting my training to use.

VP. More than just two letters of the alphabet.


Note: All facts and figures quoted are from the BIAW website and SSPN Program Training Manual.

The Rookie

“What does it mean when I turn my computer on and it says I have eleven unread messages?”

“Where do I type in where I want to go?"

“Right here … Like this?”

“Why does this box want to know if I want to win money?”

“Isn’t Hotmail and Facebook the same thing?”

“How do I send this message?”

“How did this stuff get on my screen?”


Diane takes a deep breath …


“Do I ask you how to put a new head gasket in the tractor?”

“Do I ask you how to put the lawn mower belt on?”

“Do I ask you how to change the element in the hot water heater?”

“Do I ask you how to put a new light fixture in the laundry room?”

“Do I ask you how to figure out how many pounds of fertilizer to put on the field?”

“Do I ask you how to filet a fish?”

“Do I ask you how to put new brakes in my Tahoe?”

This is the winter that I rounded up an old laptop for my husband, so he wouldn’t feel like an outcast in the family. On cold winter days he can be found sitting on the sofa, surfing the internet, checking his email, and yes – reading Facebook. The rookie is now officially a Facebook junkie.

I think I’ll write on his wall right now.

Even though we’re both in the same room.

A Tisket, a Tasket, a Stupid Clothes Basket

I’ll admit – I have an organization problem. With clothes baskets in particular.

Two years ago, I wiped the slate clean and threw out most of my clothes baskets. It makes doing laundry a little tough, (especially when you have to carry a load outside to the clothes line) but the consequences of having a clothes basket in my possession are somewhat life threatening.

Because clothes baskets can be used for many things besides laundry.

You can use a clothes basket to put the pumpkins in that you pick from your garden the night before the hard frost. But they will freeze if you leave them in there, and then you have to dump the whole mess out anyway.

You can use a clothes basket to put your donated clothes in until you get the right size box to put them in and take them to Goodwill. But if you leave the basket sit in your dining room until Easter, you have to move the basket to the basement when you have the family over for dinner.

You can use a clothes basket to store the toys in that you dig out of the closet when kids come to play. But if you don’t put the toys away, the Barbie’s hair gets full of Silly Putty, the slinky gets wound around the Poky Little Puppy’s tail and no one can play with anything anymore.

You can use a clothes basket to put groceries in that don’t fit into your pantry. But then you have to move the basket every time you want to open the refrigerator.

You can use a clothes basket to put your cleaning supplies in that don’t fit under your sink. But then the Mr. Clean will spill out on the dust rag and you will get suds when you use it to dust the coffee table.

You can even give your grandchildren a ride in a clothes basket, pulling them across the dining room floor, with them giggling as you screech around the corner – tumbling them onto the living room carpet.

And you can use a clothes basket as a hamper.

Like the one that I use as a hamper in my closet.

Last Saturday, against my better judgment, I fell off the wagon and put my laundry in one of the few clothes basket I still own and carried it to the washing machine.
I washed and dried the clothes and in my haste, threw the clean clothes back in the clothes basket.

To be folded later.

The basket stayed in the hallway all week. Then I moved the basket to my bedroom. There it sits, piled with other clean clothes that I haven’t put away yet – but plan to soon. Sometime this week. Or for sure by Saturday.

Yes, it’s almost time to do laundry again, but this time I will carry each load individually to the washer, and immediately fold each load as I take it out of the dryer and then put the clothes away.

Right away.

The papers that should be in files are in a clothes basket in my office. (The file folders are in a box on the closet shelf). When I need to find something, I dig through the basket. If I can’t find it after about an hour of looking, I just buy a new whatever it is.

Yes, it’s almost tax time again, but this year I vow to use my new label maker to label each file folder in the box and put them in the drawer in my desk. And to put the papers in the files.

Right away.

Because I shouldn't come within a mile of a clothes basket.

The Icing on the Cake

At age 34, I asked my doctor, “Do you think it’s too late to have a baby?”

She said no.

This one little word had just validated and sealed the thoughts inside my head – the longing all mothers have from time to time – the desire to hold a newborn baby in their arms, to share their love with another , the desire to extend their own mortality through another.

A year later, Mickey was born. Not an afterthought, certainly not an accident or surprise – but a blessing from heaven – and with a set of parents who were armed and hopefully ready for the second round of parenthood, this time with the added benefit of experience.



Mickey graces our life with her bubbly personality, keeping us ever-entertained with her wit and humor. The charm she possesses works well for her, whether she is twisting her mother’s arm to go to the mall, or gracefully coaxing her father into giving her money from his wallet (except she would do the coaxing first, then the twisting).

And she keeps us young.

Or perhaps, she just doesn’t let us feel as old as we sometimes feel.

At a time in my life when parents our age are seeing their children graduate from college and move on to start their lives, our daughter is just beginning to plan her future – thinking about careers, where she would like to live and what her hopes and dreams are. I pray that her future is bright and her aspirations in life are achieved.

Mickey is truly our icing on the cake and we wouldn’t have life any other way.



Plus, she did say that when she is living “some place where it’s warm” six years from now she would still come and visit us at Christmas.

I said, “I'm glad, but could we see you more than once a year?”

She pauses to think and then says, “Sure, you can jet out anytime you want.”

Our daughter. A blessing in our lives, her personality molded and shaped by those who love her. Here with us to live, learn and grow, preparing to fly away just like a balloon drifts off into the sky, not knowing quite where it will land – but enjoying the ride.

That’s Mickey. The icing on the cake.

Happy birthday, sweet daughter.

The Halo?

Someone in this picture is donning a halo (well, a star, I guess). I'd like to think of him as being very angelic.

But I don't know...

What do you think?

The '90s

I unpacked my laptop from its bag and put it on the kitchen table. My mom was intrigued, watching me plug it in, start it up, pop in the DVD I’d burned and navigate through the screens to my pictures.

We sat together at the kitchen table for at least a half an hour, commenting on all the pictures from the past year – from Mickey, Kaitlyn and Chrissy’s birthday parties, to the snowstorm on April 28th, to our grandkids in the pumpkin patch, and of course, most recently - Christmas Eve at my Mom’s.

After I ejected the DVD from my computer, I showed it to Mom. Explaining to her that the pictures we just looked at were all contained on this thin sliver of a disc, she just shook her head in disbelief.

The computer back in its bag, Mickey immediately went on to further wow her grandmother with technology – probably more than she needed in one Sunday afternoon. Mickey took one of her IPod ear buds out and placed it in Grandma’s ear. For a minute, they rocked together in their chairs, back and forth to the music.

For a minute, my mom didn’t look quite so old. For a minute, she didn’t look like she didn’t understand what was going on. Mom enjoyed sharing this piece of technology with Mickey. And I enjoyed watching them rock together in their chairs.

All of a sudden Mom pulled her ear bud out, turned to Mickey and asked … don’t you have any “old” music?

To which Mickey replied … “I have some from the ‘90s … “

Yes, the ‘90s.

Before DVDs. Before IPods. Before Mickey.

January 18, 2004

The phone ringing woke me from an early morning sleep. Still groggy, I picked up the receiver – unaware that this day would leave me forever changed. The news on the other end was something we all dread. The person on the other end was telling me that my son was in a car accident.

Getting into the car with a friend who had been drinking left him injured and unresponsive, the inside of his head filled with stretched and sheared neurons in his brain.

I had no idea that this day would be forever etched in time as a true dividing time in my life. My life is now divided into two segments – the time before his accident, and the time after his accident.

Jonathan is five years into his recovery this January 18, 2009. The time after his accident has been a long journey, filled with ups and downs. There have been times when he seemed to be taking a step forward, only to be thrust two steps behind in an instant. Our lives for the past five years have moved in slow motion, as we painstakingly watched him desperately try to recover and regain his life.

He was saved for a reason. There are times, when life seems to be against him, that I know he struggles to understand why. There are times when his life seems to be filled with more failure than success, and more sorrow than joy. But those are times to step back and take a look at the big picture.

On the fifth day in intensive care, January of 2004, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

It was December, 2006. The band was playing Pomp and Circumstance. The graduates were rounding the corner into the hall. I spotted him amongst the hundreds of black caps and gowns. As he walked up the aisle to the stage my eyes filled with tears of joy. Just a year and a half before, he was lying in intensive care, unresponsive and I didn’t know if he would even ever walk again.

In the spring of 2008, he loaded up his friend’s van with all his belongings. Heading out the driveway he went south – to start a new job and a new life four hours away from us, becoming totally independent again.

This the big picture in our forever journey.

And while he is still searching for that reason, I don’t know if I need to have a reason. I know that over the last five years we have built a strong bond with each other – one that otherwise, may have gone undiscovered.

I run my fingers through his dark brown hair and give his head a squeeze. While all my children are special, each in their own way, I can’t help but think of how I truly value this child’s brain – the very center of his personality, his intelligence and his emotion. I can’t help but think of him as a little boy – in the time before his accident, innocent and full of hopes and dreams. I can’t help but think of him as a grown man – in the time after his accident, wondering what his hopes are now and struggling to make new dreams that he can achieve.

But I do know that he will achieve.

And I will never look upon this day as the day I almost lost my son.

I will forever look upon this day as the day God saved my son.

What You Should Know About My Baby Brother

When he was born, Mom asked me what we should name him. Since there was this cute boy that rode my bus named Leonard, I told Mom we should name him Leonard – and call him Lennie for short. Mom was speechless. She never did share with me who chose the name David.

I got to change his diapers. Something new and exciting called “Pampers” were just invented. You had to use diaper pins, though – no sticky or Velcro tapes to fasten them with.

He loved tractors already at age six. He liked to spend time sitting on the tractor, pretending he was driving. He found out that if you played with the cigarette lighter you could pretend you were smoking a cigarette. Mom found out when she heard him scream, his lips branded with a red circle of burned skin.

With great curiosity, David could be found under Grandma’s hospital bed, turning the crank and trying to figure out just how it worked. That curiosity carried him into the pre-teen years, dragging out Dad’s tools and making things in workshop in the basement. Once again, screams of pain traveled up the staircase as he mistakenly kneeled down on a board which was lying on the cement floor with a nail in it.

He cried when Frosty the Snowman melted.

For a very small moment, we both wore the same size shoes.

For a very small moment, I could take him down and sit on him.

When I got my driver’s license, David was a champion back seat driver. One time after spouting off one too many directions to me, I abruptly stopped the car (not too far from home) and made him get out and walk. I don’t remember any back seat driving after that.

He played the saxophone.

I helped him get ready to go to his high school prom. I shined his burgundy shoes, fastened the bow tie and cumberbund on his light blue tuxedo, and styled his dark brown hair.

My brother survived his snowmobile hitting a tree. He lay in the snow for about three hours until his friends found him. The bark from the tree was embedded in his helmet. We stayed by his side through shoulder and knee surgery – and the rehabilitation after.

David continued in his adult life with his love of tractors and making things, by building his own pulling tractor. Watching the black smoke roll out of the stack, hearing the whistle of the turbos, and feeling the ground beneath you tremble with the unleashed horsepower as the tractor makes its way down the track is breathtaking. Although it lasts only about ten seconds, it overpowers you with a rush of fear and excitement -all at once.

He has two darling daughters, who are a special part of our family.

Oh, and my baby brother has a birthday tomorrow. Happy birthday, David!

Dreaming Under the Influence – or – What Sudafed Does To Your Mind While You Sleep

Cold relief. One tiny, red pill. Half the recommended adult dose.

On Saturday night I was driving my car down a dusty gravel road until I finally arrived at my dad’s farm. Out in the hay field in front of the house he had a great big barbecue set up. Dad was charcoaling something for all the neighbors and friends to eat. I find this to be quite odd, because Dad only threw one party in his life – my wedding reception. The only other party at the farm was a housewarming party when we moved in – and that was a surprise planned and executed by friends.

Dad proceeded to give me a tour of the house (which is also odd, because I lived there for six years and obviously shouldn’t need a tour). But much to my surprise, inside the living room you could look up and see the upstairs through a big hole in the floor. Actually, only the perimeter of the ceiling above the living room was there. We went upstairs and looked down. All along the edges of the room I could see a maple wood floor – its jagged edges peeking through the torn carpeting. I wondered why no one had ever discovered that before.

Could it have something to do with the fact that I recently refinished two hardwood maple floors in one of my rentals?

My cold still getting the best of me, on Sunday night I took another Sudafed. It wasn’t long and I could hear my dad telling me that mom wanted me to make her some meatloaf. I asked him why but he didn’t really want to say. After prodding him just a little more, he admitted that she was sick of the meals on wheels.

I can’t parallel this to anything, except maybe the fact that I’ve been eating fast food all week while I was in town painting at the rental and I could go for some homemade dinner myself, for a change!


Breaking down and actually taking this decongestant to unclog my sinuses for the last few nights has really been pretty eventful for me. In the dream world, that is. I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight – so I can find out what journey is in store for me as I sleep, head propped up on pillows for maximum breathing effect – helping the little red pill work its magic.