My Life

A fellow blogger, Genny, at My cup 2 Yours, after reading the book One Month to Live by Kerry and Chris Shook, invited her readers to contribute a blog post on this subject. After getting past not wanting to think about this, and reading some other beautiful posts by other bloggers, I have mustered up enough courage to share my thoughts with you.

While all of us know that our time here is limited, none of us know exactly when we will leave the earth. I’m not sure if my Godmother knew how long she would be here with us, but nonetheless, she prepared for it. She prepared for it spiritually as well as physically. My Godmother never doubted her faith. She was a strong Christian woman, despite the trials and tribulations life sent her way. She looked to God for strength and courage as she lost her seventeen year old son in the early 1960s and her husband in the early 1970s. When her body was sickened by cancer in the late 1990s, she spent the remaining years of her life fighting this disease, and at the same time, making the most of her life, spending precious time with her family.

As for me, I don’t have any place in this world that I need to see. Take me down a road where the trees are framing the hillside in beautiful hues of red, orange, yellow and green and I will see the beauty of God’s creation. Take me to a valley where the snowflakes are gently fall from the sky, landing ever so quietly on the ground, one by one filling in all the brown with pure white and I will see the splendor of God’s creation. Take me to a lake where the water is as smooth as glass, and the ripples of a pebble quietly spread out in circles, gently washing up on the shore, and I will see the gentleness of God’s creation. As I soak in this beauty of God’s earth, with each day I am here, I have but a glimpse of what beauty lies beyond this, forever and ever.

From time to time, I have always thought that if I knew I would be leaving, I would write a letter to each of my children. An excerpt of it would go something like this.

Dear child of mine-

You were brought into this world because of the love your father and I have for each other. You are the greatest accomplishment in my life. You have made my life a worthwhile challenge, an exciting and enjoyable journey. I am far from perfect, and so are you. I didn’t do everything right, but I have loved you unconditionally all along the way, despite our human flaws.

I hope that you have learned from me. I have tried to teach you to treat others with love and respect. I have tried to teach you life skills that will take you far in this world. I’ve taught you by example that family sticks together through the tough times, and that these difficult times will only make you stronger. But most of all, I hope that you have learned that the most important thing in this world is to love God and to live a Christian life, asking God to help guide you when you are lost, and thanking Him always, for everything He has given you.

Never doubt that God has a place waiting for us which is so much more beautiful than any place here on earth. “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Heb. 11:1.

Love, Mom

The War Zone

After three months of do-it-almost-by-yourself remodeling, I am still working on my kitchen and laundry room. I greet guests at the door by saying, “Welcome to the war zone.”

The bank of cabinetry that housed the old range cook top, wall oven and refrigerator are gone - replaced by patched-in drywall, torn up flooring, re-routed venting and updated wiring in the wall.

My Tupperware is in a tote in the office. My pots and pans are on the bed in the guest room. My canned and boxed foods are on a bookshelf in the hallway. Cookbooks and other seldom used items from my cabinets are piled high on the dining room table. My baking pans are in a box on the dining room floor.

One day, I looked all afternoon for my blender. Giving up, I borrowed my mom’s.

When I opened the cabinet in the laundry room the other day, there was my blender.

My new refrigerator is parked in front of the window. The kitchen table is pushed up against the wall in front of another window. My new stove is sitting in the spot my refrigerator will eventually call home. My new dishwasher and micro/hood are still at the appliance store, waiting for me to pick them up.

Until the drywall is done, I have no lighting in my kitchen, other than the fixture over the table, a small plug-in night light by the stove, and our battery operated camp lantern.

Yes, I called in a favor from someone who does drywall. He works evenings, when he has time – and when he seems to need the ambition to show up at my door, I call him to pester him just a little. So far, I have been pretty patient.

Until Wednesday night.

Our plan was to strategically move around the kitchen and laundry room, never having to upset the apple cart just too much, moving everything back and forth. But that did not happen. Tuesday night he came and put up one corner bead, then left. Wednesday night he asked me to unload the upper and lower cabinets to the left of the sink so he could pull them out to work on a spot adjacent to them. He would cut the countertop to save my kitchen sink. Because I absolutely refuse to be without my sink for more than a week.

In an instant, the ball is now in my court.

So this morning I tackled the job. What a good job for Saturday morning, right? I moved the plates, bowls and mugs to the cabinet at the right of the sink. I moved the cereal and other pantry items to a tote and put it in the hallway. I cleaned out the cabinet with vases, funky glasses and Christmas plates. The silverware tray fit right on top of the microwave. Our paper plates, paper napkins and cups are in a box in the office. The phone books are on the dining room table. All that was left was the “dreaded cabinet.”

My dreaded cabinet was a catch all spot. I cleaned out all the other ones first. I did a couple loads of laundry. I swept the floor. Finally, I took a deep breath and opened the cabinet door. It was filled with wall calendars from 2004 – 2007, a few small containers of items I’ve collected through the years – nuts, bolts, spare change, a box of bb’s from the boys’ bb gun (which had spilled – of course), a couple of unclaimed chess pieces. An old phone and its cords, a couple candles, a pottery piece Jonathan made in art class, keys that belong to something. And a lot of junk. Most of it went in the trash.

Now the ball is in his court again.

And I suppose I will live in the war zone for another month.

Sometimes its nice when time flies.

Seventeen Years Ago

Time flies. We all know it. We’ve all said it. It’s the topic around the water cooler at work. Where did the time go? Once in a while something really hits you though. Where were you seventeen years ago? I asked myself that today.

Seventeen years ago …

… we were just putting a new floor in our kitchen – and here we are, doing it again.

… my boys were fighting over which one would sit in the front seat of the car – and now they have their own cars.

… I had shoulder length permed hair which I dyed for the fun of it – not to cover the gray.

… my oldest son was taking hunter safety class, had just started junior high school, and was still pudgy around the middle – his own kids are in school now (and he’s replaced the pudginess with muscles).

… my middle son was learning the saxophone and had a squeaky little voice which sounded just about the same as the saxophone did when he tried to hit the high notes – the saxophone is long gone, replaced by an electric guitar which doesn’t squeak, but rather, makes a loud, sometimes annoying sound.

… we were raising hogs on our farm – now our barn sits empty, with thick cobwebs in the corner of the ladder to the haymow.

… my husband and I stayed out until the wee hours of the a.m. with friends – now we wake up at the wee hours of the a.m. when those coming home race noisily down the road past our bedroom window.

… my daughter Mickey wasn’t even a thought in the back of my mind yet – now she is a real part of my life and in the front of my thoughts.

… I was 31 years old - I don’t even remember ever being 31 years old.

And get this -

… Survivor, one of the first television reality/game shows started its first season on national tv.

Can you believe it’s been on that long? I still don’t believe it.

The Education of Man

Hope you enjoy this from my August, 1999 journal -

All summer long I struggled trying to teach my (grown-up) guys where to put their dirty clothes. When out of the blue, I came up with an idea! I decided to make signs on my computer. After all, technology is the name of the game today.

I made a sign for each of the three hampers in the laundry room. The blue hamper read “dark colored work clothes in here”; the white hamper read “light colored work clothes in here” (seems logical, doesn’t it?). The green hamper read “good clothes of any color in here” (I’ll admit that might throw someone off).

I even opened the lids on the hampers.

Then, the most awesome thing happened. For the next twenty-four hours there were no dirty clothes on the floor in front of the hampers, no clothes on top of the closed hamper, and all the dirty clothes were where they belonged.

You can only imagine what this led to.

I thought to myself, “If they can read these signs, they can read other signs.”

I quickly fired up the ‘puter to make a sign for the hamper in the bathroom – “washcloths and towels in here”. I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop. A “nothing goes here” sign was attached to the wall in the bathroom, next to the hamper, visibly prohibiting anyone from putting their clothes on the floor next to the hamper. By the way, why do they do this?

For twenty-four more hours everything was where it belonged.

For a brief moment, my hopes were high. Visions of an orderly house were rampant in my mind. I even considered making signs for the bathroom vanity reading “contact solution in here’; “hairbrush in here” – the list in my mind went on and on.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it abruptly ended. My realm as queen of the orderly house was over. Reality set in quite rapidly and quite frankly, things went right back to normal.

The education of man. Short-lived.

My Sister

The study of birth order sparked my attention from the first day I learned about it in high school psychology class (which was just about as many years ago as Alfred Adler’s theory was old when I first heard of him.)

Many of these things – not all good – about me as the first born are true. I am a take charge person. I like to organize (not my closets, though) and put plans in motion. I like to have things my way (just ask my husband). I try to please people. I am reliable. I crave approval. I am a caregiver.

My sister is the middle child. Naturally, I tease her about it from time to time, often using it to jokingly explain something that has happened (well, she’s the middle child, what do you expect?). But seriously, as the middle child, my sister is a good friend. She has patience (even if she doesn’t think so). At times she can be slightly uptight. She is very diplomatic. She has a rebellious side (I’m remembering the teen years). She is creative.

Tales can be told of sisters. Tales of horror. Tales of love. Or, our tale.

When I am indecisive, my sister can help me decide.

When my sister is nervous, I can help her be calm.

When I am frustrated and confused, my sister can help me see straight.

When my sister is scared, I can help her feel safe.

When I am in tears, my sister can help comfort me.

When my sister is weak, I am strong.

When I need her, my sister is there.

When my sister needs me, I am there.

By ourselves, my sister and I are incomplete. What one of us lacks, the other one has. And sandwiched in the middle of us both, we share our heart.

Together we are whole, my sister and I.

Grandparents Day

Grandparents Day came a day early this year. I had the privilege of spending yesterday afternoon with my sweeties.

With fall leaves and cold winter days just around the corner, our summer is fading fast. It won't be long and this swing set will be covered with snow. And my sweeties will be all grown up.

When I look at this picture I realize that as the seasons change, so do the seasons of our lives.

Savor the days on the swing set.

Closed On Sunday

“Is the internet closed on Sunday?” asked my dad with a laugh in his voice, as he gave me the name of a web site he wanted me to look up for him.

“Of course not,” I said reassuringly – trying not to chuckle.

“Then I’ll be over this afternoon.”

My dad doesn’t own a computer. He doesn’t want to touch one. He knows you can do your bookwork on them. He knows you can write letters and play games and look at family photos on them.

And he knows there is a thing out there called the internet.

I know that my dad will never touch a computer. I know that because it took him five years to trust the microwave oven, and then only enough to warm up his ice cream for ten seconds.

I also know that because he gets awfully mad at his satellite dish when it freezes up, and then mostly because he knows he will have to pull the power cord and start over.

And I know that because he knows that all of his kids and grandkids will do the computing for him – if need be. That is, only if it can’t be done with a yellow legal pad, pen and a calculator. Because he’s a champ at that.

I know that he is amazed at what a computer can do. But I also know that he is satisfied just being amazed.

Dad got here at about 4:30. He and I sat down at the computer and I quickly typed in the web address. Click, click, click and I found the right page. Except it didn’t tell us what we wanted to know. FOR MORE INFORMATION CALL US AT... blah blah blah.

We tried a second web address. The page loaded displaying the following message:

“WE'RE SORRY OUR WEBSITE IS DOWN TODAY FOR MAINTENANCE. TRY AGAIN ANOTHER TIME.”

“I guess the internet is sometimes closed on Sunday”, I said to Dad as I pointed out the message.

He smiled.

I told him I would call them on the phone tomorrow.

Off to College

I saw a mom and her son college shopping for bed sheets the other day at Target. I can’t help but remember very well the day back in 1999 that our middle son went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

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 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.

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 and instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About 29 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 were 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 opened his top dresser drawer. I counted about 52 white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

P.S. My sadness was short lived. He eventually came back to visit, along with his dirty clothes. I’m convinced that its God’s way of preparing us for the day our children will leave home for good. Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

Something Else Much Greater

Letting go.

We do it all our lives.

We let go and are filled with excitement as we help our toddler take his first steps.

We let go and are reluctant as our five year old climbs onto her school bus for the first time.

We let go and are overjoyed as our daughter finally takes off on her bicycle, teetering back and forth until she finds her balance.

We let go and are filled with fear as our son drives out of the yard for the first time.

We let go and are filled with emptiness as we let our graduate pack his bags for college.

We let go and are filled with happiness as we send our son down the aisle to be married.

We let go and are filled with pride when we see our son become a father.

We let go because each time we do, it is because there is something else much greater to be found.

My sister and I held our mother’s hand tonight as she lay in bed, overcome with tears of disgust over her failing health. We cried with her.

I realized tonight that there will come a time when I will have to let go one more time. Because I know that my mother has something else much greater to be found.

And someday, when the time comes, with great sadness in my heart and tears streaming down my face, I will let go.

And desperately, I will try to remember something else much greater.

Empowering Youth

In my last post, Leap of Faith, I realized after-the-fact that I had just taught my nieces a valuable skill in life. How to paint. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It’s maybe not empowering them to become the next world leaders, but it’s the faith I had in them that matters.

I came to this conclusion because I’m currently reading the book, Empowering Youth: How to Encourage Young Leaders to Do Great Things and came across the term leap of faith. This book is written by Kelly Curtis from New Richmond, Wisconsin. Kelly’s book is filled with various tools and tips about how to empower our youth to become more socially responsible as adults and to reach their full potential.

Who is Kelly Curtis? Kelly Curtis, M.S., is a school counselor, a writer, a speaker, and the founder of Empowering Youth, Inc., which publishes positive youth development curricula. Her work has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines including Boy’s Life, All You, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and Poetica Grandmatica.

And she is my first cousin. And she was the cutest little flower girl in my wedding.

If you get a chance, please visit her websites http://2passthetorch.com/my-book/ and http://www.empowering-youth.com to read about her book.

And if you decide you want to see it closer up, it’s available at Amazon.com.
That’s where I ordered mine from.

Leap Of Faith

I had a big job to do and not much time.

There were two weeks left to get my student rental ready for the new tenants. At last minute (such as most of my life goes) I decided that the rental was in dire need of new carpet and paint (two bedrooms, a hall and stairway, plus the dining and living rooms).

My sister listened intently to my self-inflicted feel sorry for myself since I’ve bit off more than I can chew and could use help attitude (with the rental, not with the lunch) while we ate. The girls giggled and chatted about teenage girl stuff.

All of a sudden, I thought – maybe they could help me paint. The girls. The fourteen year old girls.

“Have you ever painted before?”

“Just pictures”, they both answered.

My sister quickly processes where this conversation is going and I can see her cringe with thoughts of paint spattered floors, walls and girls.

“I can teach you. It’s not that hard.” I also added, “I would pay you.”

Eyes light up. Ears perk up. They both sit up straight in their chairs. “Yes, we’ll help you.”

We decide on a date and time. The plans are set. I instruct them, “Wear clothes you can get paint on.”

Because I am not entirely naïve, I go a couple days ahead and do the edging.

On painting day, and after a quick lesson in Painting 101, the girls take over. I stay in the house, but away from the paint tray.

Giggling warmed the house all day long. Tons of giggling.

And after five hours of rolling until their arms felt like rubber, I stood back to admire their work.

There were quite a few drips – which I showed them how to catch. And there were a few oops – which I showed them how to wipe. And there were some splatters on the floor – which would soon dry and be covered by new carpet.

And there were my two nieces, paychecks in hand – who saved me at least two days worth of painting.

All because I took a leap of faith.

For the Love of the Game

As I watched the Olympic 2008 opening ceremony the other night, I couldn’t help but notice the faces of the Olympic athletes.

In this day and age, when something so simple as a game is marred by talks of boycott and talks of illegal drug use, we tend to forget the meaning behind it all. Behind all the billions of dollars spent on the facilities, the advertising, the sponsorship and the festivities, we tend to forget the real reason most of these athletes are there.

For the love of the game.

Looking at their faces as they proudly paraded together, filling the stadium, I saw young men and women, much like their peers all over the world. These are young men and women who are not set apart by the color of their skin, the sound of their voice or the wealth of their families. I believe that most of these young men and women are there for one reason only.

For the love of the game.

Although I take great pride in watching our American athletes, I remember that each and every one of these athletes, no matter what country they come from, has a mother (or other person whom they are close to), cheering them on as well, bursting at the seams with pride, and wishing them the very best.

And as the gymnasts dust their hands with chalk or the swimmers adjust their goggles, I'll bet none of them are thinking about where they are. They are thinking about why they are there.

For the love of the game.

Waving to your mom in the stands is just something you do. And the gold medal is truly icing on the cake. Congratulations to our Olympic athletes!

Number Two Son

On Monday, my number two son will turn twenty-seven.

He came very quickly into this world - after twenty minutes of labor on a hot, August day, and just as quickly settled into the number two spot in our family.

My son survived his older brother’s antics – shaking the playpen while he was sleeping, fighting over toys, and fighting for the front seat of the car. He survived being removed from the spotlight as the baby of the family, as he was catapulted smack dab into the middle when his sister was born thirteen years later.

In fact, I truly believe that he is destined to be a survivor.

A tragic automobile crash in the early morning hours of January 18, 2004, left several dead and injured, and one young man fighting for his life – his family at his side. It was my son.

Thrust into the frightening world of torn neurons and axons, I – without question – have devoted over the past four years of my life to help him recover and become whole again. I was determined to embrace with my whole heart the life challenges my family had been given, as we began to understand the reality of the “invisible disability” that goes along with traumatic brain injury.

Looking deep inside him, I found bits and pieces of his personality still intact, amidst all the chaos, and I reveled in the fact that those certain things about him that I knew and loved remained true.

By not grieving for what had been lost, but celebrating what had been saved, I have been able to remain relatively positive in a very negative situation.

I believe that my son’s destiny in this journey is part of God’s master plan for him.

Yes, he did survive the crash, and he also has survived the difficult years following his accident. With our help in keeping him moving forward, he has finally begun on his own to rebuild his life – in spite of how terribly slow this journey has been.

And so on this day, I celebrate my number two son. Happy Birthday, Jonathan.

The Lord says, “I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8

Love, Mom

Forty Dollar Toast

The toaster my mom and dad had when we were kids was the same one that they got for a wedding gift. It lasted forever. It was a silver toaster with black trim – kind of like this retro looking one I just got in May.

This is the first toaster I have purchased. Our wedding gift toaster (almost thirty-two years ago from my brother and sister-in-law) lasted about twelve years. The four or more subsequent toasters that I received from my kids for Christmas each had a useful life of about four years each. (Yes, I always ask for toasters for Christmas – it makes their shopping so easy – and you can get them almost anywhere, cheap!)

Back to the subject. Now if you do the math, you will realize that it doesn’t compute.

Yes, I’ve tricked you! I said “useful life”. Each of my toasters also had at least a year of “un-useful life” as well.

You’ve probably done it too. Pushing the lever down several times to make it stay down, cranking the darkness knob up more and more each time you used it to get the toast the color you wanted, or letting the toaster cool down between slices so it wouldn’t pop up right away again while the bread wasn’t even warm yet.

My new toaster was expensive in my books. It cost forty bucks. It has four push buttons for reheat, defrost, bagel and on/off. Although I don’t know what I would ever use the first two buttons for, the bagel button caught my eye. I quickly put the toaster in my cart before letting myself second-guess this expensive purchase.

The box and its directions (who needs directions for a toaster?) went unread and in the trash can and my new toaster found its home on the counter next to the refrigerator. I set the darkness dial in the middle and tried it out. Perfect!!

By now, Mickey has moved the darkness dial up and down from the center mark and I haven’t noticed. Until I hear my toast pop up and see with disgust just how dark it got. I put two more slices in and try again, this time moving the darkness dial a little towards the way I think it should go to make it lighter. The toast pops up and again I am disgusted! Still too dark. I am convinced that this toaster is a lemon.

Unless maybe I’m not reading the darkness dial right. Hmmm……

The little darkness dial has no words, just pictures. Two pictures, one of a piece of bread filled in with solid white, and one of a piece of bread outlined with white. With the directions long gone I decide to test my toaster.

I started with a piece of bread and the darkness dial all the way to the solid white. After almost four minutes, I smell burning toast. I pop it up and toss it.

Making sure to let the toaster cool down, I wait about twenty minutes and then try another piece of bread – this time with the darkness dial all the way to the outlined white. It pops up in less than two minutes with just barely warmed bread.

People always ask me what I am doing this summer since I have taken time off from work. I tell them I am working on my book and tearing my kitchen walls down for remodeling.

Now I can add wasting time playing with my new toaster to the list.

It sure is a nice toaster, though.

Direction

It’s not about going right or left. It’s not about going north or south.

It’s about guiding your children in their decision-making. It’s about asking“What do you think you should do?” instead of saying, “I think you should do this.”

But, instinct tells us to protect them and take care of them. So saying the latter is much harder – especially when you can see disaster coming.

For instance, relationship issues sure can tug at a mother’s heart. We see them happy in relationships and it warms our heart. While at the same time, we remember from our own youth just how devastating relationships can be when things go south. We mothers may even ending up gaining or losing a new found friend out of the deal whom we hold dear in our hearts as well.

The whole picture-

It’s so easy to get caught up in our children’s lives that we often forget that being a parent is about helping them see the whole picture so that they can make a good decision on their own. Or maybe a bad decision – in which case, would be one to learn from.

We need to ask questions like, “How does that make you feel?”, or “What do you think will happen if you do that?” And once in a while (if you have a grown boy, for instance) you might need to be pretty specific and say, “Here it is from a female perspective”, just to remind them that girls often think quite differently.

And in the end, we are always there to help pick up the pieces, get them back on their feet, brush themselves off and continue on with life – their own life. Hopefully – a bit wiser the next time around.

Hey, did you figure out that the "we" in this story might really be "me"?

Just For A Little Bit

The old woman sits in her chair by the window, waiting. Waiting and hoping that someone will visit today. Just for a little bit.

Each day is filled with routine. The nurse helps her use the bathroom. She gets dressed for breakfast. They wheel her down the hall to the dining area, where she waits patiently by her table for the tray. Will today’s tray be filled with something different from yesterday’s tray? Small talk is made at the table by those who can talk. “How are you today?” “Fine, thank you.” The lady next to her is cordial, but after a minute begins spreading grape jelly on her toast. This lady continues to spread the jelly, compulsively scraping every smidgen of it from the serving container. She spreads it back and forth, up and down, and back and forth again, never actually taking a bite.

Breakfast is done and the old woman is wheeled back to her room. The nurse helps her brush her teeth and she lay back in her bed, takes her medication and falls asleep for a nap. She awakens to the sound of the nurse in the room. After getting out of bed to use the bathroom, the old woman sits in her chair for a while. She hears children in the hall. They are here to visit someone. But not her.

The old woman tries to make small talk with her roommate. “What is your husband’s name?” “Where do you live?” Each of them has forgotten that they had this same conversation yesterday.

She chooses to eat lunch in her room today. The nurse brings in her tray and she sits up in bed to eat. It’s just easier than getting up and getting out. After lunch and help using the bathroom, the old woman again lays down to rest. The clock ticks, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, until the afternoon is long gone.

Supper is eaten and she goes back to her room.

The old woman sits in her chair by the window, waiting. Waiting and hoping that someone will visit today. Just for a little bit.

Having my mom stay at the nursing home for the last ten days for rehabilitation has given me a new perspective on aging. I wish I would have visited my Grandma more, but I was too busy. Go visit someone who is lonely today. Just for a little bit.

The Game of Risk

The game of risk. We play it every day.

The rows sustain our very lives and the hills that are the backdrop for these rows is our reward for the labor and the worry, the stress and the strain.

In winter’s snow and cold, we retreat to our house. As we sit by the fire, we watch the snow gradually cover last year’s rows – eventually to melt with spring’s rain, saturating the soil below. The soil will stockpile the moisture – hopefully long enough to sustain the rows through the hot summer months.

Spring brings with it the readying time, where much thought and energy is put into planning each and every row. The weather must cooperate for the rows to sprout and flourish. We must have sun to warm the soil, and rain to hydrate the seeds in the ground.

With the hot sun of July comes the threat of unwanted predators which may jeopardize the rows, and the lack of rain, which causes the rows to curl and burn while every bit of moisture reserve from the soil is evaporated.

We pray for rain. But not too much. It can rain on our picnic, we don’t care. Because we know that without rain, the rows will die and the hills will no longer belong to us. We pray for others in times of their misfortune – too much rain which drowns the rows – because we know that they are just as vulnerable as we are – and that they also have hills they are fighting to protect.

Finally fall harvest comes – it is an ending time, when we will at last determine the success of the rows and see our fate. As the evening comes more quickly, and the cool autumn air sends a welcome chill through us, we wash the soil of the rows from our hands until next spring.

When we will do it all over again.

The risk never goes away. It is there every day of the year – but the hills that are the backdrop for the rows remain – an ever beautiful sign of just why we take the risk again and again.

Does My Mascara Look Okay?

Two years ago, my husband and I were in town. The tire on our car looked low to him, so he had me pull over into the gas station to the air compressor. Being the manly man he is, he got out to put air in the tire. I’m tuning in the radio or something when all of a sudden I hear a knock on the window.

“Come here. I need you to look at the tire pressure tester and tell me what it says. I can’t see the numbers.” I got out, read the tester and told him just what I saw.

A year later, we’re in the pharmacy department looking for cold medicine or something. Perusing through the many brands to choose from on the shelves, we each pick up a package and turn them over to read the label. Neither of us can make out the writing. We put them down, I pushed the cart over to the reading glasses, and we picked out a pair that we could share.

In a few months we both realize that one pair isn’t enough. I pick up a pair to keep at my computer, while he gets some to keep in the kitchen where he sits to read the paper. By Christmas, I have purchased another pair for my desk at work and he gets some to keep in his truck.

It isn’t long and the power isn’t strong enough. We both need to up the magnification, with him needing just a tad more than I.

By now, I’ve added a pair in my purse, plus a magnifying mirror in the bathroom so I don’t go to work looking like I missed my eyelashes with the mascara.

Last week, we were working on the kitchen remodel, trying to read a tape measure, mark cut lines and run the table saw. Each of us wore our glasses, I flipped them up on my head when I had to walk from room to room so I didn’t trip, then back down again to measure and cut. Sometimes I’m too lazy to take them off, then I just get dizzy.

The eye doctor had no sympathy for me – he simply told me, “I can’t do anything about your age.” Gee thanks.

Years ago, my dad would buy reading glasses from the drug store – a whole display card at a time, about a dozen of them. Each pair was different, some were ladies styles, some men’s styles, some were fashionable and some were ugly. I never really understood, just tried not to laugh when he was wearing purple glasses with gold and diamonds on them. Until now.

Bargaining With the Tooth Fairy

Mickey had two permanent teeth pulled today to make room for some more. She is a real trooper – at age thirteen, she knew she would not enjoy it, but knew she had to do it. Seeing those huge teeth come home in a box as a souvenir of today’s braveness, my thoughts wandered …

She lost her first tooth back in 2002, in first grade. Sitting there deep in thought and not even aware of what she was doing, she would take her tongue and push the little tooth back and forth. While she was watching tv, she would take her fingers and manipulate the tooth even more. All the wiggling finally paid off – eventually causing the tooth to just hang there – as if by a thread.

“Mickey, you need to try and get that tooth to come out,” I said. “Come into the bathroom.”

Perched on a stool in front of the mirror, I handed her a dry wash cloth and showed her how to wrap the cloth around the tooth. I told her to pull on it and try to get it to come out.

After a few foiled attempts, I asked her to let me touch it. A quick vision of my dad telling me “just let me touch it” ran through my head. Because he touched it alright, he pulled it right out! It happened so quickly that I didn’t even realize it. And now, thirty-five years later, I found myself in those same shoes.

The tooth came out almost effortlessly; after all, it was hanging there by its very tiny baby sort of a root. There was a spot of blood, but biting on a cold, wet wash cloth soothed her little jaw in an instant. The tooth was ready to be put under the pillow, where it would anxiously await the Tooth Fairy’s arrival.

I tucked Mickey in that night, we said our prayers, and I thought about the tooth laying there under her pillow. I remember when she got that tooth. It was July. With the temperature well over 90° that day, along with unbearable humidity, I sat in my un-air conditioned house rocking a very fussy sixth month old baby. No matter which way I rocked her, or jiggled her on my lap, she was not happy. No matter which lullaby I sang to her, or which book I read to her, she was not happy. She was just plain crabby, crabby, crabby. Until the tooth finally erupted from her swollen gum.

I bargained with the Tooth Fairy that night to let me keep her first tooth, because as I looked at it, I realized that this was a part of her that I would never see again. A part of her life that she and I experienced together – as we sat in the rocking chair together on that hot July day … when she needed her mom to comfort her.

Just like she did today.

Attempting Green

Fifteen years ago I had a huge clothesline in the back yard. Dairy farming at the time, we generated a lot of dirty laundry! I remember one Saturday afternoon, after washing continuously all day, counting thirty-five t-shirts hanging on the line – plus fifteen pairs of jeans, twenty-five pairs of socks and a dozen towels.

Eventually the cows were sold, the boys grew up and moved away, and my huge clothesline was usually empty. Mickey told me, “I don’t like the smell of the clothes after you take them off the line. They smell like air.” My husband said, “My clothes are too stiff and scratchy when they come off the line.” I simply thought, “are they crazy, or what?”

But, after getting tired of avoiding the clothesline with the lawnmower and trimming with the weed eater around its frame, I eventually found a new home for it. A woman I work with, who lived on a dairy farm with her husband and her three boys took it ever so graciously out of my yard. The clothesline was finally gone … until this spring.

That’s when I decided I wanted to go green, but with a smaller version of the clothesline.

After much thought, I bought a little umbrella-style portable clothesline that I could fold up and put aside when I wasn’t using it. Eager to install it, but dismayed when the directions told me that I needed a bag of quick setting cement for the post, I had to wait until I went back to town. A week later, armed and ready, I finally convinced my husband to dig a hole for me. Three days later, he actually dug the nice, neat hole, and we added the cement. It set up quickly and I knew that the next morning I would be able finally use my clothesline!

Early Saturday morning I threw a load of jeans into the washer. As soon as they were done washing, I grabbed them and went out to the line. Oops, I realized that I forgot one important thing – clothes pins! I flopped the jeans over the line anyway.

An hour later … it started raining … and rained off and on all day.

I took them back off the line, and put them on again - twice.

Finally, I brought the jeans in and threw them into the dryer.