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.

A Long and Happy Life

The candles will be blown out and put away. The lights will be wrapped up and packed in a box. The Santa's, snowmen and angels will be tucked safely in tissue paper, high on a shelf in the attic. The tree will be set out for the birds to nest in.

The Christmas decorations are gone until next year.

But the image of the dozens of shoes lined up down the fifteen foot hall at my in-law’s house will stick in my mind all year long – a reminder of the long and happy life they have enjoyed. With seven children, four daughters-in-law and three sons-in-law, a foster daughter and her husband, eighteen grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren; amazingly, all but four were present over the Christmas holiday season.

Which explains the long, long row of boots and shoes in this picture – and why I have given this blog post its title.



A long and happy life.

When all is said and done, and we have to look back on the accomplishments in our life, we need look no farther.

May you have a long and happy life.

The Grandma Shirt

She wrinkles up her nose. She glares at me with eyes that spell out the word “eeww”.

No, Mickey doesn’t like the same clothes I like. And when I try to show her something classic, she makes the same face at me. “That looks like a grandma shirt,” she says.

I’m not in the dark about fashion. I know what people are wearing. I know what’s in and what’s out. But I also know what I like and don’t like. I don’t like shirts that are skin tight. I don’t like jeans that are so low cut that a person has to make sure they have coordinating undergarments on. After all, I grew up in the era where girls tried to make sure their bra straps didn’t show.

I do like the classic, uncomplicated clothes. Sweatshirts. Jeans. Cardigan sweaters and roomy t’s.

Last winter I found myself picking up and contemplating the purchase of an awesome navy blue sweatshirt with a snowman appliqué on it. After my inner voices wrestled back and forth with themselves about the shirt, my younger self won. I couldn’t force myself to buy it.

Because my mom wears shirts like that.

Yesterday I spotted a red sweatshirt with Christmas trees appliquéd on the front. I picked it up. I liked it. I put it back down. I walked around the store one more time.

I thought to myself, “You are a grandma, for heaven’s sakes. Buy the darn shirt.”

Yes, I have come to realize that you get to a point in your life where you finally admit to yourself that it’s okay to dress as you like, wear your hair as you like – and quit using the Loving Care.

I’m not quite there yet – but I can feel it coming.

And I’m kind of okay with that – kind of.

Trust Your Heart

The air was frigid. It was one of the coldest days so far this winter. As we got closer to the stop light, we saw two gentlemen standing by the curb, the wind chill literally taking their breath away. A piece of cardboard, cut from a box, had writing on it, scrawled with a black magic marker. The light turned red.

With my car slowly rolling to a stop, I was able to make out the words “Please, we need money for bus tickets,” and “God bless you”.

The driver in the car ahead of me opened his window and handed them money.

In an instant, I turned and grabbed for my purse. My thick, glove-covered hands pulled a ten dollar bill out of my wallet. By now the light had turned green. I glanced in my rear view mirror and could see about four cars behind me. Tugging on the window switch, it made its way down. At the same time, I slowly pulled ahead and thrust the ten dollar bill out of the window as my car neared one of the gentlemen.

He took the money and said “God bless you ma’am”. I nodded to him and drove off.

As we rounded the corner, Mickey turned to me and said, “Didn’t that feel good?” I agreed with her. It felt really good.

I don’t know how many of the subsequent cars behind me followed suit, but I know at least one did. I don’t know if these gentlemen really needed bus tickets or not, but I didn’t care.

Then turning back to Mickey I said, “It doesn’t really matter what they wanted the money for. What matters is that we trusted our heart.”

Muddy Footprints

“Make sure you tell Grandpa he doesn’t have to catch a turkey this year, because we have one in our freezer,” Chrissy says to me as we talk about what we like best about Thanksgiving.

Chrissy and Kaitlyn both agreed they like the turkey the best. And for the record, the ones I bake come from the grocery store.

The housecleaning is done as good as it will be this year. There are a few doors that will be shut - to hide the stray boxes leftover from the kitchen remodel that I haven’t the gumption to deal with.

More importantly, tonight I am relaxing with my little sweeties – savoring my Tuesday night with them while their mom is at class. We were sandwich artists tonight, the three of us up at the counter building ourselves each our own classic. After supper we got out our pencils and paper and wrote letters to Santa. After homework is done and we read a book or two, I’ll tuck them into their beds, listen to their prayers, and kiss them goodnight – sending them off to dream their sweet little dreams of Barbie houses, play makeup and Nintendo DS games.

While the house is quiet I think of all of us fretting to get everything on our lists done in time for Thanksgiving. I think of all the floors that are being scrubbed and vacuumed, and furniture being dusted. I think of all the trips to the grocery store for the special ingredients.

We clean and cook with love in our hearts for those we love the most.

And after the day is over, in much less time than it took to prepare, there will be muddy footprints on our freshly scrubbed floor, spilled gravy on the tablecloth, and half-full (or half-empty, depending on how you look at it) glasses of wine or punch scattered about the house. There will be loads of dishes to be washed and leftovers galore, jam-packed into the frig.

As you crash on the sofa after everyone is gone, let the muddy footprints be a sign that you have a family that loves you and loves to spend time with you.

I thank God for all the muddy footprints in my life.

This post was requested by a friend - who needed some inspiration as she gets ready for Thanksgiving. Enjoy!

The Secret Ingredient

My husband’s mother is mother to more than just him. She has six other children, a whole mess of grand and great-grandchildren, and has been married for over fifty years . Several years ago, she partnered with her husband running a 500 cow dairy farm in western Wisconsin. This brings me in a round-about way to the subject today.

First, I must elaborate a little more.

She has always cooked for a big family. She has always cooked for a table full of hired farm hands, plus her seven children and grand children. She cooked in quantity - seemingly effortlessly. On the farm, meat and potatoes were plentiful, a staple of the meal. She used a pressure cooker to tenderize less desirable cuts of meat. She served fresh vegetables from her garden. Yes, dinner was in the oven while she was milking cows.

My mother-in-law collects cookbooks. She cuts recipes out of magazines and newspapers. Her recipe cupboard is filled to the brim, the doors bursting at the seams – propped shut with a ruler slid between the pulls. My mother-in-law loves to get ideas from the recipes she collects.

She just doesn’t like to follow the recipes.

I remember one time there was an insurance salesman at the house. She offered him a slice of fresh peach pie. He loved it. He asked her for her recipe. She just laughed and changed the subject.

After he left, she told me that she added the morning’s leftover pancake batter in with the pie crust dough.

Yes, she adds this, and leaves that out. She doubles this and substitutes that. She doesn’t measure, she just knows.

And it all turns out. And even though we know this, we still ask her for her recipe. And she can’t give it to us, because she didn’t use one … exactly, anyway. But still we ask.

The subject today – the secret ingredient.

In preparing the turkey for our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I wanted to get the same delicious results that I’ve had eating turkey dinner that my mother-in-law has cooked. So I boldly asked her for her recipe, confident that whatever she told me would be good enough for me.

“I stuff the bird with chopped up carrots, onions and celery. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I must admit, it turned out delicious. But I didn’t write it down.

The next fall I called her again, pleading “Could you please give me that recipe again for turkey? I promise I’ll write it down this time.”

She is more than willing to share with me. “I stuff the bird with apples and dried apricots. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I finally figured it out. It really doesn’t matter how you cook it. As long as you use the secret ingredient, that is. Maple syrup.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage happens very gradually. It migrated in its entirety to me about five years ago.

When I was first married, which was in fact, ages ago, all I needed to do was show up for Thanksgiving Dinner at my mom and dad’s house. My grandmother was there, and her and my mom could be found bustling around getting that turkey ready for us to devour.

Gradually, and unbeknownst to me the rite of passage began.

Relish tray. “Could you bring a relish tray this year?” I could do that! After all, cutting up carrots and celery was virtually foolproof.

Jell-o. During the little-kids-under-my-feet years, the relish tray became my sister’s job and I was assigned jell-o. “Would you like to bring a bowl of jell-o this year?” Of course, I excitedly obliged. I had to go and buy a bowl first, though.

Scalloped corn. As the years flew by, I moved on to scalloped corn. This was my opportunity to try a few new recipes and really blossom in the creativeness category.

Pumpkin pie. My grandmother always brought the pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving Dinner. But after she passed away, Mom asked me “Would you bring the pumpkin pie this year?” I baked two pumpkin pies, thinking of Grandma as I checked to see if they were done, putting a knife into the center of each, making sure it came out clean.

As my mother grew older, somehow my sister and I just knew it was time.

Turkey time, that is.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage took place. Over the span of thirty years.

You will find me baking turkey again this Thanksgiving. And with my sister and brother's help, everything that goes along with it. Almost everything - except the jell-o.

My nineteen year old niece is bringing that.

Just a Peek

Peeking around the corner, I see my new sink, new cabinets, new lighting, new floor and appliances. For just a second, I don’t recognize anything.

It’s been about a week since the last of the strangers have left my house. All is quiet.

The drywall installer is gone. All of the little globs of joint compound have been scraped off and wiped clean. The primer and paint is dry. And touched up. And primed again. And dry.

The flooring installer is gone. It was a long project, and the most difficult of all aspects of this kitchen and laundry room remodel, because I had to move everything contained in those two rooms completely out of the house for four days. Some things have not yet returned, and may very well never return.

The cabinetmaker is gone. He arrived on schedule, spent thirteen hours installing my beautiful quarter-sawn oak hand crafted cabinets, complete with brushed nickel pulls and knobs. The beauty of his work escalated as he added the crown molding. What was once just a name to me now means much more. Crown molding is truly the crowning touch.

The electrician is gone. With great expertise, he wove countless wires in and out of the old house wall, bringing light and power to corners of the kitchen I have never seen before. Gone are the dark days of baking, preparing meals, and struggling for a spot to plug in the toaster. Plus, I get to look at new, cool looking light fixtures.

The appliance installer is gone. With a helping hand he moved my old appliances out and moved my new ones in. He took my old frig to my son’s house, and brought Nate’s old frig back to my basement (my son upgraded). And then he moved them back out again, along with my washer and dryer for the floor install. And then he moved them all back in again and also installed my over-the-range microwave/fan hood combo. He hooked up my new dishwasher, installed my ice maker line and even added a shut off valve for the dishwasher for me. A week later (to the day), his appliance store burned down. My heart goes out to him and his wife in the loss of their business. But that’s another blog post.

The countertop installer is gone. With great care he checked my countertop measurements, and then I again checked his math, making sure I ordered the exact size countertop. Lifting the tremendously heavy piece of quartz into place took the work of three men.

The plumber is gone. The final piece of the remodel fell into place when he hooked up the water line to the kitchen sink. A month without water in the kitchen finally came to an end.

In closing, I have realized that all these people know a lot more about me than I probably wanted them to.

They know that –
I don’t vacuum behind my refrigerator.
I don’t know how to organize a closet.
I don’t know how to operate a filing cabinet.
I don’t clean my basement very often.
I don’t always make my bed.
But most importantly –
I don’t usually complain too loud if things don’t turn out quite as anticipated.

For me, there’s always Plan B.

Enjoy the peek at my new sink.

The 8 x 10

I held the 8 x 10 in my hands, turning to her dad with a puzzled look and asked, “Where in the world does she get her beautiful looks from?” He agreed, and thought for a second. In a very politically correct manner he said, “I think she’s got a mixture of both of us.”

Mickey is a beautiful, almost 14 year old girl. She has a very sweet personality. Her sense of humor makes us laugh. And she is smart.

She was born 13 years after her brother, taking away his spot as the youngest. When people look at me with the “why did you have a child so late in life” look, I simply add, “She’s the icing on the cake.”

Because she is so sweet.

I had a piece of Mickey’s heart from the minute I knew she existed. Likewise, I know she has a piece of mine.

And now she wants to share the 8 x 10 with her friend. Her friend who is a boy.

It won’t be long and some boy will want to share her heart as well. And I know that I will have to let him.

But not the 8 x 10. That’s mine.

All That Remains

“They took everything but the kitchen sink.” No. That’s gone too. All that remains of my old kitchen stands here in this spot. The hot and cold water pipes.

Everything we own that was in our kitchen is boxed up, shelved, and otherwise scattered throughout the house. I feel like I am living in a pile of stuff. The milk is in the frig in the basement, down a flight of steps and sixty feet from where it is supposed to be. The cereal is on a shelf in the hallway next to the disposable bowls and spoons. The toaster is on a cart in the living room. It’s a challenge to eat breakfast. Or any meal, for that matter.

The picture of my new kitchen is engrained in my brain – and I call upon it frequently to keep my sanity.

Like last night when I was scraping the dried joint compound off the old floor to prep for the new floor. My back and feet were aching. My husband helped me carry a few things out of the room. Then he looked at me and said, “I think I’ll go hunting for awhile.”

Thank goodness I didn’t have a hammer in my hand or I would have killed him. Well, not literally …

He paced around the room for a minute. I whined for some more help. Then he made the mistake of opening his mouth one more time.

“Well, this was all your idea,” he said sort-of-under-his-breath as he walked into the living room.

Again, I have no hammer.

Deep breath …

I finished sweeping up the joint compound crumbs.

For those of you who are dying to know, did my husband go hunting?

No.

Twenty minutes later the electrician showed up and he helped him fish a couple wires up through the wall.

Then I handed him a hammer …

So he could take a couple staples out of the old floor that he missed the other night - when the light was too dim, and the old set of eyes he has had already checked out for the night.

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.