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?