Chicagoland

This post has to piggyback the Midwest posting.  You see, we moved to the famous Chicagoland area a few months ago.  By the way, I did not coin that word.  It's said on every TV and radio station.  It covers a radius of about 45 miles, north, west, and south of the city of Chicago.  And to the east is Lake Michigan.

I am in love with Chicagoland.  There are no cons, OK, one con.  My kids and grandkids don't live here.  I fool myself and pretend that they do so that I can go about my day and enjoy the city without the pain of missing them so much.

What are the pros of living here you ask?  Oh, there are so many.  I'll start with my neighbors.  In a word--they are lovely.  They have wonderful upbeat attitudes, they've invited us into their homes, over for dinner, to parties, and to restaurants.  It didn't matter that it was winter, who cares!  One of our neighbors even had a Groundhog Day party.  A what?  You heard me.  Everyone brought a dish and we ate, talked and had a wonderful time.  No one complained about the weather.  We all just chatted and laughed--we were just grateful to all be together and enjoy life.  We have found a great church, we've made some friends and we are happy.

Everyone asks us how we're settling in or if we need anything.  However, not one person has asked us this question--why did you move here?  We were asked that question pretty much on a daily basis when living near Cleveland.  I wonder why?

And then there is the city of Chicago itself.  Wow, what a city.  I love it more than I love New York City or San Francisco, and I truly love those cities.  Chicago has everything--museums, shopping, restaurants, Lake Michigan, a river flowing through the center, skyscrapers, the L, and so much more.  We can take the Metra which is a commuter train into the city on weekends for $7 round trip. It's fantastic.  We go often, as we aren't the type who sits around waiting or wondering what to do on any given weekend.  Nope, we're the movers and the shakers--the goers and the doers--we don't relax, we like to have adventures.  And Chicago is perfect for us.  It's colder here, I'll admit that, but it snows a little less, so spring seems to come a little earlier.  The fall colors aren't nearly as brilliant as Cleveland's and neither is the countryside as beautiful, but I still love it here.  I am content.

So for now, we will thoroughly enjoy our time here in Chicagoland.  We'll explore and wander through the suburbs and we'll get to know each and every little burg.  We'll be tourists and we will eat our way through Chicago.  I'd like to retire here, but honestly, we don't have a good track record of staying in one place.  So, I'm thinking at best I've got about 10 years to get to know Chicago inside out.  I better get started then--times a wasting.

Midwest

We moved to the Midwest in late 1999.  It was just before Thanksgiving.  Poor timing on our part.  The holidays were right around the corner and boy, was it a lonely time for us.  No family, just us--all alone.  And it was much colder than we'd anticipated.  One of our first shopping excursions was to buy some down coats.

We bought an old house with steam heat that hissed and pinged.  There was plenty of room for our family of 5.  Everything about that old house was different from our home in California.  It had a laundry chute that went down to the basement, and old bathrooms--one with a claw foot tub.  It didn't have air-conditioning.  It didn't have a pool and it had a tiny backyard.  Still, I loved it.  It was our Midwest home and it went with our new Midwest lifestyle.

Yes, I said lifestyle--because believe me there was definitely a lifestyle change.  Let's start with the weather, we weren't in California anymore.  In hindsight moving here in the middle of winter probably wasn't the smartest choice.  Freezing cold, snow, ice, lack of sun--we were lucky we didn't kill each other.  We'd all huddle in the basement family room in front of the fire and try hard to like the person sitting next to us.  It wasn't easy being nice.  We were cold, lonely and wondering if we hadn't just made the biggest mistake in our lives.  The holidays that year were pretty bad.  I tried to be the cheerleader--I bought tons of food and gifts, but it didn't make up for missing our friends and family.

It didn't take long though, our kids began to make some friends--with school, work, and church we started meeting people.  Also, this is where my sons became friends, not just brothers.  They only had each other for the first few months.  They went from fighting to hanging out.  They even bought a car together to share.  Yes, I said share.  It was almost too much for me to wrap my brain around.
And after we thawed out we found that we loved our home, our neighbors, and our little town.

However, there were differences.  Now this is something that I observed, it might or might not be true, but it became true for me.  I found the people in the Midwest to be slow in making new friends.  They seem to be much closer to family, and since Midwesterners aren't as transient as Californians--well, let's just say that they had friends left over from elementary school days.  In other words--life long friends and no room for new ones.  It made it hard for us to nudge our way in.  They seemed much more wary of strangers and it didn't help one bit that we came from you know where.  But, we persevered and eventually made a home and yes, even friends in the Midwest.

Another thing I noticed--not to be too picky but, they sure aren't happy little campers during the long winter months.  You better not be expecting a smile or a howdy because you aren't going to get one!  I think it's lack of sunshine myself.  It's the only reason I could come up with and believe me, I've studied this.  It called SAD or seasonal affective disorder.  I'm diagnosing the entire area of Northeast Ohio--it's for their own good.  Customer service of any kind leaves in November and somewhat returns sometime around May.  That's a long time.

Also, Midwesterners speak a different language than Californians.  For instance--what I would say if I were to order a diet coke might go something like this--do you have soda?  They'd reply--yes we have pop.  What in the world is a pop?  I saw a trash can once labeled pop cans here--seriously I had no idea what that meant.

We also stopped camping after moving to the Midwest.  We went once.  It rained the entire trip and was extremely humid.  That year I donated all my camping gear.  Hello, hotels.

However, there are many positive things to say about the Midwest.  It's beautiful out here.  It's green and hilly, and the fall colors will knock your socks off.  There are 4 distinct seasons and the Great Lakes which are really inland seas.  We've got some big cities out this way--have you heard of Chicago?  There are metro parks and rivers, beautiful little New England style towns and awesome food.  The food alone deserves its own page.

And best of all my kids and grandkids are here.  I guess we are Midwesterners now with a lot of Californian thrown in.  And dude, like isn't that what this country is all about?  Blending cultures and getting along?  I sure hope so!  Just thought I'd throw some California speak in there!

Empty nest

I'm so excited
I'm having a baby
I love you already
I'm so tired
I haven't slept in a year
Hold still while I change your diaper
Don't touch that it's dirty
Don't eat that it's icky
No biting
No spitting
Hold my hand
Mommy loves you
I don't want anything bad to happen to you
Don't hit your brother
Stop teasing your sister
Pick up your toys
Come back here
Do not cross that street
Only go to the corner
Please God keep them safe
We don't say that at our house
Clean your room
Do your homework
Eat your vegetables
I'm so proud of you
I don't care what other kids get to do
Because I said so
Go ahead and tell your grandma
Sit still
Turn around
Great job
Stop talking
Let's play the quiet game
It's hard to explain
No, you can't stay overnight
I don't have to tell you why
Be home by 10:00
Where are you
Talk to me
OK be home by 11:00
No R rated movies
Is this dance at your school
What time is the game over
Wear your seatbelt
I'm worried
Lock your doors
You're doing what
I do too like him
No swimming when we're not home
We don't use that kind of language
I'm sorry she hurt you
I'm here for you
I'm listening
Don't skip classes
Come home soon
I love you
I miss you
Your wedding was beautiful
I love your new place
I'm so proud of you
Come visit soon
I love you
I miss you
I'm sad
I'm so excited for you
I love being a grandma
What a beautiful house
Awesome car
Come visit soon
I love you
I miss you

Riding Horses

His name was Fury.  He was huge, midnight black and the horse of my dreams.  Every Saturday morning I would sit and wait impatiently for the 1/2 hour TV show to start.  Fury--my hero of a horse.  He was there to save the day, and make all things right.  I can remember my sister and I fighting over our Saturday mornings--who got to watch what and when.  And fighting over which morning hero was the toughest and the best.  She liked Flicka--I thought he was a wimp.  My poor mom--her little girls arguing over fictitious horse characters on TV.  The best leverage for discipline in our house was the threat of no Fury or Flicka if you don't settle down!  It worked for me, I didn't want to miss Fury for anything.

My love for horses began early--most likely by the time I reached 4 or 5 I was doomed.  I was obsessed with all things horse related.  I would have done anything for a horse of my own.  Including trading my sister for one!  And by the time I was 12 or 14 I had one--a horse of my very own.  Her name was Tiki, she was a little bay mare.  I started taking riding lessons and was a natural.  I began to show her in some local horse shows and felt that I had found my true calling.  Really it was the one thing I was truly good at--horses.  I discovered that I had a way with animals and especially horses.  I would exercise her and brush her and give her baths.  My parents would buy me equipment--saddles, bridles, and Omaline for birthdays and Christmas.  The smell of the barn, the hay, the leather--well, that was my perfume.  I loved it.

My second horse came a couple of years later, a big chestnut gelding named Nu Tempo, he was a grandson of Seabiscuit.  He tore a ligament in training and could not be raced after that, and somehow I was fortunate enough to get him.  He was basically an overgrown puppy.  He followed me everywhere.
Or at least he wanted to follow me everywhere.  He had the ability to break any unbreakable halter.  It didn't matter where we were--our barn, a horse show, down at the arena--if I walked away, he'd follow.  He'd raise his head, snap that halter and come trotting after me.  When he'd find me, he'd lay his big old head on my shoulder and sigh.  It was the cutest thing--that sigh of contentment.  I wasn't quite 5 feet tall and he was a big 16.5 hands.  He was the love of my teenage life.

I truly believe with all my heart that those horses saved me from all kinds of bad stuff--drugs, alcohol, boys, but I lived and breathed horses.  My focus was on them.  Showing, riding, smelling...
My horses kept me out of trouble.  Being raised in the late sixties and early seventies--well, let's just say that drugs were the prominent factor among teenagers.  But I didn't have the time to fool with them, I was too much of a horse girl to care about much of anything else.  My horses were my teenage refuge.
They kept me sane.  I would go out riding and because I was and still am such a daydreamer, deep thinker and feeler--riding helped me solve the problems of my little world.  For hours I would go riding on trails, just thinking away.  It was peaceful and for me, there was a freedom.  It's hard to explain the peace I felt out there.  Riding.  Just me and my horse, thinking away.  Planning.  Maybe that's what I was doing--planning.  For my future.  Or maybe I was problem-solving.  Who knows.  I just know that it was what I lived for at the time.  It was timely.  It was something just for me.  My horses.

It wasn't until much later that the realization came to me--that's where I learned to pray.  I would ride for hours and talk, just talk to God.  I would prattle on--sharing my fears, my hopes, my dreams, my problems, and He would listen.  It was a conversational prayer, the type of prayer that is still the way we communicate today.  Just me and him--talking.  And while I no longer ride horses, I still pray, I've just traded in my saddle for a rocking chair.

Flying

I love flying and I love airports.  When I drive by an airport I begin to hyperventilate.  I can feel the excitement flow through my veins.  I want to go somewhere--anywhere!  Maybe it's because I was 35 years old before I ever flew on an airplane.  I know, I was pretty old.  However, I believe that's why I appreciate the aspect of travel, I love experiencing new things and meeting new people.  I was terrified the first time I flew.  I got to the airport and had to learn a whole new world.  Which shuttle to take, which line to stand in, where to take my luggage, etc.  Once seated on the plane I was able to relax, that is until take off which scared me to death.  I couldn't even bear to think of what the landing would be like!  Dramamine became my close friend.  I was a white knuckler for sure.  And turbulence, oh there was turbulence all right.  But, once we were in the air and I was able to corral my fears, I loved it.  We went to Dallas--it has a huge airport, full of people speaking many languages and going in different directions.  It was exciting.  And that was when I knew--I was addicted to travel, to airports and to anything that used the words let's go!  

I love to get to the airport early so that I can participate in one of my favorite hobbies.  When I arrive one of the first things that I do is people watch.  I don't mean to, it just happens.  Someone or something will grab my attention and there I go--watching them.  They are so interesting--those airport people.  They come in all ethnic groups, all shapes, and sizes, ages, and colors.  Some are loud--yelling their sentences rather than saying them and some are quiet--they are usually the readers.

One of my favorite things to do upon arriving after going through security is to get a coffee and just sit and analyze all the folks within my field of vision.  Just looking at their choice of clothing can take hours of conjecturing.  Some are in sweats and slippers and look as though they've just rolled out of bed.   In fact, they've even brought their pillow with them.  While others are dressed for a night on the town.  They are the ones who want you to notice their jewelry and handbags.  And I love looking at the clothing that teenagers wear.  They're trying hard to look so cool only to really give off a look of insecurity and loneliness.  And then there are the old people.  They are so cute, with their canes and white hair--walking slowly down the hallways as the mad dashers who are late for their flights go barreling past.  They are the businessmen.  Oh so important--they are usually on their cell phones, yakking away oblivious to everyone--in their own little world.

I also like to try and guess at relationships of the people around me.  I like to watch how couples interact, and I like to see how parents treat their children.  Are they frustrated, tired and already sick of vacationing?  Or are they excited, anticipating adventure and fun?  I would love to interview them.
Hello, I'm taking a survey.  Can I ask you a few questions?  Why are you here?  Where are you going?  Do you like the people that you are traveling with?  Are they friend or foe? 


I think that I can safely say that I am now a seasoned traveler who no longer needs Dramamine, I like to dress comfortably, and I like to give myself plenty of time so that I am never in a rush.  I like to savor my time while at the airport.  I know why I am there, I know where I am going and I usually like the people that I am traveling with.  So for me, it's all about the attitude.  It's all about fun.  It's all about adventure.

Viva Las Vegas

I am in Las Vegas.  I am with my husband on one of his many business trips.  There are a gazillion men and some women and then--there are the wives.  We're the crazy ones, the rowdy bunch.  We text, email, facebook and call each other with questions like--are you going to so and so with your husband?  When will you get there?  We all get excited as more and more of us find out who's going.  We plan and pack and meet up at various hotels all over the world.  When we see each other we laugh and hug and talk a mile a minute.  It's so good to see them.  Sometimes a year or two will go by and then again sometimes we get to see some more often.  Either way, we'll take it.  We are friends.  We have a common thread--our husband's company.

There is no pecking order among the wives.  We don't care what position our husbands hold in the company--we are friends.  We are equal.  And boy do we have fun.  We share stories about our children and grandchildren.  We bring pictures of our vacations.  We leave our worries behind us and enjoy our time together.

We shop, eat lunch, shop, drink coffee, shop, go to dinner--repeat.  We are the ones who discover what the cities have to offer. We scope out the best restaurants and find the most unique gifts.  We take pictures of each other and laugh about posting them on Facebook.  In the evenings we all get together with our husbands in tow and tell them all about our day.  Who bought what and where we ate.  And we share all the funny things that might have happened during our adventures.  We relive each story when it's told and laugh until our stomachs hurt.  I think our husbands are brought closer together with their coworkers because of us wives.  We have the ability to bond quickly, whereas our husbands might have worked with their fellow coworkers for years and not have the relationships that we wives do.

I feel very blessed by these friends of mine.  I love traveling with them.  They've made my first trip to Las Vegas a memorable one.  I wasn't into the whole sin city idea, but they assured me that there was more to Las Vegas than drinking and gambling.  I took them at their word and I wasn't disappointed. We've had a fun trip.  Some of them are leaving tomorrow.  I am already getting sad.  When will I see them again?  Will I have to wait a year?  Two?  No, probably not, we're already making plans for the next trip!

And now, I'll have my funny pictures of our trip to faux Paris and Italy in Las Vegas.  I'll have my secret video that I took in the taxi when my friends were dancing with the cab driver to the music on the radio, I'll have so many wonderful memories--I can't wait until next time.

And believe me, there will be a next time.  We might lose a few wives along the way due to husbands moving on in their careers or changing jobs, but we always manage to attract a few new ones.  We've heard about you guys, they say.  Can we hang out with you? 


Sure--we always have room for new friends!

So far

I wondered what I would write about. I had no idea.
However, in just one month I've noticed a pattern.
I'm sharing my past, as well as my present. I'm sharing the funny and
the sad, my memories and my dreams.
I've noticed that my particular brand of humor
is infiltrating these pages. I've also noticed that my deep love for God
and my relationship with Him comes through.

I haven't minded telling you about me—as a real person with faults,
weaknesses, frailties, and fears.
I've told you about my love for my husband, children, and
grandchildren. I've been transparent, and open to criticism.

I know and have always known that I am who I am for a reason. I was
uniquely made. And so are you. If by some chance you are reading my
blog and you are enjoying it—then I am happy. But please know this—
I am writing this blog for me. And the more I write, the more I want to write.
Something has been bottled up inside of me for a long time. Oh, I've written
before. I had to write papers for college. In fact some of what you've read—
I've written before in some fashion. But this blog thing is different.
It's therapeutic and in some ways healing. Is that why people write them?

I like this forum—this way of expressing myself. Sometimes while writing
I cry. Sometimes I laugh. And sometimes I am thrown into deep contemplation—
thinking for days about what I have revealed.

I am going to see where this takes me. I hope that I continue to write for
a long time. And I hope that I enjoy it and that you enjoy it too.
I am curious to see where I am going.
I am curious to see where God takes me. Whether you read this or not,
I will keep writing--for now.

Shoes

It is unfathomable to me that a female might not like shoes as much as I do.  

I don't just like shoes--I love shoes. 

All varieties, colors, and styles. But, I think I love flip flops the most. I call them flip flops now, as opposed to the other name I used to call them. Thongs. I blurted out the word one day while at the mall with a friend. We were discussing just how many pairs we had when right in front of a male sales clerk I said I had a huge bag full of thongs. It wasn't until he turned crimson red that I caught my mistake. So, it's flip flops from now on. But, boy did we have a good laugh. It was one of those doubled over holding our stomachs kind of laugh.

I am in the process of cleaning out my closet. I'm making the change from winter to spring/summer clothes and shoes. Right now I'm in the shoe department. Seriously, right now. I was bagging up some shoes for Goodwill and had to just sit down and start writing. I mean typing. In the top of my closet, have storage boxes full of shoes—I'm not going to disclose how many boxes I have because my husband reads my blog. Let's just say there is more than one. As I make my pile to donate I look longingly at each pair. I remember where I bought them, who I was with and how much joy they brought me. Goodbye worn out old flip flops, I will miss you. You served me well.

I'm trying to organize the shoes that I am going to keep. I need another closet. I know that before the next season is over I will buy more shoes. It's inevitable. There is no sense lying to you or to me. It will happen. My husband does not understand this one aspect of my personality. I think to him it is a flaw. You see, he has a limited amount of shoes. There are the brown ones and the black ones and tennis shoes and old tennis shoes for working in the yard. Actually he has a couple more pairs than that, but it's when I trick him into buying a new pair that his closet grows. Take last night for example. I wanted him to buy a new pair of casual no socks, looks good with shorts or jeans shoes. Believe me that lingo is easy for women to grasp. He tried on a few pairs, settled on one and purchased them. And then proceeded to say all the way home—I can't believe I spent that much money on a pair of casual shoes. If he only knew...

Well, I'm finished. The shoe department is done. I've cleaned, stored and have a bag ready to donate. I've made my peace and said my goodbyes to my shoes. I'll look to the future now—

Hello new shoes, and in the words of Joey Tribbiani

--how you doin'...

I'm Listening

I thought it would be a fun idea to surprise my husband with tickets to a play at a local college. How about a fun romantic Valentine's dinner out and then a play? The play was The Vagina Monologs. It was the best play and the most unique play that I've ever seen. Unusual doesn't begin to describe it. Romantic? No! Inspiring and challenging? Yes!

We sat right in the front, the curtains opened and there were approximately 15 women on the stage. They were dressed in black and sat in a semi-circle. The first woman began to speak, she told a story about losing her virginity. The next woman told a story that was quiet funny and then the next shared about being raped. I caught on quickly that each story was to be told was from the perspective of their you know whats. Every other woman that spoke either shared something sad or funny. I was either laughing or crying with each story the women told. After the play, I was an emotional wreck.

As we were leaving the auditorium, we were guided to an area of artwork. The work had been done by children that had either been raped or abused as a form of art therapy. More crying for me, my poor husband—what a trooper. He never batted an eye, if he was embarrassed or bothered by the play or the artwork he never let on. As for me? I could barely function. And there was my husband, trying to comfort me as I was crying and thinking to myself what can I do to help?

I decided right then that I would volunteer to help out at the rape crisis center in my city. I trained for 18 weeks and coupled with previous counseling experience and a degree in psychology I began answering the hotline 3 days a week for the next 3 years.

Did I enjoy it? No. It was heart-wrenching at best. My job was to direct them towards immediate protection, health resources, legal advocates, and provide them a listening ear. And then I would pray. I didn't know what else to do. But I knew I had to listen, I had to be there for them. However, one of the hardest stories told to me was one that didn't come via the hotline. I received a call one day and although it was tough for this woman to share, she told me of how she was raped at 12 years old by a man that she knew at her church. He offered a ride home after church one day and raped her. He told her that if she ever told anyone, no one would believe her. She never told a soul until the day she told me. 12 years old. Unimaginable.

I worked for the crisis center as long as I could. There came a time when it began to affect the way I viewed society as a whole. I don't believe that mankind is essentially good, not after receiving close to 3,000 calls, and hearing what I heard—no way.  I believe that man is a sinner. And I believe that only God can save him.

In my own selfish way, I am thankful that I have never experienced what these women have gone through, I've never been raped or sexually abused. I am grateful beyond words. However, I do not have to experience something to feel something. I still wanted to help. And the only thing available to me was my ability to listen and to pray.

I still pray for the people I talked to on the phone. The mother whose 6-year-old daughter was raped by her neighbor, the mother whose 19-year-old son was raped at his college, the young girl who was raped by her grandfather first, and then her father and brothers. I will never ever forget the stories of these survivors. They are not victims, they survived and I am praying for them. Even now.

Optimism

I was once told that I lived in La La Land. I wasn't sure at first what was meant by that statement but soon realized that she just didn't get me. She didn't understand where I was coming from. She didn't look through the same glasses that I did. It was as simple as that. With all things being equal—same situation, same circumstances, same everything, our perspective was going to be exactly opposite.

This is the definition of an optimist-- "hopefulness and confidence about the future or successful outcome of something; a tendency to take a favorable or hopeful view."

I've been told throughout my lifetime that I am an optimist.

It isn't that I don't feel heartbreak, sadness or fear, it's just that after the initial shock I almost immediately think of the next step. My brain moves quickly—to the "at least" mode. Here's an example—let's say my house were to burn down. Many people would be devastated. I would have the same reaction at first and then—the next step--well, at least my dog survived, or at least we have insurance, or at least we weren't home. I do it with everything. Whether it's a scary diagnosis, a death, or financial disaster, I go into the "at least" mode. Sometimes this can drive my husband a little nuts. He sees my first reaction, which he thinks is normal but then doesn't understand how quickly I fly into survival mode.

In my opinion, being an optimist is liberating. I don't worry much, I am often very happy and content, and I love life. I look at my glass that is not only half full, but I see it as being overflowing. Even in the middle of complete chaos

I eventually will find something positive.

I've come to realize that optimism is an integral part of my character and personality. It's something that I don't want to change even if I could. I need it to survive in this world of ours.

I want to continue to have hope. And I always want to draw people towards that hope. It's much more fun to live a life that is hopeful and free than to live one that is bitter and destructive. It's a sweet life and I love it.

Wedding Song

I haven't thought about this in a really long time—our wedding song. We were on the younger side when we got married, but already I was a headstrong kind of girl and knew what I wanted when it came to wedding preparations. I wasn't a bridezilla by any means, I didn't have the funds for one thing. Finances kept our wedding nice and small.

We had one attendant each, a best man, and a bridesmaid—plenty for us.

And as for choosing the song? Well, that was left up to me. I thought long and hard and decided that the one thing I didn't want was a pop song.

I didn't want a song that would be dated, or eventually made fun of. I wanted a song that reflected who we were as young adults. One that said—this is us. A timeless song. A meaningful song.

The day I heard our song, I knew. It was the one. When I told my fiance about my choice I'm sure he thought, oh wow, I have a lifetime of her nutty choices to look forward to! He didn't really object, but even at that early stage of our relationship—I could read the look on his face.

However, I think what I wanted was more of a songful prayer breathed over us. Something to last a lifetime. Something more than a song, a request maybe?

On our wedding day, The Lord's Prayer was sung and nothing else. Just the one song to represent the prayer for our marriage and our future.

In my heart, it went something like this--

Oh God, keep us in your perfect will. Please always make sure we have food, show us mercy and help us to do the same. Help us to make right choices, and most of all help us to always put you first in our lives. And when it's time for us to finally meet you, help us not to be full of fear, but to feel safe in your arms forever.

When I hear that song now, I think of our wedding day. And I thank God that he has answered my prayers. He always has and he always will.

There is no doubt in my mind. Ever.

The Woman

I was just getting ready to leave the parking lot with a trunk full of groceries when there was a soft rap on my car window. I jumped a mile

as I was once again daydreaming. I do that a lot.

I rolled down my window and a woman said do you have any money so that I could buy something to eat? The smell from her body and breath were atrocious. It was all I could do to keep from gagging. She was a homeless woman, and most likely a substance abuser of some kind.

I told her that I wouldn't give her any money (I didn't want her to use it for drugs) but that I would drive across the street to one of the local fast food places and buy her some lunch.

She pointed to the one she liked and I said—wait here, I'll be back soon.

I bought her enough food for 2 or 3 meals and then remembered that I had some cupcakes from the grocery store in the back. So, into her bag, they went.

I drove back into the parking lot and there she was--she knew I'd return.

She looked into her bag of food and began to cry a little. How did you know it was my birthday?

Through the tears in my own eyes, I said,

I didn't know, but God knew, right?

Her son knew too but had decided for some reason known only to him that he would not celebrate this day with his mother. She said to me,

he has a right to hate me.

As I drove away I started to cry. I was thanking God--that He had brought her into my life. He taught me many things that day. One of them was to pray--pray for her and her son. It's been years and I still think of her. I often pray for her and the restoration of her relationship with her family. And another lesson was--not to judge. I don't know her story. I don't have the right to judge her or anyone else. That is hard for me and something that I am reminded to work on daily.

I don't think I did anything life-altering for her that day, but I do know that my life was changed. I don't look at the homeless or less fortunate the same way I used to. I think of them more often now. My heart was changed a little that day—it was softened, made to be just a little more tender. A little more merciful.

I believe that certain people are brought into our lives at particular times for many reasons. I want to be aware of these occurrences as they happen. I want to learn, and be kind hearted and to always be thankful. And I am. I'm learning.

Leaving

It seems I'm always leaving or they are leaving—I hate it.

I want to live in the same city as my children and their children.

I do not want to leave.

I do not want to go home to an empty house that is silent and

that can sometimes be very lonely.

I know that it will only take a couple of days to adjust, to once again

get used to the silence. To get back into a routine where I will no longer

notice that I am alone. I will go on with my days,

taking up time with errands and other mundane things.

Fortunately, I am forever the optimist so I will tell myself that all is well.

I will look to the future and begin to plan the next trip

—for them or for me. I will begin to tell myself little lies

to fill in for the truths.

Lies that say--the time will go by quickly—when in reality it won't.

Or that the quality of the visits are better than the quantity—

when it is not necessarily so.

I tell myself so many little lies. Lies to get by. Lies to ease the heartache.

Lies to help. Lies of protection.

To help me not to cry too much, or to miss them too much,

or to want to be a part of their everyday lives.

You see, I didn't know. I didn't know that they would grow up and leave.

That they would leave me like I have to leave them.

I didn't know.

At My Table

I love the holidays. I love the way small towns and big cities decorate with little white lights. I love everything from pumpkins and fall colors to Christmas trees and snow. It's a time of year meant for families and friends to get together—it's a time for shopping, wrapping, eating, baking, good food, laughing and it's a time of year for memories.

In years past we hosted most holiday meals at our house. We had space and I loved to entertain, so it was a match made it heaven. I would cook and clean for days. I'd bake and work on menus and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it. Sometimes we'd have as many as 30 people--there were friends, family, in-laws, and kids running amuck and I loved it all.

But several years ago we moved to the midwest and there were just the 5 of us around my table —no friends, no extended family, just us. We'd make the food and decorate the house, but to be honest, we were a little lonely. And then our little family began to grow. First with our son-in-law, followed by our first grandson, then our daughter-in-law and so on. My table began to grow again, slowly. There are now 8 adults, 4 children and another on the way!

Over the next few years, I discovered something—I didn't need the holidays to bring about those feelings of warmth with my family. No, all I needed was my table.

Now when our kids come to visit and we sit down at my table, I like to have music playing softly in the background, I light the candles, have a fire going, set the table and as we sit there having dinner something happens. The fun begins. The telling of tales. It's hilarious.

They begin to rat each other out. There's the mom, guess what he did when you were gone, and there's the I'm telling mom. And the mom when you were gone she used to... Remember, they're all married with kids of their own now! And yet, this has become an important ritual in our home.

Then there is me yelling through my laughter, you're grounded, you are in sooooo much trouble.

We all sit around laughing, sharing stories and eating. My family. Do they know how much I love them? In those moments, I feel so much pride. Not the bad kind of pride, the good kind. The kind that catches in your throat when you have a heart so full of love.

My husband and I will often steal glances at one another—after all these years together we can share a thought through a single look. It says, aren't we blessed? 

Altogether, my family, at my table.

All Things Apple

Twenty years ago I did not have the techno toys that I do now. Although twenty years ago I did have a bag-phone. It was a huge phone inside a bag that you had to use by plugging it into your cigarette lighter in your car. It cost about $1.00 per minute, not including roaming charges and long distance fees. I would tell my children repeatedly—do not call me unless you have a broken bone or you are bleeding. I was the only person that I knew at the time to have a phone in their car, other than my husband's coworkers. The only reason that I had one was that my husband needed it for business. We were using it on a trial basis, we wondered—would this new technology even catch on? I know—I'm laughing too.

Fifteen years ago I got my first computer—a desktop. A gift from my husband. I hated it, or rather I should say that I was afraid of it. I had used them before and didn't really care for them. Too scary. Too touchy. And, like the fax machine—a little too futuristic for me. I know—again with the laughing. I would wait until my husband came home from work, I would ask him to turn it on for me, and then I'd play games—like solitaire. I liked that part of it—the games. However, when it came time for my serious things, like writing papers—well, the whole SAVE thing was confusing for me. I would type an entire page, forget to save it and then poof, it would vanish, never to be seen again. I did not need all that aggravation!

As the years went by and technology progressed, so did I. I learned slowly how to use my desktop computer all by myself, and then later progressed to my very own laptop. Cell phones got smaller and so did the cost.

And then one day the heavens opened, the birds began to sing, and the sun shined brightly—the iPhone was introduced to the world.

But I wasn't about to get one. No way. I wasn't going to spend that kind of money for a cell phone, let alone stand in line with hundreds of geeks.  Not me!

However, one day I ran into one of my son's good friends. And what did he have? You guessed it—an iPhone. My love affair with Apple began that day. For my birthday that year, my husband bought me my very own iPhone! And now I am also the proud owner of a MacBook Pro, with a hot pink cover.

They are my babies, I love them. And my cell phone? Well, it has a Kate Spade cover! These covers make the phone, there are so many colors, and styles—it's so much fun. Total eye candy for me!

I never go anywhere with my cell phone, and when I travel, my laptop goes with me. I am an official member of the geek club now. I've been sucked in. It's much like writing this blog. I've been sucked in. I can't stop. I am consumed. I wonder what that says about my personality? Curious minds want to know!

I am wondering—are you still a PC user? Or maybe you don't yet have a smartphone. Maybe you are a little confused as to how they even work. Well, you are in luck! I have an app for that!

Oh come on, you had to have seen that coming...

My Nephews

I hate those calls. The calls that tell you that your life or perspective on life will never be the same.

The calls that say that you will experience pain—heart pain. The calls that say you are helpless, that you are not superhuman, that you cannot change the circumstances, no matter how hard you try. That you are not in control, nor have you ever been.

I thought they only came during the middle of the night. So I was not expecting mine. I was at Macy's doing some last minute shopping before leaving on a business trip. My cell phone rang, I answered, it was my mom. What she said next made the room darken, it become smaller, and I found it hard to take a breath.

I turned around and somehow made it out to my car. My nephew had just been killed in a car accident.

My youngest nephew, the one with the cutest smile, the shy one. He was only 17 years old, there were 3 killed that day. Pain. So much pain.

Thoughts and memories became foggy after that call, I moved about robotically. Doing what was necessary to get back home. Home to California. I needed to be there, to comfort, to help—in my own helpless way.

My sister's house was full, but she saw me enter from the far side of the room and ran to me. She fell into my arms. She knew. I was there. I loved her children. I felt her pain. She knew. I would be strong for her. I would be there. I would help.

I hate those calls. 10 months later. Another call. Another nephew. Same mother. I hate those calls.

I will always remember where I was. What I was doing at the time. And how I had no control.

Helpless. Sad. All I could do was pray. Crying out to God—help me God, help me help her.

Aloft

I love to travel and stay in hotels. The cooler, sleeker and the more amenities the better. I like the rooms to be clean, super clean. And I love hotel lobbies that are interesting—some are modern, some historical, some are full of Italian glass, some have coffee shops or restaurants, and some have gift shops. I love hotels!

On one particular trip, we stayed at an Aloft Hotel near Boston. Again, a business trip. I was excited. I hadn't stayed at this particular brand of hotel before. It was new, modern, had a kitchen and they accepted dogs. When I first walked into the room there was a closet on the left and a bathroom on the right. Once through the hallway past the closet was a long wall with the kitchen. It started with a microwave oven, a cooktop, sink, dishwasher and a refrigerator. The backsplash was a cool translucent green with small subway tiles. It had solid surface countertops and the appliances were all stainless steel. Off to the right of the room stood a comfy sofa, a king-sized bed, and a large flat panel TV. The back wall was all windows with rolled up blinds, it had a loft type of feel and I really like it.

We settled in that first evening, got the dog all cozy comfy and decided to make some popcorn in our microwave oven and watch a movie. It was a nice thought. I put the popcorn into the microwave, started to pour the diet coke—turned my back for just a second and then smelled something funny.

Yep, the popcorn was on fire! The room began to fill with smoke, the dog began to whine, and I flew into action. I started yelling—open the windows hurry! I grabbed the popcorn and threw it into the sink, I put our terrified dog into the bathroom and just then, the hotel fire alarms began to go off—the entire hotel, all the alarms! And then the phone started ringing—are you OK? asked the hotel manager. We assured her that we were fine, and as we were explaining our situation—there was a knock on the door. Hotel security. Red faced I answered the door. Yes, we are fine, no we don't need the fire department, yes the room smells bad and yes, we'd like another room, please.

After things calmed down, we retrieved our trembling dog from the bathroom, repacked our suitcases, and moved into a nice fresh smelling room. Everything went smoothly after that—until the next morning when we went down for breakfast and the room was abuzz with the news of last night's excitement. We played it cool though, never letting on that it was our popcorn that had caught on fire, and caused all the commotion.

We haven't returned to that hotel, and we haven't made popcorn in a hotel room in a very long time.

I still laugh a little when I think about it. Why do things like this seem to happen to me? That's what I'd like to know!   

One and 1/2 Sisters

My parents took me aside one day and asked me a question when I was 8 years old.

How would you like to have a big sister?

No thanks, was my reply.  One sister was enough actually.  I was the oldest, she was the youngest.

There was no reason to make matters worse, I had plenty of sisters.  I certainly didn't need another one!

But I was informed that she already existed, and a simple explanation was given concerning my father's previous marriage and another daughter.  I wasn't given a choice.  She was coming, like it or not.

When they brought her home for a visit I was quite surprised.  You see—she looked like me, dark hair and dark eyes, we looked like our shared father, while my little sister looked like my mother.  Having a sister that looked like me, talked like me—heck, even laughed like me was intriguing.  I began to take an interest in this newcomer.  I thought to myself--this just might work out after all.

And in the years ahead it did.  She taught me many things.  How to dance, how to steal baby chicks from the zoo (and hide them from our father), how to share my secrets, how to teepee houses, how to dress, paint my nails, dream about boys, and so many other big sister things.  She lived with us on and off for the next several years.  Eventually, we all married and had children of our own, but I do have those sister memories, and I treasure them.  I wonder—do they know?

I can see now that having her in our homemade life more interesting, more fun, livelier, and much more family oriented.  I liked having someone who was so much like me.  I could relate to her.  Even today we have a lot in common, from decorating to food likes—we are sisters.

I wish I could visit with my sisters more often, I haven't seen my older sister in years.  And I only see my younger sister once every year or so. I miss them, we have a shared history--with lots of good memories.

How would I like a have a big sister?    I'd like one, thank you.  

Sign language

I have never taken a sign language class.  However, I used it anyway--one day in Sienna Italy.  Actually, I might be wrong about the city, I seemed to have blocked the location from my memory, on purpose, to protect myself from any further embarrassment.

I was with my husband and some of his coworkers one day driving through Italy.  It was time for lunch, so we stopped.  We had to park outside the city center and down the hill as no cars were allowed inside the ancient maze of streets.  We parked, got out, walked a short distance into town and found a restaurant.  It was packed full of Italian businessmen in suits, I noticed this rather quickly as all heads turned to look at me—the woman.  We were shown to a table in the middle of the room and were pointed towards the buffet table along one wall.  In broken, very broken English our waiter told us to go through the line and get the plate and fill it and come back to the table.  I let the men go first while waiting for my cappuccino to arrive—I needed coffee badly.  And then I went.  I should have stayed seated.  What happened next goes down as one of my most embarrassing moments.

The buffet table wasn't like ours in America--unfortunately.  It didn't have decorative dishes, silver utensils and little signs telling us what the dishes were.  No, it was a small table with large platters of meats first, then the vegetables and then desserts at the other end.  Very utilitarian.  As I stood there looking at the foods I asked myself, what in the heck is this stuff?  I didn't recognize any of the meat dishes—no not one.

I looked at the young woman serving the food and asked her in broken Italian—what is this? as I pointed to each dish.  She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders.  That's the universal sign for—what?  I looked at the teenage boy in line behind me with pleading eyes—do you speak English?  He shook his head no. Right.  I'll bet anything he spoke a little bit of English, he just wanted to see what I'd do next.

If you know me at all, then you know that I am a picky eater.  I was not about to eat something without knowing what it was.  It could have been horse, rabbit, or even goat—no thank you!

I thought about my situation for a minute, looked back over my shoulder to my table, made sure no one was looking and proceeded to use barnyard animal sounds and gestures to pantomime the foods in front of me.  The server caught on quickly.  She smiled as the crazy American lady flapped her arms and clucked like a chicken, mooed like a cow and baaaaa'd like a lamb.  I learned a lot in those few humiliating minutes.  One, is that I'll do pretty much anything when I'm hungry and two, is that Italian frogs don't say ribbit.  Who knew?

Once back at my table, red-faced and sweating, I sat down and took a long swig of my cappuccino.

It needed Equal.  Are you kidding me?  How in the world do I pantomime that?  I didn't.  I gave up.

I had some in the car --outside the ancient city and down the hill.

My only solace is that I'll never, ever go to that restaurant again.  Ever.

First Love

It wasn't love at first sight for me. It was more like love at first talk.

I had signed up to work at a Native American Indian Reservation in Nevada via our youth group at church. We would be teaching Vacation Bible School to the children for one week among various other duties.  He also had signed up.  He was a natural born leader and was soon promoted to captain of our little team. After a few weeks of training, we were off to Nevada.

Right away I knew he liked me.  There were signs.  He followed me everywhere and cracked funny little jokes to make me laugh.  I thought he was nice, but not really my type—although he was kind of cute.

One afternoon we had some free time and he and I decided to take a walk out into the hot desert sun—and 4 hours later, after a long interesting conversation, I knew.  I just knew.  He was the one.  He talked, as well as listened.  He was real, there was no game playing.  He was truthful and honest, with a great big heart.  He was able to share his thoughts, emotions, and dreams with me from the beginning.   All this--before we even went on a real date.  We were kindred spirits I guess, destined to meet and fall in love.

When I returned home at the end of that week I remember telling my mom that I had met the guy I would one day marry.  Funny thing is, she believed me.  Half an hour later he called and asked me on a date, and the rest, as they say, is history!  After that first date, we became inseparable.  We were friends.  Real friends.  True friends.

A couple of years later we married.  We've been together now for almost 39 yrs.

And as it's turned out, my husband--well, he is the yin to my yang, he's the practical to my frivolity, he's the pessimist to my optimist.  And yet, we work--we fit.  I love him.  He was my first love, and he is and always will be my only love.

Falling softly, eyes that know me, and I can't go back--from the movie Once.

My Real Dad

I met him when I was 6 years old. I remember crawling up onto his lap, his big arms wrapping around me, holding me tightly. I remember the feel of him. Gentle, yet strong--soft, yet firm.

Everything about him was new to me. However, I instinctively knew that he loved me, that he would always be there for me, always protect me, always listen to me, always care for me, always teach me.

I relaxed for the first time in my 6 years of life. I melted into his arms. He was mine and I was his.

I didn't have to share him. I no longer had to be afraid—of anything.

He would make sure that I didn't go to bed hungry, that I would always have food and clothing.

He would make sure that my heart would always be protected. He would be there—for me.

Because of him, I live a fearless life. One filled with happiness, fun, and love. Because of him, I've learned how to be a parent. A parent who loves, a parent who is gentle, yet strong—soft, yet firm.

My love for him does not waver. It is as strong now as it was then. He's never disappointed me, not once. I live for him. He is in my heart and will remain there until the day I die.

I call him God.

Winter

Every winter is the winter of my content. I love winter. I love everything about winter.

I know, most hate it, but I love it. From the snow, to the coats, to the gloves, boots, ear muffs, scarves, knee socks, and fireplaces. From flannel sheets and heated mattress pads, I love winter. I have often said that I used to have a coat in my closet, but now I have a closet for my coats. And it's true. I have every weight and length of jacket and coat made. I have different thicknesses of gloves and scarves, I have boots for snow and boots for rain, and then, of course, there are the color choices. Black and brown, and oh gray. I need all three. I love having a wardrobe that encompasses all 4 seasons. And with winter being our longest season, running from November to April—well, I have lots of winter clothing. I love winter.

Winter has its own sounds—the rumble of the snow plows in the early morning hours. The sound of snow when it's so heavy that it falls off the trees onto the ground below with a muffled thud. And the sound of nothing. I can sit outside on a winter morning all wrapped up in an afghan and listen, and hear nothing. Wait—I hear children laughing and yelling out to each other, they're probably a few blocks away, but because it's winter their voices carry—all the way to my house. I love winter.

I love sitting in my big brown leather chair by the fireplace and looking out the window. Sometimes the ice on the trees will begin to melt in the sun and it looks like little crystals. And sometimes the little chickadees are out jumping from branch to branch in our bushes. They are my favorite bird. I love winter.

We live on a river. Once in a while it will freeze over and I've watched the mallard ducks try to cross on the ice. I've watched the squirrels hop really high from snow bank to snow bank. And I've watched the snow falling softly blanketing the branches of our trees. I love winter.

One of my secret favorite things to do in the winter is this—if the sun lands just right in my family room, there will be a long angled runway, just wide enough for me to lay on. If no one is home, I'll lay on the strip of sunlight like a cat in the warmth and daydream, or catnap. I love winter.

I am content.

6 weeks

My first trip abroad was to Italy. My husband and I landed at the Milan Malpenza Airport after flying all night, got into a rental car and drove for about an hour to our hotel. Seeing Italy for the first time was a pinch-me experience. I couldn't believe I was actually there. It was beautiful. My first impression of Northern Italy was that it reminded me of the foothills of Northern California. I immediately felt at home. Olive trees, rolling hills, and little villages sprinkled here and there—it was picture perfect.

Looking back on that first day is funny to me now--not so funny then. We checked into our hotel, went up to our room and found out that they had accidentally put my husband in a single room. One twin bed. And in the bathroom—a tub, no shower. So I did what any sleep-deprived wife would do. I sat on the bed and cried, and said to him—well, you get the floor!

Down to the the front desk he went—20 minutes later and we were shown to a beautiful double room with expansive views. And a shower.

Let me explain the tears. I found out all those years ago that I don't travel well on overnight flights.

I don't sleep. At all.

Well, maybe 20 minutes or so, but that's about it. My husband, on the other hand, puts on his little eye mask, sticks his ear buds in and passes out for hours. And me?  I read several magazines and books, watch movies and generally build up unwarranted anger toward the snoring, drooling man sitting in the seat next to me on the plane.

I tried Ambien once. I really didn't sleep much more on the plane, but the 24 hours after that were nothing less than comical. In the rental car, I pretty much zonked out. My head rolled from side to side as my husband drove through the twisting roads of England. He pulled up and parked our car in the parking lot of the company that he had an appointment with. I guess he couldn't wake me, so he left me there. Folded into the backseat, snoring blissfully away for the next 4 hours. He came out to get me for lunch and again couldn't wake me. Later that evening when it was time to go for dinner I waved him away—and crashed until the next morning. I don't have much of a memory of that 24 hours. He told me later that he came out to get me and took me into the restroom, that he made me drink some water, and that he introduced me to the office staff. He said they really enjoyed meeting me. I'm still contemplating ways to get him back—you know what they say about payback...

I have discovered that when we arrive after an overnight flight I always need a one hour nap and a shower. If I get that, I've learned that I can get through that first day without crying and/or having a nervous breakdown, and I have learned that I can not take Ambien.

In 6 weeks we leave for Europe again. For me, a lot of the fun is in the planning. My folder is already a ½ inch thick with the hotel, car rental, and ticket information. I've mentally packed my suitcases--yes, I said suitcases, I take 2 and pay extra, I've done some shopping, and I've daydreamed. I'm ready. 2 weeks in Europe, a real vacation, no work, just us.

I can hardly wait. 6 weeks to go.