Florence

My how you've changed.  I just visited you 4 or 5 years ago and now your streets are paved with vendors from other countries.  I did not come to see them, I came to see you.  I came to view your beautiful architecture and your Arno River, I came to shop with real Italian designers in mind.  And what did I find?  Rows and rows of street vendors selling subpar merchandise--very cheap, very ugly, very unimaginative--imitations of the real Italy.  It broke my heart to see what you have become.  The street stalls even blocked the entrance into the regular stores.  The merchants are hurting and you do nothing to stop it.

Until the bleeding stops, until the merchants are happy once again, I will not come back.  I will miss your wonderful food, your coffee, your soft leather, your 18 k gold and your beauty.  You were once my favorite city in all of Italy--but not any longer.  I actually hurt for the city of Florence.  How sad.  Where did you go?  Why have you let this happen?  Come back to us.  You were once a great city.  Where is your pride?

Things I Love About Europe

I love to hear little children speaking different languages
I love that Europeans work to live, not live to work
I love the old architecture
I love all the fountains and statues
I love to watch teenagers--they are the same everywhere
I love old world hotel rooms
I love Venetian glass chandeliers
I love scooters and the noise they make
I love the quality and pride of design in the craftsmanship of their goods
I love tiny little cars--especially the Fiat 500
I love the colors of the trees and flowers--they are brighter here
I love the old people--they still hold hands
I love the dogs that roam the streets--they know exactly where they are going
I love the small open-air markets--the fruit is amazing
I love the intimate restaurants--everything made for two
I love the narrow streets and small walkways
I love the need to stop for coffee every afternoon
I love the fresh food--different in every region
I love that everyone here thinks that I am either Italian or French
I love to meander--it's my new favorite thing
I love the friendliness of most everyone I meet
I love the smallness of the appliances
I love that they mix modern with old
I love that my husband feels the same way I do
I love that my husband is brave enough to drive in Europe
I love that we laugh when he makes wrong turns
I love that we can now get navigation in European cars
I love that being here makes me want to cry
I love that we love Europe and are already planning our next trip

Sorrento

I am in love. This is one of the most beautiful little towns that I have ever seen. It reminds me of the towns on Lago de Como. Only this town faces the sea. And so does my hotel room. We left Rome around noon today, and after getting a little lost finally found our way to the correct highway and within 3 hours we were in Sorrento. We will be here for 4 days, so I think that it would be fun to write each day and then post before we leave for Florence.

After checking into this elegant hotel (how do I find these places?) my husband and I walked hand in hand along the tiny narrow streets and looked through some of the many shops. We were looking for someplace fun to have dinner and decided on a seafood restaurant. We had one of the most wonderful dinners that we have ever had in Italy. I had the shrimp ravioli and my husband the sea bass. Our compliments to the chef, I think we might eat one more meal there before we leave. It was that good!

We then strolled the narrow streets for a while longer, taking pictures and eventually meandered back to our room. This is a magical place—I am looking forward to tomorrow.

Sitting in my room this afternoon--the shops are closed from 2-4 as they open early and close late. We have been out and about since 9:00 am, first breakfast at the hotel overlooking the sea and then some shopping. We had lunch at a little outside pizzeria. Now it's time to rest and then we'll walk some more. We have not felt this relaxed in years, maybe not since out trip to Hawaii 15 years ago. I am thankful to be here.

We took the ferry to the Island of Capri today. We almost didn't go, we'd heard pros and cons and decided to try it, if just for the boat ride. I am so thankful that we went, it was beautiful. The ride from Sorrento to Capri was about a ½ hour in a clean comfortable boat. Once there at the harbor—that is loaded with junkie tourist shops—you can either take the funicular up to the town or take a bus or taxi. We opted for a taxi and had fun talking with the driver. The little mountain town of Capri is wonderful. It's full of little designer boutiques and cafes, we meandered through little walkways and shopped until our legs could walk no further. We took pictures and drank cappuccinos and had lunch—it was a magical day. Then we took the funicular back down the mountain, boarded the ferry back to Sorrento and promptly fell asleep. We arrived back to our hotel in time to freshen up for dinner. What a fantastic day. I love Capri!

Today we drove to Positano and Amalfi. The drive is a scary one! Talk about twist and turns. I was a good little wife though—I did not scream or yell or pound on my husband's arm as we were almost sideswiped several times by scooters and tour buses. I sat with my eyes closed holding tight to the hand hold above my head. We loved Positano, we walked through the narrow tiny streets and then had lunch down on the beach. It seems much more of a college town—lots of kids there for spring break. They were interesting to watch. Then we drove on to Amalfi. We hated to get that far along the coast and not go there, so even though I had my fill of scary 2 lane highways that really only had room for one car—to Amalfi we went. Again we walked, ate and had cappuccinos. I slept all the way back to Sorrento—shopping does that to me, it's such hard work.

I am so glad that I did my research and picked the town of Sorrento to stay in--thank you to my friends for suggesting it.  It fit my personality perfectly.  

We have had a wonderful 4 days and hate to leave this area, but tomorrow morning we are off to Florence. More shopping I guess. Oh well, what's a girl to do?

Roma

This is my second visit to Rome.  The first time I was here was about 5 years ago.  I came with my husband on a business trip.  We were here for a week.  He would work all day, and I would shop, eat and admire.  Then in the evenings, we'd have a business dinner to attend.  I was finally able to show him very quickly the following Saturday--a little snippet of Rome.  We raced by fountains, shops, and piazzas and then had to fly home the following day.  So, this time we are here for pleasure--no work, only vacation.  3 days in Rome to start with.  We are walking everywhere--no car.  Yesterday we walked about 5 miles and loved every minute of it.  It isn't as hot here this time around.  We came a month earlier in the year than the last time we were here and I am so glad that we did.  My last trip to Rome was incredibly hot.  Probably near 90 degrees and very humid.  I had to take 3 showers a day and still felt dirty and sticky.  This time though the weather is beautiful--maybe 75 degrees with a soft breeze.  The temp helps to keep the smells down.  I'm not going to lie here, there is an earthy smell that comes with Europe.  Maybe it's the drainage system--I'm not sure.  But walking along the city streets, well, sometimes it can smell a little sewer-ish.  We choose to walk on by and not acknowledge it.  It's our unspoken code.

I'm going to attempt to describe Roma.  There is the ancient city--which includes fountains, colonnade buildings, and statues, and then thrown into the mix might be a modern hotel or two hundred.  Seriously there are hundreds of hotels in Rome.  This city has the most tourists of all Italian cities.  And I can see why.  The mix of ancient and modern alone would draw people, but I think what draws the most attention is that you could come to Rome and see everything in one city.  There are gardens, churches, archaeological digs, a river, the Coliseum, arcs, castles, the Vatican, Roman bridges, the Pantheon, etc.  And what astounds me most is that you literally could be walking down a street, turn a corner and be facing one of the most beautiful fountains ever.  There are markets and shops everywhere.  It's a huge fascinating city loaded with tourists and Italians, great food and gelato, coffee and history.  I love it here.

One of the things I admire most about Italians is their ability to relax, enjoy and stroll.  It is said that Europeans work to live and that Americans live to work.  I want to live.  Life is exciting to me.  And life is short.  And maybe that is why I am not a good relaxer.  I am an explorer.  However, when I come to Italy--I do relax.  At least I attempt to.  Our hotel has a roof top deck which we are encouraged to visit.  The breakfast is served up there, and also you can take a picnic and drinks and enjoy the deck 24 hours a day.  Yesterday in the late afternoon we took our books and sat up there in the sunshine and just relaxed, read and enjoyed the sounds of Rome.
I'm glad we are here--we are on vacation.

Death

I'll never understand death.  I'll never pretend to.  It is the one mystery of life that paralyzes me with fear.
I believe that if I had never experienced love--I would never fear death.  Unfortunately, I have loved and still love, so therefore I fear.  It is a huge fault of mine.  God says fear not--so I try not to fear, I try so hard and fail so miserably.  The words that surround the term death are at best unusual to me.  We say we have lost someone or they have passed.  I don't understand those terms.  Where have they passed on to?  Why are they lost?  Will I see them again?  Those people whom I love.  Why do I cry?  Will I ever stop?

You see, my friend's daughter died today.  I do not like hearing the words that she is lost.  Or that she has passed.  She died.  And my friend is crying and broken--I am sure of this.  Her son died just a few months earlier.  Why?  Why has she had to bury 2 of her children?  And what about the baby she buried 30 years ago?  I don't understand.  My heart is sad for her.  I think it might be broken.
And I think of my younger sister who has also buried 2 sons, and I think of my older sister who years ago buried a daughter--I have stood at their graves.  Do they know?  Do they know how much I cry?  For them and for their parents?

And what is my part in death?  That is what I am grappling with tonight, as I sit here and pray for the hearts of the ones I love and care so deeply for.  I do not want them to be in pain, I wish that I could take away the agony but I know that I can't.  So what can I do?  What do I say?  Words cannot make their pain go away.  However, I can pray.  And I can trust.  I can hang on--for them when they can't hang on for themselves.  In my circle, we call it standing in the gap.  When you can't do it for yourself, someone who loves you comes alongside and stands for you while holding you up with all their might and strength.  That's what I do.  I stand in the gap.  And if it means that I stand all night and all day and pray, then I will.  I will help.  I will be there.  You are not alone.  Not ever.  I can pray, and I will.

Even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death we will fear no evil for our God is with us.  

Collector

When walking into my kitchen the other morning something struck me as odd--no matter how hard I had tried to get away from it, it had happened anyway.  Nick-nacks--I noticed them everywhere.  Colors and styles, shapes and sizes--I could see them all.  I tried hard with this new house to do something different in every room.  It's a Cape Cod and although I didn't want a New England style home, I also didn't want to be dragged back into my Tudor home style either.  And so I tried.  I bought some new things, and put some of the old things into the basement.  My husband set up a special place for me down there, it houses all my collectibles.  And boy, do I have a lot of those.  I collect everything from dog statues to dishes, from coffee mugs to glasses--I am a bonafide collector.  And try as I might, I cannot stop.  I just find myself collecting other stuff.  New house stuff.

I'm self-analyzing myself here--I believe that I have an addictive personality disorder.  But, in a good way--Ok, maybe not a good way.  I love to shop.  I love to decorate.  And when I worked retail I loved decorating people.  It was so much fun helping them pick out new clothes for a trip, or a set of new luggage, or even some fun jewelry--it didn't matter to me one bit that I wasn't going to be taking these new items home, I just had fun in the doing.  I got caught up in their world.  I got excited for them.  I'm still that way.  If you're excited then I'm excited too.

In the last several years though, I've noticed something else, I now collect people.  I know this to be true because I know someone--someone else who collects people.  In fact, she's the reason why I collect people.  And isn't that how it happens?  You see what they have, you want it and you go and get it.  I wanted what she had.  I wanted the ability, the personality, the gumption to start collecting what really matters--people.  I began to watch this friend of mine very closely, it was important to learn her secret--I was sure she had one.  She made friends where ever she went, she would just smile and people flocked to her.  I flocked to her!  I wanted what she had.  I wanted her heart.  I watched her and saw in her eyes a genuine love and care for others.  It didn't matter to her if she had the best car or the nicest house or if everything was matchy matchy.  What mattered to her was that they felt welcome.  And I did.  I felt welcome.  From then on that became my goal--to make others feel welcome in my home.

When people come into my house I do not want them to notice my things, I want them to notice that they feel warm and fuzzy.  And that they see a cozy, soft place, where they can kick off their shoes, curl up on the sofa and while sipping coffee, they can gaze into the fire and have a conversation that isn't confrontational but that is accepting, forgiving, loving and healing.

I don't want to change my personality, however, I do want to change my heart.  I learned that from my friend.  And I hope I never stop learning.

Plain ol' Mom

For 25 years I worked 2 full-time jobs simultaneously.  At least that's what psychologists and sociologists say.  It was the time when my kids were growing up.  No wonder I was always tired, worn out, uptight and all around grumpy.  All that work and no paycheck would make anybody mean.

I made the decision to stay home when I had children.  It was a no-brainer.  I had been working full time for a doctor but when the time came to start thinking of having children I knew what was right for me.  I would stay home.  And when I was 8 months pregnant with my first baby--I did.  I stayed home with her.  I'm not going to lie and say it was easy.  It wasn't.  I went from being an office manager and x-ray technician to changing poopy diapers and burping babies.  No one thanked me for giving up my career.  No one paid me, or took me to lunch or gave me raises or patted me on the back.  No one said good job, or couldn't have done it without you, nope, no one.  It was just me and my baby all alone in the house, all day every day until my husband came home from work.  I'd clean, cook, change diapers, rock my baby, and do laundry--honestly, sometimes it was as boring as it was overwhelmingly wonderful.

I eventually adjusted to my stay at home life, and 3 1/2 years later a baby boy was born.  Life became busier then, adding to my list above I now dealt with preschool, and 3-year-olds temper tantrums--along with a newborn.  I was coping with feelings of inadequacy and sleep deprivation, and again no paycheck.  I was told it would be worth it in the end.  I blindly trusted.
And 2 years later baby boy number 2 was born.  So, with a 5-year-old, a 2-year-old and a newborn in tow--my brain cells began to deteriorate.  Shortly though a routine developed--there was school, homework, gymnastics, dance, drama class, little league, football, basketball, doctors/dentist appointments, cleaning, laundry, cooking, taxiing and so much more.  There wasn't time left over in my day to dwell on the fact that I had no life, they were my life--for the next 25 years anyway.  And to tell the truth I didn't mind it after a while.  I was too busy to notice what I had become.  In the words of my friend's little girl--I had become a plain ol' mom.

A lot of my friends had also given up their careers--we didn't have important titles, we didn't make our own money and we certainly didn't have a wardrobe.  My wardrobe consisted of jeans, shirts, and flip flops.  I had very few dresses and maybe 2 pairs of high heels--those were my church clothes.
I didn't have extra money for frequent trips to the hair or nail salon.  No, my extra cash was spent on football cleats, baseball bats, and prom dresses.

To some, this might seem like complaining, but really I'm bragging.  I can't lie.  I look at my kids and to me, they are my badges of honor.  Yes, I am honored to have been chosen to be their mother.  To me, they are the best, the smartest, the most honorable people I have ever known.  They are my paycheck.  They are worth my hard work and my sleepless nights, they fill me with pride and a love that I've never known before.  I watch them now and my heart swells.  They are awesome.

I have no regrets.  None at all.  They are parents themselves now, and making much the same choices my husband and I made.  They are physically and mentally healthy.  They are happy and I am content.  I made the right choice.  And I proudly say--I was and will forever be a plain ol' mom.

What I Believe

I've heard it called all kinds of things--from religion, to faith, to spirituality, to Christianity.  I'm not sure what to call it any more.  It's getting harder and harder to define and to defend my faith.  There are so many watered down versions, and so many man made variations that it's hard to separate fact from fiction--well, my kind of fact anyway.  It's very frustrating to me.
What do I believe?  Is it simple, holy, pure and true?  Does this faith that I have please God?  Should politics mix with faith?  And what about human rights?  Where do they fit in?  And why is it, that through all the junk out there--why is it that I still believe in God and love Him more each day?  Why do I feel closer to Him, and why do I want to share this faith, my faith with others?
It's so simple--really.  It's a simple basic faith--the faith of a child.  That fits me.  That's who I am.

I believe in the Bible, literally, 100%.
I believe I should study it to please God.
I believe that I should worship God.
I believe that God created the earth and man.
I believe that Jesus is God's son.
I believe in grace and forgiveness--for me to receive and for me to give.
I believe in obedience to God.
I believe in heaven and hell.
These are my basic beliefs.

I like to read the words of Jesus--you know, those red words in the Bible.  Because sometimes rather than read just about the history, I need to hear Jesus talk.  Just Him.  Something happens to me then--I begin to listen and not talk, I begin to comprehend what is written, and I slowly begin to understand.  The questions fade into the background and become almost silly to me.  They become irrelevant.  I realize that all along all I needed was Him, I needed His words not mine.  Basic, simple, true, pure, undiluted, untouched, undefiled, just Him.

I hope, no, I know that my foundation is strong.  I feel that I am like that tree that was planted by a river years and years ago.  Over time my roots have grown deep.  Even through the storms, hurricanes, and tornados of this life and even though I've been bent and broken and when sometimes there has been nothing more than a stub and maybe a few broken branches left--I still believe.  And over time I've noticed that when I'm patient, I watch as little leaves begin to grow back--slowly.  My life begins to make sense again and once the storm is over--I'm stronger in my faith.  God shows me that if I walk and trust only in Him--He'll always be there, to teach me and guide me, protect me and show me which path to take in this crazy life of mine.

I'm tired.  I'm tired of religion.  I just want God.  I just want my Bible.  No other books, or philosophies, no more ideas, or new truths.  Just Him.  I want to watch how Jesus does it, I want to walk like Him.  That to me is what a real Christian is--someone who walks, talks, acts and truly follows the teachings of Christ.  I hear people today say that it's too hard--it's not.  I hear people today say that there are too many hypocrites--there are.  However, I also notice that we live in a very self centered society, I am just as guilty as the next--but I promise, I am trying so hard to walk with God.  To be like His son Jesus, to act like Him, to love like Him, to forgive like Him...
  
Simple, basic and true--I'm trying.

Be Careful

Be careful little ears what you hear.

Sometimes things are said.  Mean things.  Things that can derail us.  Things that change us.  Hurtful things that stay deep within our sub-conscience.  We can be totally unaware of these painful memories that have changed our lives until one day we are forced to take them out and look at them.
And today, that is what I did.  I looked.

A few days ago someone sent a little note complimenting me.  To tell you the honest truth, I was stunned and my eyes welled up with tears.  I just don't think of myself as being really good at anything.  But, she appreciated my writing and said she hoped I would continue.  Actually, I've received quite a bit of encouragement from friends and family but this last note impacted me greatly.  What is strange is that I have never kept a personal diary nor a personal journal before--except for one semester when I was in college, I was pressured to write a journal for a philosophy class.  I hated every minute of it.  I didn't like writing my thoughts down on paper for my professor to see and critique.  She, on the other hand, loved it and encouraged me to continue writing, which I did not.

You see, when I was only 14 years old and in high school, I, along with my fellow classmates had to take an English class.  Our assignment one day was to write a short play.  I loved my play, I thought it was funny.  However, my English teacher wrote the word FARCE across the top of the page in bright red letters.  It broke my heart.  And it embarrassed me.  After that, I was extremely careful with every single word I put down on paper.

The interesting thing to me now is that while in college and after writing many, many papers I developed a love for writing.  But still--I did not write unless I absolutely had to.  And because I felt that there was such a lack of my writing ability I ended up taking an excessive amount of English classes--of all types.  I was told repeatedly by my university counselors to pick a major!  I did, I picked Psychology--with several minors, English being one of them.  I wanted to make sure that whatever I wrote was grammatically correct.  I became obsessed with sentence structure.  You wouldn't know it now.  I write what I feel.  Sometimes a feeling or emotion can't be captured in sentence structure, sometimes it has to be written down the way it was felt.  Bit by bit.

I'm much older now and I've lost many of my inhibitions and I enjoy writing--I don't care if I'm not that great at it, I still love it.  I like digging deep inside myself and finding out who I am.  I like remembering the good and the bad that made me what I am.  I like peering into my sub-conscience and saying helloooooo.  And then I say hello back and I'm happy to get to know me.

Shame on that teacher all those many years ago.  The what ifs do play through my mind sometimes but then my mind says who cares.  I'm writing now, aren't I?

Packing

It's all about the packing, isn't it?  What do I take, how many suitcases and how many pairs of shoes?

I am beginning to feel the packing panic.  It keeps me up a little bit longer each night.  It invades my sleep--now I dream of suitcases and jetways, luggage carousels and 3 oz containers.  This always happens a week or so before we leave on vacation.  I call it the mental travel crazies.  It's a part of who I am.  I walk around wondering if I have enough of everything.  I constantly ask myself--what am I forgetting?   I always forget something--at least one thing.  Maybe it's my toothbrush, or my favorite lip liner, or my deodorant.  There's always at least one item missing when I check into my first hotel.  Thus the feeling of panic.  What is it?

For this trip, I've already convinced myself that I need new luggage, even though I know that by the time my flight lands in Rome my new suitcase will look like it's 3 years old.  It really kind of ticks me off.  I've sat on planes and when looking out the little windows have watched the airline crew throw suitcases around like they are worn out scraps of carpet.  They hit the ground and bounce and I think--man, I'm glad that wasn't mine!  However, in reality, when the wheels touch the ground and I disembark, and there on the carousel stands my suitcase, I am excited to see that it made it and isn't somewhere off the coast of Antarctica.

I've bought several, yes, I said several new pairs of shoes, trying to find the perfect stylish comfy shoe that will go with most of my outfits.  I now think that is a lost cause.  If they're cute they hurt.  They should be required to put that phrase on the shoe signs.  That way when looking you could pass right on by the shoes that hurt.  They should have a sign that says--ugly shoes here but oh so comfy. 
I am ready though, I have bought and plan on taking boxes of band aids in all shapes and sizes.  I've been down this road before--band-aids and I are great friends.  I am curious though, why do I only need them when I am in Europe?  I blame the cobblestone streets--not my new shoes.

I'm in the zone now.  I've got clothing, shoes, and luggage laid out all over the bedroom.  I've got house sitters and neighbors all on high alert.  I've got lists a mile long--lists of last minute details like when to stop the mail, when to kennel the dog, when to, well, when to everything, right down to get out the passport.  I've planned and planned some more--
And then there is my husband and the way he packs.
Usually the night before, he'll meander down to the basement, grab his suitcase and stick it in the bedroom.  Sometime during the next morning, he packs.  And I use that term loosely.  He'll throw in a couple pair of jeans, a couple pair of chinos and a few golf shirts and yell out--I'm done!   He'll stand there smirking with his jacket thrown over his shoulder and his Italian loafers on saying
I'm ready, let's go--
there's got be a way to get back at him...

I know--along with new luggage and new shoes and I'll need new pants and some new shirts.  Oh and jackets, don't forget the jackets.  Oh and scarves...well, we are going to Paris too you know!

Cousins

I have approximately thirty-six 1st cousins--give or take.  I have to say give or take because well, you know--secrets.  So let's just call it 36, and then I also have many 2nd and 3rd cousins.  I've been blessed with a large extended bigger than life family.  However, I want to write about just 3 of my cousins. There is the one I grew up with, the one that became my sister/friend, and the one that took my place.

The cousin I grew up with was my age.  For many years I'd go to her house for a couple of weeks during our summer break from school.  She was the oldest of 7 kids and to me, this large family was a little slice of heaven.  There was always lots of commotion, noise, food, and tons of fun.  There was never a quiet moment and that was OK with me.  My house was too quiet, with both of my parents working and a surly little sister--well, I was ready for summer and to get going.  Fortunately, I was able to spend some time with my cousin--we loved going to the lake and laying in the sun, we loved going to the local county fair and checking out the boys, and I loved watching TV with her siblings in the evenings.  It didn't hurt that my aunt was an awesome cook and what I loved most were her homemade french fries.  Oh my gosh, I can smell them now.  I had so much fun during those summers.  It was wonderful having a female cousin my own age.  And every summer her and I would also meet up for a couple of weeks at my grandmother's house.  We used to walk to the public pool and swim and we used to pick berries for cobblers, and then bake later that evening.  And yes, it's true that over time we've grown apart, but I still have those summertime memories and I cherish them.  I love seeing her and her siblings every few years and reminiscing.  Those were the days!

The cousin that has become my sister/friend is a cousin that I didn't particularly like when I was growing up.  She was my sister's age and they hung out together and they were tattletales.  Yes, they really were. I caught on about age 8 or 9 and that's when I began to set them up.  Man, was I a little devil or what?  I'd say a bad word, they'd run screaming into the house to tell on me and later when questioned by my mother I would bat my little brown eyes and say--no mom, I would never say that.  Hopefully, I've changed a bit.  Although my husband might beg to differ.
Eventually, we both grew up and got married and began to have our babies.  And then my cousin moved to the little town where I lived.  I couldn't really ignore her now could I?  So, I began to invite her to come over, to go places with me, and to attend our church, pretty much anything I did I invited her.
And, within just a few short months we became besties, cousin/friends, she was one of my peeps--my people.  It turned out I liked her.  She was sweet, kind, honest and best of all she loved her kids deeply.  We started doing everything together.  We'd go camping and shopping and take the kids to the library and go shopping and we'd go to lunch and have family game night and go shopping and generally just have fun.  She's now one of my closest friends.  It's hard living so far away, but she comes to visit and I go out and visit her.  We laugh and eat and shop and our husbands think we're so crazy, which makes us laugh even more.  I'm so thankful for her and her friendship and I'm so grateful that she's my cousin.

And then there is the one that I call--the one who took my place.  My mother's sister, my aunt, had 3 boys.  One boy was my age, one a year older and one 2 years older.  They weren't so bad.  We'd play all sorts of games, we'd have a lot of fun--hunting for tree frogs mostly.  I loved going to my aunt's house.  She didn't have a little girl, so I proudly stepped in.  She'd brush my hair and put little bows in it.  She'd let me help out in the kitchen and stir the cookie batter, and she generally just made me feel special--the only girl.  But then one day it all changed.  She had an unexpected surprise.  A little baby girl.  I didn't want to like her--not at all.  The minute my aunt was done feeding, changing her and putting her down for a nap I'd run into the room with brush and bows in hand, and thankfully she was always patient with me.  She reassured me in her own way.  I guess she knew--I was jealous--very jealous.  I was only 7 years old and was very afraid of being displaced.
But, this little baby girl eventually won my heart.  I don't remember her ever crying or fussing.  No, she was all smiles and giggles--always laughing, and as she grew up, always very special.  To me, she became like another little sister.
Looking back now she really became her mother.  She looks like her, acts like her and has a heart like her.  My aunt is gone now.  I think of her often and I am thankful for my cousin who took my place--where would I be without her?

My cousins-I love them.

Miracles

When I first met you--to me that was a miracle
When my parents became Christians--to me that was a miracle
When the hitting and the drinking stopped--to me that was a miracle
When I gave my heart to you--to me that was a miracle
When I stopped going to bed hungry--to me that was a miracle
When that man chased me and I got away--to me that was a miracle
When you held me in the dark and made me feel safe--to me that was a miracle
When you spared my life that day on the freeway--to me that was a miracle
When you kept me from getting into drugs--to me that was a miracle
When you were my best friend, and I had no friends at all--to me that was a miracle
When you gave me my husband--to me that was a miracle
When I held my first baby--to me that was a miracle
When they told me that it was unlikely that I've ever have another baby and I had 2 more--to me that was a miracle
When I tucked my kids into bed at night--to me that was a miracle
When I was out of money and that check came in the mail--to me that was a miracle
When the tumor was not malignant--to me that was a miracle
When I've been unlovable and you loved me anyway--to me, that was a miracle
When I cried out to you and you heard me--to me that was a miracle
When I've been deeply hurt and you were the only one there for me--to me that was a miracle
When you gave me the ability to sing--to me that was a miracle
When I've lived in homes and not cars--to me that was a miracle
When I've traveled and have seen your creations--to me that was a miracle
When I've cried of a broken heart and you dried my tears--to me that was a miracle
When I've rocked my grandbabies--to me that was a miracle
When you've taught me to forgive--to me that was a miracle
When you forgave me--to me that was a miracle

And when I lay my head down for the last time, and you continue to answer my prayers, those prayers that are mostly for my children and grandchildren--to me that is a miracle

Sprinklers

I'm going to share something that makes me uncomfortable.  I've told a couple of people this story, and now I want to write about it.  I think it's important.  At least it is to me.

When I was a little girl one of my favorite summertime sports was to play outside in the sprinklers.  Once in a while, we would drive to my maternal grandmother's house and along with other aunts, uncles, and cousins, we would have a Saturday of fun.  The moms would probably go shopping, the dad's were most likely inside watching sports and my grandmother would be keeping an eye on us grandkids.  Sometimes there would be 7 or 8 of us outside in her little front yard playing in the sprinklers--laughing, yelling, singing, all the things that cousins do when they're finally together just having fun.  On this one particular day, my grandmother called me back inside the house.  She told me that I couldn't play outside anymore that day.  I thought maybe I was in trouble, maybe I had laughed too hard, yelled too loud--really I had no idea what I had done wrong.  What she said next made no sense to me.  She said, you have to come inside now, I don't want you looking like a darkie.  I didn't know what a darkie was, but I knew it had to be something bad.  I remember pouting a bit--after all, my other cousins were still playing outside and having fun.  While I, on the other hand, had to stay inside and look at her many photo albums.

That night while my mom was tucking my sister and me into bed I asked my mom, what's a darkie?  My mother's response was of course, where did you hear that?  The look that crossed her face let me know that my grandma was in a heap of trouble.
I don't know what my mother said to her, I just know that after that day I could play in the sprinklers in the hot summer sun for as long as I wanted.  And, my mother's explanation to me was that a darkie was what some people called black people.  And that I was never to use that word, that it was mean and would hurt their feelings and I might make someone cry.

I nodded, I said that I understood, but really what was going through my mind was--so am I one of them?  I was too afraid to ask.  I was only 6 or 7 years old.  But even at that age, I felt like I was less than.  Less than all my other cousins on my mother's side of the family.  I was darker, had brown hair, I looked like my dad, not my mom.  My cousins were light skinned and blond.  Different.  They were good, I was bad.  My skin was bad.  From then on I closed off a little.  I would hang back.  I didn't mean to, I just felt bad about myself inside.  I wanted so badly to be accepted but I would look at myself in the mirror and think, why am I so much darker than them, why am I bad?

It was racism pure and not so simple.  My grandmother was raised in a different era than I was.  She was raised in a state that had once engaged in slavery.  It disgusts me to even think about it.

Years later when my grandmother was pretty much on her deathbed she told me a story.  She said that when she was a child she had been raised by a black mammy, her word not mine.  And that she loved that woman more than she loved her own mother.  She had always felt guilty over her love for her mammy and deep down inside knew that it was wrong.  She dealt with her emotions via racism.  She said it was the only way, and that she should be punished for not loving her mother more.  It was a convoluted thought process for sure, but things started to make sense to me.  I began to forgive her a little.  I began to understand.  And while I didn't agree with her, I tried hard to put myself in her place.  I asked her if she remembered the sprinkler incident.  Her eyes teared up and she said yes.  She asked me to forgive her and I said I would.  I thanked her for that day--I told her that I was glad it had happened because it made me into a person who would never stand for racism or discrimination ever.  She said she was proud of me and told me for the first time in my life that she loved me.  I was in my 30's.

What's interesting to me now, is that I am not dark skinned.  I can get dark when I'm out in the sun, but not any more than any other olive skinned caucasian.  However, I can pass for a Latina, or an Italian, or an Eastern European.  It doesn't bother me in the least.  My grandmother though was afraid.
It was ignorance born of fear--racism born of ignorance.

I battle self-esteem issues even today.  I wonder if we all do to some extent.  Mine began with one racist sentence.  It hurts my heart just to think of it.