Not Speaking of Randomness

This year I have…ahem…a significant birthday coming up. And I believe in looong celebrations. So in honor of the fact that I’ve amassed lots and lots of random junk in my significant amount of years, I’ve decided to start a new feature I’m going to call Totally Random Tuesday, where I plan to pretty much spew out something I’ve noticed that has absolutely nothing to do with anything in particular. Only I’m starting on a Wednesday because...okay, I changed my mind about the days. There will be no quote on Totally Random Tuesday. So here’s today’s.

I’m learning that speaking well isn’t necessarily the sign of a great mind. There will always be those who are easily fooled by, and therefore fuel, those who speak well but say nothing. It’s listening well that’s almost always a sign of greatness.

Buddy the Talking Dog

I used to call our last dog, Griswold, our “talking dog” because of the way he had of making sure I paid attention to exactly what he wanted. If he wanted a walk, for example, he’d get his leash and put it in my lap. And then he’d bark at me until I obeyed. You could tell he thought I was a little stupid, but he was just so good at training his human that he did eventually get me to understand a respectable number of commands.

But Buddy has never talked. Until lately. Or maybe Griswold was right and it’s just that I didn’t understand his particular vocabulary until lately. Anyway, I give “Budward” a dog biscuit every night at 8:00. But he often either forgets that I’ve given it to him or pretends that I’ve forgotten. So I’ve taken to making a big deal of it, making sure he gets that THIS IS IT. Then the other day, as we were going through this ritual, one of the kids passed and mentioned that Buddy says “yes.” And I realized that he does.

So here I go. This is the first time I’ve tried posting my own video footage, let alone adding a title, and I didn't have Griswold to tell me how to do it.

If I could sit across the porch from God, I’d thank Him for lending you to me. ~Flavia

The Big One-Four

Today is Buddy’s 14th birthday. Or at least the day we pretend is his birthday since he was a shelter dog.  It was probably really a few weeks ago, but we liked the date.  And to think I almost didn't get him because of health concerns!  He was missing so much fur that the vet thought it might be mange.  It was a flea allergy and an untreated case of worms.  Hooray for hybrid hardiness. 

I feel so lucky not only to have had our beloved “Budster” so many years, but to have him still in such great shape. And what’s more, he’s inspired lots of writing. Thank heavens Chicken Soup moved their deadline for My Dog's Life to May 31st.  I’ve submitted two stories so far and have two more I’m working on.

We celebrated by giving one of his toys a squeaker transplant (since he positively doesn’t need more toys) and by giving him some PETCO cookies.  Which he promptly barfed up on the dining room carpet because it's not his senior formula dog food.  Sigh.

The older the fiddler, the sweeter the tune. ~Pope Paul VI

A Real Pain in the Toe

Another good thing about blindness is that I can't see my daughter's wounded toe so much unless she waves it under my face. Last week in a theatre incident involving a set piece, her toenail was broken clean off. Only it wasn’t so clean. The nurse wasn’t on duty since it was an after school activity, so her friend had wrapped the bloody mess in something that looked like tissues and tape. And then she had hobbled around like that for several hours. Urk…eww…. 

And all this just as I was settling down to watch “The Office.”  I am not at all good with wounds, either, but thank heavens for those urgent care places. Has anyone out there lost a nail—ALL of it—and can give her some words of encouragement? She read on the internet that it won’t grow back right. And they told her it would be at least six months.

I’ve had sympathetic toe pain all week. It’s going to be a long six months.

“Despair seems to afflict only those whose relation to life is a serious and potentially responsible one.”  From “Mockingbird Years” by Emily Fox Gordon

Fun With Infirmities

Today I've been trying to get various household tasks done, and I actually discovered a few I had completed and forgotten about. Surprise! For me this is the bright side to my dulling memory. It’s like a gift, finding out you’ve completed work that you don’t remember, like having those little phantom elves who cobble shoes for you at night like in the fairy tale.  Only these are the Bad Memory Elves.

And then there was the time I was watching the news, and these women were holding up a sign that said, “NEW BRA.” I thought, shoot, if you have to make a sign about it, isn’t it time to shop a little more often? And then I squinted and realized the sign said, “NEW ERA.”

Oh. Oopsy-daisy.


Spoken by my former mother-in-law: “Ho hum…I need to go to bed. I feel like I’ve taken an aphrodesiac.”

Dueling Peeps and Other Fun Easter Festivities

Back By Unpopular Demand! 10 Things for Losers to Do on Easter:

1. Try dying scrambled eggs instead. Practice making puking noises as you eat.
2. Put marshmallow bunnies in the microwave facing each other with little toothpick swords. Turn on the microwave and watch them blow up and stab each other. (See illustration. Thank you for the suggestion, Nina.)

3. Make an ecologically friendly basket by recycling old margarine tubs. Use dryer lint for grass or better yet, go green by using real grass (and just pick out the ants and wood ticks). Substitute lima beans for jelly ones. I find that dried work better than canned.

4. For an extra special treat, hide the basket a year early so you really don’t remember where you put it.

5. As a creative and festive surprise for children, experiment with hiding other boiled proteins, such as crab legs.

6. All that candy spells u-n-h-e-a-l-t-h-y. Try filling baskets with less sugary substitutions for jelly beans, such as fish oil and flaxseed capsules.

7. On a budget? Instead of wasting eggs, experiment with dying other items in your refrigerator, like bologna.

8. For an amusingly ironic twist, fill children’s baskets with rabbits’ feet. For a REALLY amusing twist, add a sign that says, “Good luck, from the Easter BAHHHHHH!!!” Then sing, “Here comes Peter Cotton Tail, hobblin’ down the bunny trail….”

9. Crash a little kids’ Easter egg hunt, shout “Gotcha, you sum’ bitch!” and club the egg thoroughly with a baseball bat. Hold up the remains and ask someone to take your picture.

10. Mount half an eggshell on a trophy plaque and hang it over your fireplace. Next time someone comes to your door to tell you about their religion, invite them in and keep interrupting with, “Want to see what I bagged on my last hunt?”

Don't judge people by their relatives. ~Unknown

Of Rolls and Roles

Last Christmas, I baked a thing called “Pumpkin Cake Roll” that I found on this lovely-sounding young woman’s blog: At Home with Rachel.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am not much of a cook. I’ve never made anything like this before…but it turned out to be both beautiful and delicious. (Pictured at left with the teacup given to me by my friend Fran and the tea given to me by my friend Becky…and with the cryptocereus anthonyanus given to me by my friend Nancy in the background.)

As I was making it, I was thinking about the people who think to make…and share…such beauty. Which led me to thinking about the entire history of women. What I started writing—and couldn’t tear myself away from—turned into a piece that I’m hoping to submit somewhere. So it truly was the treat that kept on giving.

Which happens to be the theme of the piece. Seeing something as small as a shared blog recipe reminded me that there will always be those whose wise souls who intuitively understand the truth about beauty: It cannot be held. The paradox is that the more freely it is given, the more beautifully it reflects on the one who released it…and the more bountifully it returns.

“[Miss Maudie’s sunhat] was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber….” ~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

That's the Ticket

I would like to thank Becky for nominating me for this most distinctive and prestigious of awards!!!
Here are the rules:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you. (Thanks again, Bec!)
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link the person who nominated you.
4. Tell up to 6 outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth. (The key here is the "up to" and the "at least." Some people are just born liars!)
5. Nominate up to seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on the "up to" seven blogs you nominate, letting them know you nominated them.

Here goes:

1. In high school, I started a job at the local Squinky Pinky, but it didn’t go well. First they put me in the deli, but I stank at cheeses. Then they put me in produce. Things got out of hand when I dropped a load of bananas, and they really came to a head in the cruciferous vegetable department. So when they moved me to the bakery and I had that flour incident, I thought I was going to get sacked for sure. Instead, they put me out in fertilizers because they found I could really shovel poo.

2. I was once mistaken for the Exorcist girl on a studio set.

3. My Great Uncle Joe was an actor who was the first voice of Porky Pig. He really did stutter.

4. One of the men I’ve met lately steams out his brain fungus using a vegetable steamer, a tarp, and an ionizer.

5. I once strolled into a store with a date, and a man with flaming orange hair, a flaming orange pantsuit, and a flaming orange personality ran up and planted an impassioned kiss on my date’s mouth. When he finally detached and spotted me standing there very awkwardly, he shrieked, “OH LOOK! You have a girlfriend! A QUAINT little GIRLFRIEND!!!”  The thing that bothered me most about the incident was being called "quaint."  Quaint?  Puh-leez.

6. A friend wanted to set me up with an attractive man who had just broken up with the Bromo Seltzer heiress.  The Bromo Seltzer heiress was married, and her husband wanted to cause this guy more than indigestion. BUT, the friend said that Mr. Former-Bromo-Boy had once been in prison, because someone had sneaked drugs on the private plane that Bromo-Boy was piloting, and “you just don’t turn these people in and live.” So Former-Bromo took the rap and went to prison. The friend wanted to know if that bothered me. Bothered me? OF COURSE it bothered me. I was horrified. A pilot? My former husband was a pilot. Bleah.

I nominate Christy! 

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't. ~Mark Twain

Let the St. Patrick's Day Celebrating Go On! And On, and On....

Good news!  Okay, good news for ME!  I had a dentist appointment, so I thought these up mostly in the shower to take my mind off going to the dentist (even though I am in fact partially Irish, and I do in fact have plans this evening):

Ten Seven TEN Things for Losers to Do on St. Patrick’s Day!

1. Don’t go to the bar on St. Patrick’s Day. Go to the dentist.

2. Wear a t-shirt that says, “Kiss me, too, I’m Portuguese.”

3. Kissing the wearer o’the green is so trite. Kiss the wearer o’the brown instead.

4. Kissing is so germy. Instead, go up to everyone wearing green and simply stroke their sleeve a bit. Don’t forget to use hand sanitizer afterwards!

5. Beer is so...working class.  If you want to be REALLY classy, sip green wine instead.  Make sure it's an Irish one.  If you want to impress people with your wine drinking technique, gently gargle with it. Smack your lips and exclaim, “Ah!” This is called “embibing in the brogué.”

6. Parades get so darned crowded. Instead, stand on a street corner and wave at random people. When an interesting vehicle or weird looking person goes by, clap.

7. Instead of wearing shamrocks, wear a leaf associated with your ancestry. So if you’re Canadian, wear a maple leaf, and if you’re from Guam, wear a banana leaf, or if you’re from Nebraska, wear a corn husk, etc. Or if your ancestry is really mixed, simply wear salad. Or better yet, wear a fig leaf and explain to people that we’re all descended from Eve.

8. Can’t find your shamrock pin to wear? No worries! Simply wear your “slut” pin instead.

9. Spontaneously giggle at the dentist’s office because you suddenly remembered that you own a “slut” pin. Don’t ask.

10. Take a picture of your “slut” pin for your blog.

May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future. ~Irish toast

The Pluck of the Irish

Sometimes I look around, and there really are people who conduct their lives with virtually no regard for other people—and they get away with it. The injustice is so blatant, it feels like an affront to the soul.

And yet, in the end these types drive away the crucial things that they work so hard to deny others:  genuine love, intimacy, and respect. And because they never take responsibility for their actions, they never truly learn or grow. Even when they pretend to have changed negative behaviors, they’ve really only become more adept at hiding them.

Is that why bad things never seem to happen to these people? Because they’d never learn, anyway, so what’s the point? Do they really only exist to throw destruction into the universe so that decent people can learn to solve problems and create?

Because it really does seem like there are good people everywhere who are truly struggling. I’ve been thinking about all of this lately when along came an email from a great friend. It was called “An Irish Blessing.” Sometimes I feel like the universe tries and tries to tell me something, but I’m dense enough that God just lets out a big sigh and has a friend spell it out to me in an email. Here it is. May you enjoy it as much as I did. And happy St. Patrick’s Day.

My wish for you

I wish you not a path devoid of clouds, nor a life on a bed of roses,
Not that you might never need regret,
nor that you should never feel pain.
No, that is not my wish for you.
My wish for you is:
That you might be brave in times of trial,
when others lay crosses upon your shoulders.
When mountains must be climbed and chasms are to be crossed,
When hope can scarce shine through.
That every gift God gave you might grow with you
and let you give your gift of joy to all who care for you.
That you may always have a friend who is worth that name,
whom you can trust and who helps you in times of sadness,
Who will defy the storms of daily life at your side.
One more wish I have for you:
That in every hour of joy and pain you may feel God close to you.
This is my wish for you and for all who care for you.
This is my hope for you now and forever.

-- anonymous Irish blessing

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. – Mary Oliver

Once Upon a Time in 2010

Sign of the times: I was subbing in a 6th grade Com Arts class. The assignment was to have the students read aloud an old Irish fable about a magical dwarf who lived in the woods.

“That’s rude,” one child complained. “They prefer to be called ‘Little People.’” He was clearly incensed. From then on, he insisted on reading about the magical Little Person.

It's easier not to be wise and measure these things by your brains ~Live, “I Alone”

More (Fragrant!) Bulbs...OR...Don't Just Feed a Cold; Suffocate It!

When my daughter was little, one of her first (and only) attempts at gardening was to plant a few cloves of garlic one fall. The following summer, we had a bumper garlic crop so impressive that it would have made any farmer (or vampire slayer) proud. When I asked my daughter what she planned to do with all that garlic, she shrugged. Turns out she doesn’t actually like garlic; she only wanted to see if it would grow. Enter this soup recipe, which requires an impressive 44 cloves. The roasting helps keep it from tasting like Death by Garlic. Really. Still, I’m sure it’s plenty pungent.

Can’t say for sure, though…. A long time ago I discovered that it has marvelous expectorant properties, so I’ve begun making it when I have a cold in order to ward off the evils of congestion. I’m convinced it dispatches those strength-sapping viruses tout de suite. A side benefit is that you can’t smell the garlic at all when you’re that stuffed up. My biggest concern was that the little Girl Scouts might pick this weekend to deliver our cookies and faint at our doorstep. (They didn’t.)

By the way, though it’s many years later, my daughter’s garlic patch continues to produce each year…mainly because we just never pick it all.

Note to Girl Scouts: The air has cleared here! We’re ready for you!!!


Roasted Garlic Soup

26 garlic cloves (unpeeled)
2 T olive oil

2 T (1/4 stick) butter
2 ¼ c. sliced onions
1 ½ t. chopped fresh thyme
18 garlic cloves, peeled
3 ½ c. chicken stock or canned low-salt chicken broth
½ c. whipping cream

½ c. finely grated Parmesan cheese (about 2 ounces)
4 lemon wedges

Preheat oven to 350°F. Place 26 garlic cloves in small glass baking dish. Add 2 T. olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper; toss to coat. Cover dish tightly with foil and bake until garlic is golden brown and tender, about 45 minutes. Cool. Squeeze garlic between fingertips to release cloves. Transfer cloves to small bowl.

Melt butter in heavy large saucepan over med-high heat. Add onions and thyme and cook until onions are translucent, about 6 minutes. Add roasted garlic and 18 raw garlic cloves and cook 3 minutes. Add broth; cover and simmer until garlic is very tender, about 20 minutes. Puree soup until smooth in blender (in batches), or use a hand-held blender. Add cream and bring to simmer. Season with salt and pepper. Can be prepared a day ahead and refrigerated at this point.

Divide grated cheese among 4 bowls and ladle soup over. Squeeze juice of 1 lemon wedge into each bowl and serve.  Serves 4.


"Good soup draws the chair to it." Ghanaian Proverb

Censlus

So I just got a letter in the mail from the U.S. Department of Commerce telling me that next week I will get my census form. Is it me? Or does that seem like a HUGE waste of postage to send a letter…telling me that I’m going to get a letter?

I was subbing for a middle school P.E. teacher. It was right before 7th hour, which is usually the last hour in most of the middle schools in my district, but my notes said there was an 8th hour after that. So I asked another teacher if they had an 8th hour there.

Her reply: “Yes. You’re in hell. It just goes on and on here. And after that class period, you’ll discover there’s a 9th."

Out of the Bleakness

Usually one of my other favorite things in life is throwing open the curtains and blinds on a Saturday morning, especially when it’s sunny out. Not so today. Today I have the cold that’s been making its rounds, and it feels like my head’s been blown full of fiberglass insulation…with a few glass shards thrown in just for fun. My face itches and my eyeballs feel hot and bald. Thank heavens it’s a weekend and I can just lie around.

But when I managed to crawl from my lair of sickness long enough to let the dog out this morning, this is what greeted me. It’s Iris reticulata, always the first flower of the year in my yard.

Ah, hope.

If winter comes, can spring be far behind? ~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Here's What Makes Meme Happiest; How 'Bout You'm?

The other day, my friend Becky printed a “meme” that she found on another blog, offering it for others to take and do with what they chose. I’d never heard the word “meme,” so I looked it up. Here’s one definition from Dictionary.com:

meme- n. A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another.

Hmm.  Anyway, the meme was simply to list 10 things that make you happy. Fun game. My problem was that there was no way I could keep it to ten. So I cheated and condensed them so much that they got ridiculous. 

So finally I gave up and started listing specific times I remember being overwhelmingly happy, and it was such a nice exercise that I invite you to do your own. What I discovered was that my happiest moments seem rare and precious and have a transcendent quality that leaves me feeling as if I’ve been touched by the divine.

For example, when I lived in Denver I’d occasionally drive up the mountains alone to a spot in Estes Park that was on the very edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. I’d throw a jacket on and change my summer shorts and hike up to the top of a mountain, just beyond the snow line, and look down. That echo of infinite blue mountains and unmelting snow and endless beauty was so completely untouched by humanity that it caught the air in my throat and brought tears to my eyes, and I would find myself standing as still as I could and holding my breath because I was an outsider in a holy place too sacred for something as unworthy as my breathing, even. It was like being allowed to glimpse the face of God. There is always something ironic to me in being so small and humbled as to slip into a spiritual wormhole and become a part of something huge. That's when the human spirit truly takes wing.

And when I felt filled up and grounded again, I would carefully tiptoe back through my own footprints to leave the snow as untouched as possible so as not to sully it with my graceless humanity, and drive home, feeling at once lightened and enlightened.

There is such a thing as perfection...and our purpose for living is to find that perfection and show it forth....Each of us is in truth an unlimited idea of freedom. Everything that limits us we have to put aside. ~Richard Bach

Jumping on the Blogwagon

The above picture shows our late dog, Griswold, trying to give his bone to my son when he was a baby. One more reason I had to keep an eye on that dog. He even taught the baby to bark.

I’m including this picture in honor of my first blog contest. Chicken Soup for the Soul’s publisher accidentally sent me even more than their generous ten copies per story of their What I Learned from the Dog book, and both Amy Newmark and D’Ette Corona told me to keep the extras. I’ve given these wonderful books as Christmas presents, birthday presents, and donated some to use as fundraisers for the Humane Society. Still have some left.

So here’s the deal. If you want one, please write as a comment something you learned from either a dog or other pet.  I’ll give out as many as I have and can afford to send. And if you already have the book, feel free to write something, anyway—just let me know you don’t need a book.

Here’s an example. Our dog Griswold was a genius as dogs go, but it was an enormous amount of work keeping him occupied and out of trouble. If it weren’t for the patience I learned from him, I don’t know how I ever would have survived my children’s childhoods, let alone my son’s colic.

A boy can learn a lot from a dog: obedience, loyalty, and the importance of turning around three times before lying down. ~Robert Benchley

Caught in the Act

It cried out again and again, but the noise fell on deaf ears until at last, it was silenced.

“Who, me?” the killer seemed to say, with the gruesome fluff of the gored, dismembered, and disemsqueakered Christmas present strewn about him in cottony abandon. The court jester colors were ironically unfestive; the party was over before we ever even had a chance to name this one. No more will it live with Crunchy Duck, Thing-Formerly-Known-As-Flamingo, Road Kill Chicken, Virus Model, Ropey, Scary Bunny, Chanukah Thing or the legendary Dead Precious (a.k.a. Precious #4). Not to mention about half a dozen tennis balls, one pitted like an olive.

But the reason Santa brought that one was because it had six—yes, six—squeakers. It will live in infamy as a transplant donor.

And here’s a Dave Barry thing. Wouldn’t Dead Precious be an awesome name for a band?

So what if you can see the darkest side of me? No one will ever change this animal I have become

~“Animal I Have Become” by Three Days Grace

Orangutan and the Hound

To my animal-loving friends (which is most people I know), this is a cute video. Jane forwarded it to me in an email today. Thanks, Jane!

Orangutan and the Hound

Posted using ShareThis

We should all have a friend who loves us enough to pry our mouths open and shove half their favorite candy in. ~Linda O'Connell

I'm Blaming the Snow

I can’t be cooped up at home and be expected to leave my blog alone. The U2 quote (below) reminds me of my occasional need for art in some form. Problem is, I can’t figure out if art is the Jesus or the leper.

Anyway. Our snow is nothing like the East Coast got, but still. Here is a picture taken through my window. The grass is not only greener on the other side of the fence, the snow is whiter. Those neighbors don’t have dogs.

Have you come here for forgiveness/Have you come to raise the dead/Have you come here to play Jesus/To the lepers in your head?
~from “One” by U2

Ralph or Bessie, You Rock

In honor of our snow day today, which wasn’t announced until just before I left for work (which is admittedly better than announcing it after I’d left), here is what I read on a poster at a school last week. It was attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson. I went home and looked it up, and some sources claim that it’s actually taken from an essay written by Bessie Stanley.

Whoever wrote it was uncommonly wise…and undoubtedly successful in spite of not being properly cited.

What is Success?

To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by
a healthy child, a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed
easier because you have lived;
This is to have succeeded.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, or possibly Bessie Stanley


Spoken by a high school social studies teacher who is one of the best at his profession I've seen: “I don’t teach for the paycheck; most teachers don’t. But one of my former students came back to see me. He sells burglar alarms now, and he was about to go to Sweden to install alarms in some mansion. Sweden! He’s like, ‘You can come work for me when you retire.’ I’m not above that, you know what I’m sayin’? I could do that. I mean, I sell American History to teenagers at seven o’clock in the morning every day. I could sell alarms to rich people in Sweden.”

Nice Try, Scrappy

Postcard notice from my neighbor’s vet that I found had accidentally been delivered to my house instead:

Dear Scrappy,
Please tell Stacey that you are due for the following treatment:

Canine Neuter

I felt like a traitor putting it in the correct mailbox. Sorry, Scrappy. Try the neighbors on the other side next time.

More from “Juno”:
Juno: I’m pregnant.
Leah: What? Honest to blog?
Juno: Yeah. It’s Bleeker’s.
Leah: It’s probably just a food baby. Did you have a big lunch?
Juno: This is not a food baby all right? I’ve taken like three pregnancy tests, and I’m forshizz up the spout.
Leah: How did you even generate enough pee for three pregnancy tests?

Something to Wag About

I was recently contacted by Daniela Caride, editor of The Daily Tail, asking permission to reprint my story “Best Dog in the World” that originally appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul What I Learned from the Dog.

I was happy to discover this wonderful site for pet lovers. I also discovered that Daniela is, like most pet lovers (and unlike some editors), a fun and pleasant person with whom to correspond. Here’s a link to my story at The Daily Tail. Be sure to check out the whole site!

http://www.thedailytail.com/nonfiction/best-dog-in-the-world/

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. ~Groucho Marx

Worshiping the Photosynthesis Gods

There’s something about the sun glowing through leaves that sets my heart aflutter. Maybe it’s the innate recognition that within this greenery is the miraculous marriage of earth and sun and water and air. Or maybe it's the intuitive knowledge that this marriage creates this most unsung of immaculate conceptions, the birth of all that lives. Surely leaves are the sparks that fly from the hand of God. They are magical green machines that manufacture life.

Or maybe it’s just that we haven’t seen the sun for so darned long here in the Midwest...!

The above is a closeup of aglaia odorata, in lemony-fragrant bloom in my sun room. Ahhh.

"People, like all forms of life, only change when something so disturbs them that they are forced to let go of their present beliefs. Nothing changes until we interpret things differently. Change occurs only when we let go of our certainty. " ~ Dee Hock

Advice from the Bad Old Days

Becky Povich’s blog contest ends tonight. She’s asked for people to suggest titles of lesser-known books that they enjoyed. Linda O'Connell mentioned a very old copy of a Readers Digest that she cherishes. That reminded me that I have a book of my mother’s called Expectant Motherhood by Nicholson J. Eastman, Professor of Obstetrics in Johns Hopkins University, originally printed in 1940 and reprinted a disturbing number of times.

X-rays are mentioned as one of the ways to definitively diagnose pregnancy. Once that pregnancy is diagnosed (around the fifth month), be sure to consult this book before choosing your maternity corset! And for the baby’s layette, one should choose Gertrudes which are made from nainsook. I have no idea, but I still feel sorry for that baby.

It’s also clear that our mothers and grandmothers were impressively wasted when giving birth. Suggested drugs for a pain-free childbirth include morphine, scopolamine (“Its aim is not so much actual pain relief as forgetfulness”), rectal ether, barbiturates, and something called—gulp—paraldehyde, which sounds to me like the baby was born slightly pickled.

Never fear! That baby was sure to have been used to it by the time labor rolled around. On whether or not smoking is acceptable, the good professor says, “If you have been used to smoking considerably…by no means try to give [cigarettes] up in pregnancy. There is no surer way of upsetting the nerves at a period when you should be calm and happy, or of converting a placid, sweet-tempered girl into an intolerable shrew.”

Oh, and the price is listed as $1.25. For a hardcover. In other words, priceless.

From the movie, “Juno”:
Rollo: So what’s the prognosis, Fertile Myrtle? Minus or plus?
Juno: I don’t know. It’s not seasoned yet…. Nope…. There it is. The little pink plus sign is so unholy. [Shakes pregnancy test stick.]
Rollo: That ain’t no Etch-A-Sketch. This is one doodle that can’t be un-did, Homeskillet.

The Perils of Toast

My family doesn’t have the latest appliances. But we do have a bitchin’ toast detector.

Really it’s a smoke detector, a gift from our old insurance company, the one I dropped because the agent was rude. But it’s rather unhandily located near the toaster. And I don’t like wimpy toast. Whenever the smoke detector goes off, we’ve taken to announcing, “Toast is done!”

We discovered we can have our toast and eat it too if we fan the toaster. This became my excuse to pile mail on the center island—ads and other odd pieces of mail make handy toast-fanners.

When I begin fanning the toaster, the dog gets very happy. This is because he knows I am not a very accomplished toast-fanner, and the toast detector often goes off, anyway. Some time ago I took to rewarding him with a dog biscuit whenever that horrible noise started because I supposed it hurt his ears—heck, it hurts mine. I also thought it might be extra insurance. If we ever had a real fire, I figure the dog would come and wake us up if only to get that biscuit. He may not be Lassie, but he sure is a pig.

Only now the dog is deaf, so he assumes any fanning at all means he gets a dog biscuit. If a stranger were to witness the Making of the Toast, they would see quite an ordeal involving fans and barking and very loud alarms.

Then the other day, I smelled a strong burning smell. I followed it clear to the other end of the house and discovered that the microwave popcorn that Santa put in the kids’ stockings catches fire. (Note to Santa: splurge next year and buy the non-spontaneously combustible brands.) My son got the fire out right away, but the smoke smell was still strong.

The whole thing confirmed a suspicion I’ve had: The smoke detector remained perfectly silent. The microwave is located right next to the toaster. And the dog slept through everything because no dog biscuits were involved.

Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand. ~Kurt Vonnegut

P.S. Be sure to check out my friend Becky's book giveaway!

Okay, Now Snow Sucks

So much for the poetic waxing. Enough already.

Overheard from 10th grade girl: "Oh, eewww! I'm never letting my parents mess with my stuff again. They, like, gave me a morgue pen." (Then reads name of funeral home on her pen.)

Snow's Stolen Moments

I love the mingle—the flirt and wink—of snow and sun. One beam, and the snow blushes and sparkles and sends long, aching blue reaches of shadow. Opposites really do attract.

I’m telling you. Relationships are about mysterious chemistry between two people, not about one person getting it right. ~Lynn Harris, “Advice on Love” column

Shhh...Snow Day

I grew up in Nebraska and have a bit of a love/hate relationship with snow. But today I loved it, and I think it’s because of snow’s silent surprises.

I love the hushed frenzy of a blizzard—the way the snow absorbs the sound of the riotous confetti flakes, like a secret, profoundly silent celebration.

And then there’s the surprise of opening the blinds in the morning to see the outdoors gone white overnight. It’s always an exciting little shock that such a complete transformation could have been so stealthy, sneaking so much snow while the world sleeps.

Then in the dark and early morning, I watched TV with the sound off while still warmly tucked under my down comforter, and there was that thrilling moment when our district’s name appeared on the list of school closings. Three more hours of snuggly sleep.

And then, the best silent surprise—my teenaged children went out to shovel without my asking, without saying a word.

Some of the greatest miracles, I think, are silent.

We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand...and melting like a snowflake. Let us use it before it is too late. ~Marie Beyon Ray

An Old Year's Resolution

My New Year’s resolution from last year was to get out more.

When I was married, my husband and I rarely went anywhere together. When I went anywhere, it was with friends or my children. Like many mothers, I let myself slip into the habit of mainly doing for others and putting my own needs—not to mention wants—last.

I think of those years as being lean and dry as toast.

But this past year, I got out just for myself. Saw virtually all of the movies I wanted to see (and even a few I didn’t care about that much). Went on tours, saw museums, went to festivals. Went to wine tastings, went on a hayrack ride, even. Had many wonderful dinners, lunches, and a breakfast or two. Went to concerts under the stars. Went to parties and teas and gatherings and picnics and dances. Shopped much, bought next to nothing. Met tons of new people. Wonderful people. Flirted, toasted, twirled, played…laughed.

In short—aging or not—I had more fun last year alone than in the past 20 combined.

I don’t have much money. Many of the outings were cheap or even free. But this year I realized I am poor only in money. I can live with that. Here’s a new toast, a non-dry one: to another year rich in laughter.

Happy 2010.

(The above picture was one my daughter drew for me when she was little to use as computer wallpaper.)

The only person who is with us our entire life is ourselves.Be ALIVE while you are alive. ~George Carlin

The Eight Ball Again

OH, Great Eight Ball! Will 2010 be a good year?!?

"Signs point to yes." Whew. (Thank you, Becky, for letting me know that my picture wasn't very clear!)

Life isn't fair, but it's still good. ~Regina Brett

Too Austen-tatious?

What can I say about my little blog background fixation? I like variety.

But I also thought this was a good background, and as if it weren’t appropriate enough, it was called “Lost in Jane Austen.”

It just so happened that I was on a Jane Austen quest today, even. Within the last year or two, the BBC (I think?) reproduced all of her novels on film to be shown on “Masterpiece,” and I didn’t get to see them all. So I wanted to buy one or two using some Christmas money.

Went to Barnes & Noble. Couldn’t find what I was looking for, so had to ask the cute young guy behind the counter. I fully expected him to give me that tolerant look that most young men his age reserve for, well, women of my age. Who are looking for Jane Austen tapes.

Instead, he was so knowledgeable about the Jane Austen movies that I learned quite a bit. And got a great tape, on sale, even.

Where were these wonderful, knowledgeable young men when I was young?

“[Mr. Elliot] is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; who, for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black of heart, hollow and black!” ~Jane Austen, Persuasion

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlepeeps

The above picture has nothing to do with this post. It’s just a Christmas card that I got from my talented writer friend Becky. Be sure to click on it to see it bigger. Isn’t it adorable??!!

Anyway. Every year, during the panic of before-Christmas shopping, I struggle with rude people. I’m seeing more of them when it comes to certain types of behaviors. A friend of mine mentioned that she’s noticed it, too, and she thinks it’s because of the way reality shows emphasize competition. They glamorize greed. Unfortunately, I agree.

I've had a few too many people play “chicken” with grocery carts this year. I am weary and hostile…which means I’ve allowed other people's rudeness to negatively influence me.

Fortunately, every Christmas season I also have at least one stranger teach me a good lesson. This year’s came from a woman in Target. There was nothing especially outstanding about her; she was just a person who seemed to have what I would call an aura of decency.

I kept encountering her in different aisles, and she was always polite. She said, “excuse me,” didn’t hog aisles, and took turns. She had a lovely smile that left me feeling warmed and cheered.
At one point two little boys went by her, and the youngest dumped over a display. When the older boy (who was only about five) cleaned up the mess, I overheard her offer to help. Then she complimented the little boy on his sense of responsibility. I left the store feeling good as a direct result of this brief encounter with a total stranger.

Later on, I thought back about this. Because she was pleasant, did I think she was weak? Not at all. She came across as elegant, secure, and socially and emotionally polished.

And as for the rude ones…do they come across as strong or superior? On the contrary, pushy, greedy people come across as desperate, shallow, and ignorant to me.

So this year I’ve been trying to remember the Target Lady. I keep reminding myself that I take charge by allowing my own good cheer possibly to influence others rather than allowing others’ negativity to get to me. It's helping. I notice that the more I smile and enjoy myself, the more pleasant other people are...and the more the rude ones just seem to disappear. Thanks, Target Lady.

Hope you got as much of a laugh as I did at the above card. And have a merry day and a wonderful holiday.

From president John F. Kennedy’s Inaugural address, Jan. 20, 1961:
“…civility is not a sign of weakness….”

Doug Does Haul with Boundless Hollerin', fa la la la la, la la la la

Magpie’s (mmm—Magpie’s!) is on the other side of Old Town, and three of us—Linda, Becky, and I—were hungry for a late lunch/early dinner after the book signing.

“You mean you’re going to ask that little man to haul our fat asses down the street ?!!” That was roughly what Linda gasped when Becky flagged down the reluctant-looking man pedaling a little Christmas-decorated carriage pulled by…a bicycle.

My fat ass actually wounded poor Linda. We were literally crushed in.

We asked the little man hauling our asses what his name was. Doug. I held my breath and sucked in when Doug stared pedaling, as if that would somehow reduce my gravity. He strained. I helped by mentally willing the whole contraption to go. Slowly, slowly we inched forward, gaining momentum as Doug furiously pumped his legs.

Bless his merry macho muscles, Doug made it. We cheered so loudly that a gracious passer-by offered to take our picture to commemorate the momentous occasion.

I noticed Doug was not waiting for us when we were done eating.

“Get your bun off my paper.” ~High school kid speaking to a girl who was leaning back so that her rolled-up hair was on his desk

Bah Humbled

My head ached, and traffic was unbelievable. Already late for the book signing, when someone stole my parking spot I did more than bah and humbug. I am ashamed to say that I let out such a blood-curdling scream that a passer-by heard me through my closed windows and looked frightened. When I finally did park blocks and blocks away, I dove out of my car and started running. My boots were never made for these ancient, red brick streets. But as I ran, the miracle began to set in: this was Main Street Saint Charles (Missouri) over Christmas.

The festivities have grown over the years, and it is spectacular. Here was a real-life version of those nostalgic little Christmas towns that people try to capture in ornaments.

As I sprinted down the damp streets, an old-time, velvet-cloaked Kris Kringle waved a gloved hand at me and smiled a genuine smile. Smoke billowed the scent of roasting chestnuts from the street corners. People hugged their mugs in icy hands, breathed in the chocolate-scented steam, or cradled homemade cookies in their mittens. Bundled, pink-cheeked children clung to their parents’ hands and tried to keep up, jiggledy-frolicky bounce, pom-poms dancing.

When I finally got to Main Street Books, Vicki was there to greet everyone in a scene right out of a Christmas calendar. Upstairs sat six smiling friends: Linda O’Connell, Becky Povich, Theresa Sanders, Sherri Stanczak, Pat Wahler, and Patsy Zettler. Below are (far left to right) Pat, Becky and Linda.

The parade started shortly after I got there, and we had a great view from upstairs. We met many new people, saw some beloved old friends, and as always, laughed.

Stay tuned for Part II—Doug Hauls Asses.

Minister at a service we attended on Christmas Eve, 2006: “Love wins.”

Chicken Soup for the Soul...Canned Soup for the Body

Seven of us St. Charles/St. Louis authors will be signing books this Saturday, Dec. 12 from 1:00 to 3:00 pm. at Main Street Books in Old Town St. Charles.

If you bring in a canned good to donate to a local food pantry, you will receive 10% off your entire purchase.

Hmm...books...friends...soup...Old Town...? I can't think of too many places I'd rather be over the Christmas season! Hope to see you there!

We know what we are…but not what we may be. ~William Shakespeare

Happy Thanksgiving 2009

Today I realized how thankful I am for the written word.

Earlier in the week, when going over lesson plans for teaching descriptive writing, I was thinking about how miraculous the written word is. I can think of no other more direct way of connecting with another human being’s inner thoughts than through these little symbols of meaning.

Those of you who know me best know that my life has been drained by the emotional parasitism of at least one Malignant Narcissist. Their specialty is maintaining a superficially human exterior while, like the real-life vampires they are, feeding off all that is worthwhile in the human beings to whom they attach themselves. I would have starved if it weren’t for the bounty I’ve received in the connections provided by the written word. Amazing to me how words alone can feed the spirit.

All people who write graciously provide me with a rich cornucopia of experiences and ideas and memories. Their writing allows me to sit and sup, however briefly, in the nourishment of kindred souls.

By visiting here, you sit down at my little table and share something life-giving for me. And when I read your words, I am renewed.

Thank you. May your day and your life be richly blessed.

Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music - the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself. ~ Henry Miller

Bizarro World Easter

My daughter was looking through the pictures on my camera and asked, “Uh, Mom? What are these weird red Easter eggs?”

I am so UN-handy in the kitchen that when I thought up my very own kitchen hint, it was so unusual that I had to capture the moment. Then again, maybe someone has already thought of it, and I am so kitchenally-challenged that I didn’t know? Nevertheless, here it is:

I have a lot of recipes that call for a tablespoon or two of tomato paste. I used to open a can and wonder what to do with the rest. THEN I discovered (don’t I sound like a commercial??!!) that most Easter egg holders measure exactly one tablespoon. Spray on cooking spray, smoosh it in, cover and freeze, then pop out and wrap in individual little tablespoons to store in the freezer. My last bag lasted almost a year.

Take that, Martha Stewart.

“People got to do something useful if they’re going to take up space in the world.” ~Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting

A Salute

Fortunately for me, my father did not die on a battlefield in the South Pacific when he served as a Marine in World War II. Unfortunately for me, I got a call on my 34th birthday that started, “Happy birthday, but…I’m sorry….”

For the rest of my life, my birth date would become carved into my heart as the same date that was carved into my father’s headstone.

Right around Veteran’s Day that year, as my black pumps sank into the soft lawn of the cemetery, several members of my father’s veteran’s group lined up to help honor the friend who had succumbed on another dreaded battlefield called cancer.

The guns swung into place. At the salute, they fired.

But these were not the highly polished, dead-on shots of rigorously drilled soldiers who fire as one. These were shakier, rustier shots that wavered just enough to make it clear in that split-second: it was individuals who were firing that day.

These men were not sleek young men who hadn’t yet lived. The guns had fired from arms that had lived over seventy years each, arms grown weary from age and toil and worry. These arms knew what it was to cradle the newly dead…and the newly born. These arms had fought for their country and for their lives, and so far, had won both.

Some men were bald, some were round. Some had arms that were driftwood thin. But all stood as tall as their tired backs would let them.

These men were not soldiers. They were so much more. They were soldiers, workers, sons, and brothers. They were friends, husbands, fathers, men. Real men who know that life itself is a series of battles that we win by struggling for and protecting what it is we hold dear.

Thank you all for fighting for what matters. Thank you, Daddy, for having been a father who matters…to many. To me.

I salute you. All of you. Happy Veteran’s Day.

The heart is unconquerable….~Dave Pelzer, A Child Called It

"They" Were Wrong

When I was young, I used to be slightly haunted by a line in the John Cougar Mellencamp song that goes, “Oh yeah, they say life goes on/long after the thrill of living is gone.” I worried it might be true that the thrill of living leaves us as we age. How hard it would be to live life without that thrill, I thought.

And then during my divorce and the events that led up to it, I realized there was no thrill. Just relentless responsibilities, attacks, hassles, worries. And on top of it all, I worried about the loss of that thrill. Was it gone forever?

Today, on this November day, I look around. The ginger (above) is wafting the most lovely gardenia/papaya scent throughout the house. The passionflowers are still draping the French doors. Outside in the sunlight, a Bouncing Bet flower is still in bloom, and so is a rose. Sweet alyssum is everywhere. The dog is making me laugh, rolling in the grass and leaves, snorting, celebrating the luxuries of sun and earth and air. My daughter finally got over her flu and is playing classical music on the piano, the notes drifting out into the yard and into my soul. I recently heard from another loved one and couldn’t help but grin at the smile in his voice. Got the nicest letter—yes, letter!—from a friend I haven’t heard from in ages. Got a birthday card from another friend I haven’t heard from in even longer. Spent yesterday sipping wine and laughing with some great people at a winery, overlooking the hills of Augusta. When I look back over something sweet that happened at work last week, I can't help but smile. All of it gives me a thrill—all of it.

If someone had told me years ago that I would love this part of my life so much—divorced, and in the autumn of my years—would I have believed them? And yet not only is the thrill of living not gone, but I get it at the slightest, silliest things.

Oh, yeah, life goes on…and the thrill of living gets even more strong.

Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy. ~Anne Frank

If Mohammed Can't Go to the Tropics

If you’ve ever seen a naked plumeria cutting, you would know why my little girl first dubbed this plant “The E.T. finger.” There is a vaguely alien quality to the bald little stick.

Rooting it wasn’t easy, either, since I got E.T. at the worst time of year for a plumeria that has the misfortune to live in the Midwest. I had to baby him throughout the winter on a heating pad, under lights, to get him to root. But root he did, and has been growing for at least six years now into quite a handsome little tree. Although plumerias only branch when they bloom, mine branched right away thanks to the inflorescence (flower thingy) that the cutting came with (but that dropped during the rooting process). Every year, I hoped that this would be the year it finally bloomed.

At first I thought it was a semi-bad thing that E.T. chose fall to bloom, since I would normally let him go dormant for winter storage this time of year. But I’ve been enjoying the blooms so much that it’s clear this was quite a blessing. I’m pretty sure it is Celadine, which I’ve read has a unique feature to the leaf edge. The scent is faint and less fruity than the plumeria products I’ve purchased in the past, but it’s still beachy and exotic—slightly coconutty and citrussy, like suntan lotion.

So maybe I can’t go to the tropics, but I’m feeling pretty pleased with having the tropics right here in Missouri. In November.

I never saw an ugly thing in my life: for let the form of an object be what it may—light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful. ~John Constable

One Great Smelling Fishbone

This is epiphyllum anguliger, or Fishbone Cactus, that bloomed last week. The flowers were the size of a cup and saucer with a scent that was mild, but heavenly...sort of jasmine/fruity/citrus. Delicious. This flower (to me) smells more like some plumeria products I've bought than actual plumeria does.

Every day I discover how little I know; it's just that I also discover that other people don't know as much as I thought. ~Gloria Steinem

More Things for Losers

Back in spite of absolutely no demand! 10 Things for (older) Losers to Do on Their Birthdays:

1. Experiment with serving other birthday pastries, such as bagels. Decorate with cream cheese and lox. Place Magnolia-scented votive candles in the center.

2. Put your various old age medications in little boxes and wrap them all up in festive wrapping paper. When it’s time to take them, rip off the wrapping and exclaim, “Whee!”

3. Stand in front of a mirror and practice hoisting up all of your saggy parts (omg, I really do this).

4. Pull your hair back into a really tight ponytail and pretend you’ve had a face lift.

5. Instead of sticking candles into a cake, try less sugary food items, such as Sugar Free Jello, pork chops, or leftover lasagna.

6. Walk past construction workers and yell, “Woo Baby, shake them cakes!” to get them back for when you were young.

7. Get the nakedest poster of Brendan Fraser you can find. Play “Pin the Loin Cloth on George of the Jungle.” Miss a lot.

8. Dab Ben Gay behind your earlobes as perfume. Also, say things like, "Dude-I scored some Actonel from my doctor." This will make you sound very cool and street-wise.

9. Chug a can of beer and see if you can belch out the Beatles’ “Birthday” song.

10. Go into your bathroom and sing to the mirror, “Happy birthday to me/I live in a tree/I might be damned old/but I can’t get P.G.!”

“I am not superstitious…but I am a little stitious.” ~Michael Scott, “The Office”

Fall is Budding Out All Over

One of the things I love about my tropical fragrant plants is that they occasionally bloom their little buds off long past the time when our northerly seasons are done. That’s been especially welcome this year because it’s been raining…and raining…and raining.

The above is plumeria (I believe it’s ‘Celadine’ but hopefully will find out soon).


Right is hedychium coronarium 'Dr. Moy' (also known as butterfly ginger).


Left is epiphyllum anguliger (also known as Fishbone cactus).










When I lived down South, I was shocked to find out how much I missed the different seasons. I admit…I am season-greedy. Best of all to me is getting several different seasons at once. Ah, variety.

Mistakes are opportunities in disguise. They offer you the opportunity to look at a situation from a different perspective. Many inventions and discoveries have been the result of a mistake. Columbus discovered America while searching for the West Indies; he simply got lost! ~Dr. Edward A. Dreyfus

Raining...Dog Stuff

Recently my writing friend Becky said, “Pretty cool...and fascinating ...to have ‘met’ people all over because of our writing, huh?!”

How true! I am mentally trying to prepare for a time when our 13½ year old dog is no longer with us, so the stories I wrote for Chicken Soup for the Soul What I Learned from the Dog had to do with grieving. Now, suddenly, I’ve been hearing from people who can relate.

One specialist in pet grief from Nova Scotia, Canada recently asked to use one of my stories on her website. I appreciated that and am flattered by the distinction.

Then yesterday I was interviewed by one of the writers/editors of several Chicken Soup pet books, Jennifer Quasha, for an article on grief for “Dog Fancy” magazine. I asked her ahead of time to edit out any stupid things I may say, but fortunately, I think it went pretty well. Jennifer was an easy person to talk to, and it’s always nice to get to talk to other animal lovers.

We got to talking about my last dog, Griswold, who was a doggy genius…which brings me to the above picture. One day when I was out, my neighbor looked up and saw our dog taking a stroll on the roof. Fortunately for us, she was able to get inside the house to coax him in and get the screen latched. But when she looked up again, the dog was back. What none of us knew was that he’d figured out how to unhook the screen. “I’m sorry,” she laughed, “but by the second time around, I decided I had to get my camera before I went back in to rescue the dog.”

The second time she shut the window. Whew.

We aim above the mark to hit the mark.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Random Thought #1

Here is today’s random thought. There are so many coincidences in life. Sometimes I wonder—what if life really is just a dream, a figment of our imaginations? But then I realize the undeniable: I am neither genius nor masochist enough to have dreamed this up.

If real is what you can feel, smell, taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain. ~ Morpheus, “The Matrix”

Where the Word "Dogged" Comes From

My dog is dogging my footsteps. Again. In his case, arthritis has its benefits.

That’s because I give this 13 ½ year old lab & golden retriever/terrier mix a variety of arthritis treatments. He actually gets around pretty well and doesn’t have any of the dreaded hip problems, but it’s clear his joints just aren’t as cooperative as they used to be.

First there’s the liquid glucosamine, which I originally bought for myself on sale. One swig, and I couldn’t help but imagine a frustrated chemist in the glucosamine lab, attempting to come up with a way to make this foul fish-liquid into something palatable. First he tries grape soda. Then orange cough syrup. Then chicken broth, Liquid Pledge, a few urinal cakes and some liquid cherry Tylenol. It is a vile and violent war of flavorings, and the even the dog was so unenthusiastic in lapping it up at first that the children and I had time to take bets on whether he’d give up altogether. I guess he eventually decided that anything under the heading of People Food is worthwhile, because now he’s convinced himself that it’s a yummy alternative to the constant diet of senior formula dog food.

After that I give him an omega 3 wrapped in cheese, and it gets sucked down so quickly that I have to stop and count my fingers afterwards.

Then he gets a dog biscuit to help clean his teeth.

I originally spread these things out to make his night more worthwhile, but it’s made my nights miserable with the continuous begging. And don’t tell me dogs can’t count. That dog knows exactly how many things he gets and at what time. So night after night, he stalks me with wide, pleading eyes. And when we are finished for the night, he stalks me some more.

I used to think it was that he was getting forgetful…and then I realized there are nights when I honestly can’t remember which I’ve given him, so I give him some more, just in case.

That dog is smarter than he looks. I’m no longer sure the problem is his senility. Could very well be that he's just exploiting mine.

The dog has got more fun out of man than man has got out of the dog, for man is the more laughable of the two animals. ~James Thurber

A Room Just for Sun

It's been cold and rainy the past couple of days, and I'm wet and chilled from bringing plants in for the winter.

This is one of my very favorite places in all the world—my sunroom. This picture was taken back in July, and right now it leaves me with a sense of longing. I love the way it faces east, so I can watch the sun come up on weekend mornings, and south, so I can sit in the reach of a long ray on weekday evenings.

The direction of the windows means that the room glows most of the day, casting the doorway in its own golden, beckoning aura.

And when I do walk into the light, there are pools of aureate air where I can drench myself, feeling my pores opening in the baptismal beams as if in worship.

To me, it is a poem of light, this room...a prayer.

You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don't know what was in the newspapers that morning...a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. ~Joseph Campbell

Speaking of Soup

As I said in another posting, the tomatoes were very late this year. The good news, for me, was that the final ripening coincides with…soup time. Any chill in the air makes me think of soup, but this year I can’t help but think of tomato.

My grandmother used to make a tomato/potato one she called “Butter Soup.” I used to think it was a weird name for something that had no visible evidence of butter, but you don’t argue with an 80+ year old woman who is also a wonderful cook.

Before she passed away (at 102 years), I tried to get some of her recipes. She just frowned and said, “Oh, Honey, I don’t use recipes; I just make those ‘by thought.’”

That thought-method of cooking, though, made trying to pin her down almost painful. For example, I’d ask her how much of an ingredient to use.

“Oh,” she’d say, cupping her ancient hands to measure the imaginary ingredient, “You know, ‘some.’” And I would watch her hands carefully to guess about how much “some” was. So it went.

Sadly, my grandmother’s true Butter Soup recipe went with her. This is the best I could do. It’s always been a simple recipe, but I think it manages to be delicate, warm, and comforting—all things which happen to describe my grandmother as well as her soup. “Merlee” was the name my older sister gave her as a toddler, and it stuck. It was the only name I ever knew her by.

I figure I might as well throw in a recipe. Guess you could say my blog is a soup of sorts.

Merlee’s Butter Soup (makes—you know—some)

2-3 garden tomatoes, peeled and diced
3 T butter (I used a light one)
2 ribs celery, diced
½ med. onion, diced
14 oz. chicken broth
1 largish Yukon Gold potato or 2 red potatoes, peeled and diced
11.5 oz. can tomato juice
white pepper
Jane’s Crazy Mixed Up Salt or other spices of choice

Fill a medium saucepan with water and boil; drop tomatoes in and remove as soon as split appears. Rinse till cool, remove skin, and dice.

Dump out water and use saucepan to melt butter. Sauté onion and celery until onion is transparent. Add chicken broth and diced potatoes. Bring to boil, reduce heat, cover and simmer till potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes.

Add tomato juice and bring to boil. Add diced tomatoes and heat through. Season to taste.

“We can do no great things—only small things with great love.” ~Mother Teresa