One Hand, Two Hands by Max Lucado and illustrated by Gabey Hansen is a wonderful picture book that helps teach children about what they have the power to do with their own two hands. It's rhythmic movement and wonderful illustrations hold both the attention of the young listener and that of the reader. The entire family was anxious to turn to the next page and see what was to come next.
Children are best taught through example and Max Lucado has created a wonderful example in this well written storybook. When the story was finished our 3 year old asked if she could hear it again and then offered to tell the story back to me. At the end of story time we were able to have a conversation about what our hands can do to help ourselves and others.
Whether you are creating a Christian library or just looking for a well crafted book for your children, Max Lucado's One Hand, Two Hands should be considered for it. We highly recommend this engaging and educating book to parents of children of varying ages and gender.
I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze.com BookSneeze.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255
Monday, September 6, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
My Mother's 1st Published Article for Grace Notes
Blessed By The Evening Sun
A Reflection by Karen Alessi
It was rather an unremarkable day. The skies were overcast with no promise of a clear sunset. Our moods seemed to reflect the cloudy skies above. Towards evening we decided to go for a drive, rather than our customary stroll and avoid the ever-increasing crowds coming into town. We hadn't planned on staying out too long anyway.
As we drove we noticed the sun making a very late appearance. We could see it bursting through the trees, more brilliantly than the last few evenings. We began to see more and more of it and thought we might stay out a little longer and try to catch the sunset down at the cove. We could feel our spirits lifting as we hurried to a secret place Bonnie had discovered last year. I knew of five good spots, but I'd never seen this one.
The sun was in its final descent. The silhouettes of three or four fishermen could be seen in their chosen places along the ocean side, the black rocks of the jetty behind them. The sky was already giving off its pink cotton-candy colors and the shades of the choppy ocean waves had changed to variations of cobalt blue.
As we got in closer to the water's edge, where the shore line curved and the jetty ended, we began to see tips of dolphin tails. Getting as close as we could to the rocks with three young children, we started to see whole families of dolphins, playing and jumping, sometimes two at a time, under the sky now flooded with shades of blue and pink. The water sparkled everywhere in the moments before night settles in.
Karin was at an age now, where she saw it all. She loved it and mentioned the magic she felt all around her. Ian only five, was searching for treasures among the seaweed. Faith was contented to find little seashells and present them as gifts, especially for me. We lingered that way for awhile. Squealing and "oohing" and "aahing" until the light dotting the few houses in the area started to come through the not quite darkness of night. The little night bugs were beginning to outnumber us. It was the last stage of dusk.
As we soaked in the colors of the sky, the dolphins jumping, the fishermen silhouetted in stillness, the children giggling in unprompted delight and the orange glow of lights coming on in the distance, we couldn't help but feel God's love for us. Everywhere we turned; we were bathed in it and warmed by it, in body and soul. It hugged us and made our spirits soar! Thank you God for all your blessings and the gift of this wonderful day.
We reluctantly headed back to the car, turning every few minutes to catch one last glance and promising to come back again...maybe tomorrow.
A Reflection by Karen Alessi
It was rather an unremarkable day. The skies were overcast with no promise of a clear sunset. Our moods seemed to reflect the cloudy skies above. Towards evening we decided to go for a drive, rather than our customary stroll and avoid the ever-increasing crowds coming into town. We hadn't planned on staying out too long anyway.
As we drove we noticed the sun making a very late appearance. We could see it bursting through the trees, more brilliantly than the last few evenings. We began to see more and more of it and thought we might stay out a little longer and try to catch the sunset down at the cove. We could feel our spirits lifting as we hurried to a secret place Bonnie had discovered last year. I knew of five good spots, but I'd never seen this one.
The sun was in its final descent. The silhouettes of three or four fishermen could be seen in their chosen places along the ocean side, the black rocks of the jetty behind them. The sky was already giving off its pink cotton-candy colors and the shades of the choppy ocean waves had changed to variations of cobalt blue.
As we got in closer to the water's edge, where the shore line curved and the jetty ended, we began to see tips of dolphin tails. Getting as close as we could to the rocks with three young children, we started to see whole families of dolphins, playing and jumping, sometimes two at a time, under the sky now flooded with shades of blue and pink. The water sparkled everywhere in the moments before night settles in.
Karin was at an age now, where she saw it all. She loved it and mentioned the magic she felt all around her. Ian only five, was searching for treasures among the seaweed. Faith was contented to find little seashells and present them as gifts, especially for me. We lingered that way for awhile. Squealing and "oohing" and "aahing" until the light dotting the few houses in the area started to come through the not quite darkness of night. The little night bugs were beginning to outnumber us. It was the last stage of dusk.
As we soaked in the colors of the sky, the dolphins jumping, the fishermen silhouetted in stillness, the children giggling in unprompted delight and the orange glow of lights coming on in the distance, we couldn't help but feel God's love for us. Everywhere we turned; we were bathed in it and warmed by it, in body and soul. It hugged us and made our spirits soar! Thank you God for all your blessings and the gift of this wonderful day.
We reluctantly headed back to the car, turning every few minutes to catch one last glance and promising to come back again...maybe tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
My Grandmother's Recipe
This September take a moment to build some lasting memories for yourself and your children. September 12, 2010 is National Grandparents Day; make a phone call, write a letter, bake some cookies with a grandparent. Today in our hurried lives stop, take a breath and stand still in the moment. Shut off the television, log off of the computer, ignore your email, skip that kick boxing class, simply stand still . Take the hand of your child and put it in the hand of a grandparent, start a memory, build a legacy that will last forever. Teach your children to embrace those that have walked down the path of life ahead of us, a path we too one day, will tread down.
I can still smell the sweet scent of sugar cookies and coffee cakes wafting from my grandmother’s kitchen. Dashing to the door, mouth watering, I ran. There waiting for my arrival was my grandmother, wiping her hands on her apron before she hugged me. A chair would be waiting for me, pulled close to the counter, an apron draped over it’s back inviting me to tie it around my waist. After my hair was pulled back into a pony tail we would go to work. Like every other baking day, this time was set aside for just the two of us. At first I think it was the sweet reward that I knew would come with a glass of cold milk at the end of our days that drew me in. Later it would be the time we spent kneading the dough and weaving the fabric of our lives that kept me coming. Through my awkward teenage years, well into my young adulthood, I kneaded and sometimes cried with her on baking day. I watched her hands become frail and her energy fade, yet we never missed a baking day.
I can close my eyes this very moment and taste those sugar cookies. Today I use her exact recipe, measure for measure, yet they have never tasted as delicious as when we baked them together. Standing in a kitchen miles away from my grandmother’s house, years separated from the girl I was, I bake those cookies in search of her. I cherish those memories I built perched on that kitchen chair beside her. I could not be who I am today without having spent those moments with her making cookies. I realize now, years after her passing, that her recipe card did indeed contain the proper ingredients and measurements, but that her love was the most important ingredient of all. I bake with my children, this very recipe, as they bake it now with my mother, their grandmother and each time a healthy amount of love is thrown into the mix.
“I will never know what it is like to be another race or gender. But I, and many others, if we are lucky, will know what it is like to be old.” ~Diana Couper
I can still smell the sweet scent of sugar cookies and coffee cakes wafting from my grandmother’s kitchen. Dashing to the door, mouth watering, I ran. There waiting for my arrival was my grandmother, wiping her hands on her apron before she hugged me. A chair would be waiting for me, pulled close to the counter, an apron draped over it’s back inviting me to tie it around my waist. After my hair was pulled back into a pony tail we would go to work. Like every other baking day, this time was set aside for just the two of us. At first I think it was the sweet reward that I knew would come with a glass of cold milk at the end of our days that drew me in. Later it would be the time we spent kneading the dough and weaving the fabric of our lives that kept me coming. Through my awkward teenage years, well into my young adulthood, I kneaded and sometimes cried with her on baking day. I watched her hands become frail and her energy fade, yet we never missed a baking day.
I can close my eyes this very moment and taste those sugar cookies. Today I use her exact recipe, measure for measure, yet they have never tasted as delicious as when we baked them together. Standing in a kitchen miles away from my grandmother’s house, years separated from the girl I was, I bake those cookies in search of her. I cherish those memories I built perched on that kitchen chair beside her. I could not be who I am today without having spent those moments with her making cookies. I realize now, years after her passing, that her recipe card did indeed contain the proper ingredients and measurements, but that her love was the most important ingredient of all. I bake with my children, this very recipe, as they bake it now with my mother, their grandmother and each time a healthy amount of love is thrown into the mix.
“I will never know what it is like to be another race or gender. But I, and many others, if we are lucky, will know what it is like to be old.” ~Diana Couper
Monday, August 16, 2010
A bit more of Allison and Ryan
Ryan McJames, hometown hero, team captain, pitcher for Sanderton High stood in front of his bedroom mirror staring at himself, nervously pushing the hair away from his eyes. Downstairs in his living room sat a representative from one of the many universities courting this young high school senior. Dave and Eileen McJames were offering the gentlemen some refreshments while they all talked about Ryan’s possible future. Picking up his glove and rubbing it with oil was a ritual Ryan had begun so many years ago, today the smell of the oil was making him sick to his stomach. Nerves were never a big deal for Ryan, he had stepped onto the mound against a lot of odds and never faltered to nerves, why today? He glanced over at the picture of Allison they had made in a photo booth down bye the shore a few days ago, her smile was so big, he wished he was in that booth with her again. “Come on Ryan, shake it off it’s only a casual look see.” he told himself as he opened the door and headed downstairs. Running his fingers down the wall as he came down the stairs, Ryan turned the corner and entered the room. “Mr. Tuttle, thanks for coming bye, I see mom’s made you some of her famous lemon cookies.” Ryan McJames was on, the charm came easy for him, the room took notice of him right away. Mr. Tuttle may have thought he was courting James but it was quite the other way around. Ryan already knew where he wanted to go, how he was going to get there and when, poor Mr. Tuttle was merely a test run, a meeting to hone his skills before the ‘big game’. The group spent a little over an hour hashing out a would-be plan if the young Mr. McJames decided he’d found his collegiate home in the pamphlets now scattered across his mother’s coffee table. Ryan stood up to express his gratitude at the offers presented to him that day and reassured Mr. Tuttle that he and his family would give it great consideration. The representative left the McJames home feeling he had sealed the deal, like most people he thought exactly what Ryan had wanted him to think.
Allison smoothed down her hair, picked up her red purse and headed for the door. Color was something Allison was not afraid of, while most girls were wearing black she was wrapping a canary yellow scarf around her neck or sporting her new favorite red purse. You would never know by looking at her that getting dressed in the morning was an arduous task. Three or four outfits would lay across her bed before she decided which one fit her mood that day. The full length mirror that stood across from her bed was her worst enemy, it told no lies, hid no truths. The few times Allison actually liked what she saw in the mirror it was as if the looking glass was saying “you naive little thing it’s just an illusion”. Today Allison picked up her red bag, stared at that mirror in defiance trying to see what she knew was there, underneath all the pain, it had to be there.
Ryan rang Allison’s doorbell and was met by Mrs. Blake, a tall woman who had the faint hint of beauty still on her brow. She granted entry for the boy as she summoned her daughter to greet her date. The Blake house was tiny, the air was always thick and the curtains were always shut. A certain slant of light found it’s way through the window in the front room obscuring the bleakness. One could be fooled into believing that joy could be felt in this home, Allison knew the truth. Rachel Blake offered the young couple a drink of iced tea before she headed back to her room, Allison caught the tell-tale unsteadiness in her mother’s walk, she had been drinking. The girl quickly took Ryan by the hand and the two headed out of the house. Get in, get out as quickly as possible it was a routine Allison had come by as a young girl. When friends called for her she would crack the door open slightly and tell them to wait for her on the front steps. On the rare occasion that someone did gain entry, Allison would quickly grab their hand and head for the door, telling them that her mom didn’t really like people in the house. Ryan had become the exception he had been allowed to linger, Rachel Blake would spend a few minutes talking to the handsome boy, it made Allison sick. She wondered how Ryan could not see the mess that Allison saw, how he could stand the sight of her, how he could actually think she was worth speaking to. But there he was glad to see Mrs. Blake every time she opened the door, every time she offered him a glass of iced tea, or clumsily flirted with him. Allison kept waiting for the words to form at his mouth, for the look of utter disgust she had developed over the years, but they never did. The boy never spoke an unkind word about Rachel, he never mentioned that the smell of gin was on her breath, that her low-cut shirts made him uncomfortable or that she looked like a drowned rat even on her good days. Allison was glad of this even if amazed by it, perhaps Rachel’s retched life would finally stop ruining hers. The two hopped into Ryan’s shiny new car and headed for town. Allison looked back as if to see that nothing was following her, but it was, it all was, every bit of the last 10 years followed her every where she went. The music blasted from the radio, Allison held Ryan’s hand as they drove a bit too fast in that shiny new car of his, that vehicle that sped away from it all.
The first time Rachel Blake picked up a drink for any other reason than to be social at dinner was the day she realized her husband was not coming home. She sat in her kitchen staring at a life she had not known really, a life she had built but never felt was hers. Now alone, it all made sense to her, it all had meant nothing, the years, the hours, the minutes had ticked away for nothing. The gin found it’s way into her glass that day, deadening the pain, erasing the thoughts that danced in her head. The descent was slow, the wrecking ball merely chipped away at first, Allison and Jerry thought their mom was just grieving from the lose of her marriage, they had no idea she was grieving for the lose of herself.
Allison smoothed down her hair, picked up her red purse and headed for the door. Color was something Allison was not afraid of, while most girls were wearing black she was wrapping a canary yellow scarf around her neck or sporting her new favorite red purse. You would never know by looking at her that getting dressed in the morning was an arduous task. Three or four outfits would lay across her bed before she decided which one fit her mood that day. The full length mirror that stood across from her bed was her worst enemy, it told no lies, hid no truths. The few times Allison actually liked what she saw in the mirror it was as if the looking glass was saying “you naive little thing it’s just an illusion”. Today Allison picked up her red bag, stared at that mirror in defiance trying to see what she knew was there, underneath all the pain, it had to be there.
Ryan rang Allison’s doorbell and was met by Mrs. Blake, a tall woman who had the faint hint of beauty still on her brow. She granted entry for the boy as she summoned her daughter to greet her date. The Blake house was tiny, the air was always thick and the curtains were always shut. A certain slant of light found it’s way through the window in the front room obscuring the bleakness. One could be fooled into believing that joy could be felt in this home, Allison knew the truth. Rachel Blake offered the young couple a drink of iced tea before she headed back to her room, Allison caught the tell-tale unsteadiness in her mother’s walk, she had been drinking. The girl quickly took Ryan by the hand and the two headed out of the house. Get in, get out as quickly as possible it was a routine Allison had come by as a young girl. When friends called for her she would crack the door open slightly and tell them to wait for her on the front steps. On the rare occasion that someone did gain entry, Allison would quickly grab their hand and head for the door, telling them that her mom didn’t really like people in the house. Ryan had become the exception he had been allowed to linger, Rachel Blake would spend a few minutes talking to the handsome boy, it made Allison sick. She wondered how Ryan could not see the mess that Allison saw, how he could stand the sight of her, how he could actually think she was worth speaking to. But there he was glad to see Mrs. Blake every time she opened the door, every time she offered him a glass of iced tea, or clumsily flirted with him. Allison kept waiting for the words to form at his mouth, for the look of utter disgust she had developed over the years, but they never did. The boy never spoke an unkind word about Rachel, he never mentioned that the smell of gin was on her breath, that her low-cut shirts made him uncomfortable or that she looked like a drowned rat even on her good days. Allison was glad of this even if amazed by it, perhaps Rachel’s retched life would finally stop ruining hers. The two hopped into Ryan’s shiny new car and headed for town. Allison looked back as if to see that nothing was following her, but it was, it all was, every bit of the last 10 years followed her every where she went. The music blasted from the radio, Allison held Ryan’s hand as they drove a bit too fast in that shiny new car of his, that vehicle that sped away from it all.
The first time Rachel Blake picked up a drink for any other reason than to be social at dinner was the day she realized her husband was not coming home. She sat in her kitchen staring at a life she had not known really, a life she had built but never felt was hers. Now alone, it all made sense to her, it all had meant nothing, the years, the hours, the minutes had ticked away for nothing. The gin found it’s way into her glass that day, deadening the pain, erasing the thoughts that danced in her head. The descent was slow, the wrecking ball merely chipped away at first, Allison and Jerry thought their mom was just grieving from the lose of her marriage, they had no idea she was grieving for the lose of herself.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Untitled work, my next book (beginning)
Sitting at the kitchen table, Allison began to look around. The toaster needed it’s crumb tray emptied, the pile of bills next to the fridge needed addressing, the dishes needed to be washed and the dinner needed to be cooked. At forty years old, Allison sat on a chair in her kitchen feeling as if she were living someone else’s life. How did this house ever become what it was? She barley remembered unpacking the boxes, it all looked vaguely familiar to her. There were things, familiar things, that she had collected throughout her adult life, but suddenly none of it seemed to belong to her.
Put water on for pasta, get kid’s sandwiches ready, set table, Ryan likes a glass of wine with dinner, put blue stem glass out. Walk twenty steps to sink, rinse forks before setting on table, walk twenty steps back, fork on left, knife on right. It was a tape she played over and over in her head daily. A glance at the oven clock told her he would be home soon. She smoothed out her clothing, never wrinkled, never sloppy. Today she wanted to be wrinkled, she longed to be sloppy, just once she would like to be less than perfect. Maybe then, just then, the outside would match how she felt inside. The key made it’s familiar scratching noise in the door and Allison walked to the door to greet Ryan as the kid’s yelled for him from upstairs.
Ryan McJames stepped out onto the field and all eyes fell on him. The team cheered their pitcher onto the mound, a no-hitter was in the works. Ryan with his usual swagger walked out onto the field scanning the stands. This was going to be the day he had been waiting for. Scouts were in the stands, local newspaper reporters waited by the fence for a few words after the game for the weekend ‘ink’, Ryan was going to strike the batter out. The pitch was hurled, the batter missed, the clock read 90 miles and the game was over. Ryan McJames just bought himself a scholarship, a ticket out of this place, a step closer to his destiny. The team rushed their hero, throwing his hat into the air, the stands were lit up with cheers. Ryan was going to break her heart, but somehow he didn’t care, he knew what he wanted.
Dust flew up like a cloud as the car came racing down the road. Allison jumped up, checked herself in the mirror, smoothed out her clothing and raced for the door. The air was thick and dry, the wind hadn’t blown in a few days. The trees wilted in the heat, birds splashed around in dirty little puddles on the road to keep cool, Allison wiped her face as she swung open the door. With her auburn hair, blue eyes and slight build, she was the sweetest thing Ryan had ever seen. He had first noticed her in the stands across the field at a senior pep rally. She was standing in a group of girls, but she was the only thing he had seen. It was early in the season, he was still training, football was still the major sport at school.
Allison hadn’t even noticed him, she was more concerned with Jill’s story about her date with Chris. Jill was Allison’s best friend, her blonde hair rested on her shoulders which made her constantly fling it from right to left like a pendulum. Chris had asked Jill out to an after-game party and Jill was full of stories. Allison didn’t like Chris, she as a rule, didn’t like jocks. Jill on the other hand liked all kinds of guys, Chris was just another one on her short order list. The after-game party had turned into a major after-game-after-party hook up and Jill was going on and on about the way Chris kissed. The whole thing was beginning to get on her nerves when Ryan came into the stands to talk to her. Allison stepped back as far as she could into the crowd, the last thing she wanted to do that day was talk to a jock. The rally was just about to end when Ryan finally reached her tier in the bleachers. Jill was finishing up her graphic account of her night with Chris when Ryan gained entrance into the group. Ryan McJames had set his eyes on Allison Blake, and Ryan usually got what he wanted.
On the third Friday of every month Allison went to visit her grandparents. Today was Thursday and she was getting ready to make the drive out of town. The brown suitcase that was stowed under her bed was now laying open on top, clothes thrown across it waiting to be packed. Gram usually liked Allison to wear a dress to church so she had chosen a light blue one for that weekend. As she scanned her room to take inventory of what needed to come with her to Davidson, she noticed herself in the mirror. Generally speaking, she never liked what she saw in the mirror, but lately Allison started to see something appealing looking back at her. As a young girl Allison had been awkward and what her mom liked to call sporty. It was rare to find her in a dress or a pink top. Much to the dismay of Rachel Blake, whom had fancied herself a real girlie girl, Allison preferred jeans and a ripped top. Jerry, Allison’s brother had to hide his converse sneakers from his little sister , which she preferred over her black MaryJanes.
Jerry was seven years older than his sister and Allison idolized him and his friends. Jerry let his little sister tag along after their dad had moved away. Allison had cried herself to sleep for weeks after their mom had told them daddy wasn’t coming back. A few months after the divorce Allison heard he had married a girl from his office, she never heard of him again. Jerry and Allison were all that Rachel Blake cared about, she threw herself into motherhood. Mrs. Blake was always class mother, or a member of the school board. She never missed any of Jerry’s games and she sat patiently at Allison’s dance lessons. Allison didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that she hated dancing school and loathed the time her mother spent up at school. There wasn’t a place in school that Allison could go that she wasn’t Jerry’s little sister or Rachel’s little girl. By the time she entered High School, Jerry had moved out and Rachel Blake had thrown herself into her real estate career, Allison was finally finding a place of her own.
Jill and Allison giggled as they talked about Ryan McJames, after all who did he think he was some baseball god or something. Allison assured Jill she was not going to accept his invitation to the movies. When Ryan had asked her the other day she had brushed it off as if he was asking her to join a group. Ryan had felt the sting of rejection, she could see it on his face, but she wasn’t going to get all mushy in the movies with this demi-god. Jill answered her phone, it was Chris trying to finalize plans for the movies, Allison reminded her that she was getting ready to go to Davidson and that she definitely would not be going. Jill told Chris to pick her up at 7 pm Friday night at her house and to please let Ryan know Allison was not attending.
The road to Davidson was easy to navigate, Allison had driven it so many times she could do it in her sleep. A statement she refrained from making in front of her mother, who felt it necessary to remind her young daughter that sleeping behind the wheel was a bad idea. Allison pulled out of the drive and begin her trip, counting the mile markers, mile 68 only 30 more to go. The scenery started to change and Allison could feel her shoulders relax and her mind clear. Emma and Richard Ruland met their granddaughter at the door, taking her bags and offering her up some much needed kisses and hugs. All was right with the world at Cobblestone Cottage, Allison could forget about her daily life and just let her grandmother fuss over her and spend time painting in the barn with her grandfather. Those visits were her refuge from the sadness she saw streaked across her mother’s lined face and the emptiness she felt inside since her dad had left.
Cobblestone Cottage sat on 5 acres of what Allison liked to call heaven. The house shone with it’s white paint and blue shutters like a beacon on the road. The roses grandpa Richard and Allison had planted when she was a little girl lined the white picket fence. Gram’s bird houses and feeders hung from the large pines lining the front of the property. Emily the cat spent many a lazy day on the padded chairs of the gazebo in the yard. This year the groundhog was especially fat, eating the apples from the tree that sat near the pergola. The yard had 1 acre cleared, the rest had been left woodsy and had served as a place for Allison and Jerry to build forts and skip stones in the stream the meandered through the property. The house was not really a cottage, it had 5 bedrooms and a large kitchen, but Emma had fancied it a cottage in England and named it such. Allison liked the whimsy of the name and always told her friends she was off to the cottage for the weekend. After her father left she spent the entire summer at Cobblestone Cottage playing in the woods, leaving treats out for the deer and forgetting the heartache that faced her at home.
Emma Ruland dried her hands on her apron and urged the girl inside, the smell of apple cinnamon muffins wafted through the house. Grandpa was already buttering the hot muffins and placing a glass of cold milk out for his granddaughter when Allison entered the kitchen. “How was the ride, did your car do alright on this trip?” Richard asked as he passed the warm buttered muffin her way. Taking a bite and letting the butter run down her check Allison assured her grandfather that her car had done just fine. Richard had already decided that he better have a look under the hood of that old clunker to make sure Allison wouldn’t need to call roadside assistance on her ride home Sunday night. Allison knew her grandfather liked to play around with engines so she didn’t tell him she had just had the car in the shop. Emma joined her at the table, “So dear tell me about school, how is that friend of yours Jill doing, still boy crazy?” Allison gagged on her milk as she attempted to find the best way to tell her gram that Jill was indeed more boy crazy than ever, and that she herself might be a little boy crazy, over one boy that is.
The cool night air came rushing into the upstairs bedroom where Allison had spent that glorious summer. She could now lay in the bed and reach her feet up to the slanted roof while lying on her bed, a thing she did often. Emma had recently repainted the room and purchased new linens for the bed, Allison ran her fingers across the duvet. It was light sea foam green with a shell motif on it. The sheets were cold and crisp, not like at home, the sheets there were all stiff and itchy. Cynthia, the stuffed toy rabbit she had slept with since she was 3 sat in her regular spot in the white captains chair. The pine tree that could be seen from the eastern window swayed in the night air, a dove cooed in the distance, sleep came quickly that night, as did the nightmares.
A sweat began to form on Allison’s brow as she slept, she was running again, running away from something. The limbs on the trees were whipping her in the face as she ran through the woods. Jerry was calling her name and urging her to hurry up. She looked down and saw her bleeding feet crunching the leaves beneath them. The voices behind her were getting louder, she tried to run faster but her nightgown kept getting caught on the underbrush. Jerry was so far ahead of her she couldn’t keep up, a scream began to form in her throat. “Allison, honey, wake up.” Gram was standing over her bed gently urging the girl out of her nightmare. “Oh gram, I had the dream again, that horrible dream, running and running, I couldn’t catch Jerry.” Allison was panting as she explained the details of the all too familiar dream to Emma. A cold glass of water had been placed on the bedside table and Emma urged her granddaughter to have a sip. The two sat together for sometime, Emma sweeping the bangs from Allison’s forehead as she had done every other time the dream woke the house up. Sleep swept over Allison once again and Emma quietly crept out of the room leaving the door open a crack allowing Emily the cat to enter and jump up on the bed.
Richard was already in the barn setting up canvas and paints for the two to spend some time painting. Emma was going to the vegetable stand and then off to a woman from the local congregation for lunch. The better part of the day belonged to Richard and his girl. Allison liked that her grandfather in all his stature enjoyed spending time with her painting in the barn. She had received her first brushes from him 10 Christmases ago and the two had shared a love of painting ever since. Today the subject would be a still life, a vase filled with flowers, an orange and a few books had been set up on a nearby table, draped with a Provence table cloth. Allison quickly began to mix her palette, burnt sienna, chocolate brown, red, cerulean blue, daffodil yellow, white and black for shadowing, and paint thinner for diluting. Allison began to set up her canvas, watching as her grandfather’s knowledgeable hand swept across the canvas with such confidence and grace, that Allison wondered if she would ever be as talented an artist as he was.
Richard Ruland was a tall burly man, with a full head of salt and pepper hair that still turned the heads of the ladies in church. Allison would ignore the redness of his checks when the older women would fuss over him during fellowship time after service. Emma Ruland paid no mind to those ‘old crows’ as she called them. “Richard Ruland, don’t you be getting fancy on Pheona McBride you hear me, her raisin bread will break all of your veneers right out of your mouth. Woman can’t bake a decent bread to save her life.” Emma would remind her husband as they left church and headed back to Cobblestone Cottage. Richard liked that his bride of over 40 years still got her back up when another woman set her sights on him or offered him over baked bread with raisins. Allison loved to watch the slow dance of romance that her grandparents had developed, she wondered why marriage was so hard for others and yet so easy for some.
Put water on for pasta, get kid’s sandwiches ready, set table, Ryan likes a glass of wine with dinner, put blue stem glass out. Walk twenty steps to sink, rinse forks before setting on table, walk twenty steps back, fork on left, knife on right. It was a tape she played over and over in her head daily. A glance at the oven clock told her he would be home soon. She smoothed out her clothing, never wrinkled, never sloppy. Today she wanted to be wrinkled, she longed to be sloppy, just once she would like to be less than perfect. Maybe then, just then, the outside would match how she felt inside. The key made it’s familiar scratching noise in the door and Allison walked to the door to greet Ryan as the kid’s yelled for him from upstairs.
Ryan McJames stepped out onto the field and all eyes fell on him. The team cheered their pitcher onto the mound, a no-hitter was in the works. Ryan with his usual swagger walked out onto the field scanning the stands. This was going to be the day he had been waiting for. Scouts were in the stands, local newspaper reporters waited by the fence for a few words after the game for the weekend ‘ink’, Ryan was going to strike the batter out. The pitch was hurled, the batter missed, the clock read 90 miles and the game was over. Ryan McJames just bought himself a scholarship, a ticket out of this place, a step closer to his destiny. The team rushed their hero, throwing his hat into the air, the stands were lit up with cheers. Ryan was going to break her heart, but somehow he didn’t care, he knew what he wanted.
Dust flew up like a cloud as the car came racing down the road. Allison jumped up, checked herself in the mirror, smoothed out her clothing and raced for the door. The air was thick and dry, the wind hadn’t blown in a few days. The trees wilted in the heat, birds splashed around in dirty little puddles on the road to keep cool, Allison wiped her face as she swung open the door. With her auburn hair, blue eyes and slight build, she was the sweetest thing Ryan had ever seen. He had first noticed her in the stands across the field at a senior pep rally. She was standing in a group of girls, but she was the only thing he had seen. It was early in the season, he was still training, football was still the major sport at school.
Allison hadn’t even noticed him, she was more concerned with Jill’s story about her date with Chris. Jill was Allison’s best friend, her blonde hair rested on her shoulders which made her constantly fling it from right to left like a pendulum. Chris had asked Jill out to an after-game party and Jill was full of stories. Allison didn’t like Chris, she as a rule, didn’t like jocks. Jill on the other hand liked all kinds of guys, Chris was just another one on her short order list. The after-game party had turned into a major after-game-after-party hook up and Jill was going on and on about the way Chris kissed. The whole thing was beginning to get on her nerves when Ryan came into the stands to talk to her. Allison stepped back as far as she could into the crowd, the last thing she wanted to do that day was talk to a jock. The rally was just about to end when Ryan finally reached her tier in the bleachers. Jill was finishing up her graphic account of her night with Chris when Ryan gained entrance into the group. Ryan McJames had set his eyes on Allison Blake, and Ryan usually got what he wanted.
On the third Friday of every month Allison went to visit her grandparents. Today was Thursday and she was getting ready to make the drive out of town. The brown suitcase that was stowed under her bed was now laying open on top, clothes thrown across it waiting to be packed. Gram usually liked Allison to wear a dress to church so she had chosen a light blue one for that weekend. As she scanned her room to take inventory of what needed to come with her to Davidson, she noticed herself in the mirror. Generally speaking, she never liked what she saw in the mirror, but lately Allison started to see something appealing looking back at her. As a young girl Allison had been awkward and what her mom liked to call sporty. It was rare to find her in a dress or a pink top. Much to the dismay of Rachel Blake, whom had fancied herself a real girlie girl, Allison preferred jeans and a ripped top. Jerry, Allison’s brother had to hide his converse sneakers from his little sister , which she preferred over her black MaryJanes.
Jerry was seven years older than his sister and Allison idolized him and his friends. Jerry let his little sister tag along after their dad had moved away. Allison had cried herself to sleep for weeks after their mom had told them daddy wasn’t coming back. A few months after the divorce Allison heard he had married a girl from his office, she never heard of him again. Jerry and Allison were all that Rachel Blake cared about, she threw herself into motherhood. Mrs. Blake was always class mother, or a member of the school board. She never missed any of Jerry’s games and she sat patiently at Allison’s dance lessons. Allison didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that she hated dancing school and loathed the time her mother spent up at school. There wasn’t a place in school that Allison could go that she wasn’t Jerry’s little sister or Rachel’s little girl. By the time she entered High School, Jerry had moved out and Rachel Blake had thrown herself into her real estate career, Allison was finally finding a place of her own.
Jill and Allison giggled as they talked about Ryan McJames, after all who did he think he was some baseball god or something. Allison assured Jill she was not going to accept his invitation to the movies. When Ryan had asked her the other day she had brushed it off as if he was asking her to join a group. Ryan had felt the sting of rejection, she could see it on his face, but she wasn’t going to get all mushy in the movies with this demi-god. Jill answered her phone, it was Chris trying to finalize plans for the movies, Allison reminded her that she was getting ready to go to Davidson and that she definitely would not be going. Jill told Chris to pick her up at 7 pm Friday night at her house and to please let Ryan know Allison was not attending.
The road to Davidson was easy to navigate, Allison had driven it so many times she could do it in her sleep. A statement she refrained from making in front of her mother, who felt it necessary to remind her young daughter that sleeping behind the wheel was a bad idea. Allison pulled out of the drive and begin her trip, counting the mile markers, mile 68 only 30 more to go. The scenery started to change and Allison could feel her shoulders relax and her mind clear. Emma and Richard Ruland met their granddaughter at the door, taking her bags and offering her up some much needed kisses and hugs. All was right with the world at Cobblestone Cottage, Allison could forget about her daily life and just let her grandmother fuss over her and spend time painting in the barn with her grandfather. Those visits were her refuge from the sadness she saw streaked across her mother’s lined face and the emptiness she felt inside since her dad had left.
Cobblestone Cottage sat on 5 acres of what Allison liked to call heaven. The house shone with it’s white paint and blue shutters like a beacon on the road. The roses grandpa Richard and Allison had planted when she was a little girl lined the white picket fence. Gram’s bird houses and feeders hung from the large pines lining the front of the property. Emily the cat spent many a lazy day on the padded chairs of the gazebo in the yard. This year the groundhog was especially fat, eating the apples from the tree that sat near the pergola. The yard had 1 acre cleared, the rest had been left woodsy and had served as a place for Allison and Jerry to build forts and skip stones in the stream the meandered through the property. The house was not really a cottage, it had 5 bedrooms and a large kitchen, but Emma had fancied it a cottage in England and named it such. Allison liked the whimsy of the name and always told her friends she was off to the cottage for the weekend. After her father left she spent the entire summer at Cobblestone Cottage playing in the woods, leaving treats out for the deer and forgetting the heartache that faced her at home.
Emma Ruland dried her hands on her apron and urged the girl inside, the smell of apple cinnamon muffins wafted through the house. Grandpa was already buttering the hot muffins and placing a glass of cold milk out for his granddaughter when Allison entered the kitchen. “How was the ride, did your car do alright on this trip?” Richard asked as he passed the warm buttered muffin her way. Taking a bite and letting the butter run down her check Allison assured her grandfather that her car had done just fine. Richard had already decided that he better have a look under the hood of that old clunker to make sure Allison wouldn’t need to call roadside assistance on her ride home Sunday night. Allison knew her grandfather liked to play around with engines so she didn’t tell him she had just had the car in the shop. Emma joined her at the table, “So dear tell me about school, how is that friend of yours Jill doing, still boy crazy?” Allison gagged on her milk as she attempted to find the best way to tell her gram that Jill was indeed more boy crazy than ever, and that she herself might be a little boy crazy, over one boy that is.
The cool night air came rushing into the upstairs bedroom where Allison had spent that glorious summer. She could now lay in the bed and reach her feet up to the slanted roof while lying on her bed, a thing she did often. Emma had recently repainted the room and purchased new linens for the bed, Allison ran her fingers across the duvet. It was light sea foam green with a shell motif on it. The sheets were cold and crisp, not like at home, the sheets there were all stiff and itchy. Cynthia, the stuffed toy rabbit she had slept with since she was 3 sat in her regular spot in the white captains chair. The pine tree that could be seen from the eastern window swayed in the night air, a dove cooed in the distance, sleep came quickly that night, as did the nightmares.
A sweat began to form on Allison’s brow as she slept, she was running again, running away from something. The limbs on the trees were whipping her in the face as she ran through the woods. Jerry was calling her name and urging her to hurry up. She looked down and saw her bleeding feet crunching the leaves beneath them. The voices behind her were getting louder, she tried to run faster but her nightgown kept getting caught on the underbrush. Jerry was so far ahead of her she couldn’t keep up, a scream began to form in her throat. “Allison, honey, wake up.” Gram was standing over her bed gently urging the girl out of her nightmare. “Oh gram, I had the dream again, that horrible dream, running and running, I couldn’t catch Jerry.” Allison was panting as she explained the details of the all too familiar dream to Emma. A cold glass of water had been placed on the bedside table and Emma urged her granddaughter to have a sip. The two sat together for sometime, Emma sweeping the bangs from Allison’s forehead as she had done every other time the dream woke the house up. Sleep swept over Allison once again and Emma quietly crept out of the room leaving the door open a crack allowing Emily the cat to enter and jump up on the bed.
Richard was already in the barn setting up canvas and paints for the two to spend some time painting. Emma was going to the vegetable stand and then off to a woman from the local congregation for lunch. The better part of the day belonged to Richard and his girl. Allison liked that her grandfather in all his stature enjoyed spending time with her painting in the barn. She had received her first brushes from him 10 Christmases ago and the two had shared a love of painting ever since. Today the subject would be a still life, a vase filled with flowers, an orange and a few books had been set up on a nearby table, draped with a Provence table cloth. Allison quickly began to mix her palette, burnt sienna, chocolate brown, red, cerulean blue, daffodil yellow, white and black for shadowing, and paint thinner for diluting. Allison began to set up her canvas, watching as her grandfather’s knowledgeable hand swept across the canvas with such confidence and grace, that Allison wondered if she would ever be as talented an artist as he was.
Richard Ruland was a tall burly man, with a full head of salt and pepper hair that still turned the heads of the ladies in church. Allison would ignore the redness of his checks when the older women would fuss over him during fellowship time after service. Emma Ruland paid no mind to those ‘old crows’ as she called them. “Richard Ruland, don’t you be getting fancy on Pheona McBride you hear me, her raisin bread will break all of your veneers right out of your mouth. Woman can’t bake a decent bread to save her life.” Emma would remind her husband as they left church and headed back to Cobblestone Cottage. Richard liked that his bride of over 40 years still got her back up when another woman set her sights on him or offered him over baked bread with raisins. Allison loved to watch the slow dance of romance that her grandparents had developed, she wondered why marriage was so hard for others and yet so easy for some.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach-waiting for a gift.
I stood at the edge of the world, looking into nothingness. I came to the sea and stood at the edge of the world and looked into everything. My soul was tired, my eyes were blinded by obligation and consternation. I stood looking into the abyss of my days and longed for renewal. Day runs into night, night runs into day, month runs into month, minutes vanish, until you come to the sea. Time stands still and forces you to oblige. You place your watch and worries on the nightstand and let out a long sigh. You have arrived home, back to the place were worry, fatigue and frustration vanish. Thoughts of chores, grocery runs, school schedules and long pointless days that end too late and start too soon are replaced by memories made by the sea. Children fill their buckets with sand and cover your toes with giggles. Brightly colored umbrellas dot the shore with generations safely tucked under their protective hues. The surf beats up against the shore bringing with it a melodic rhythm of nothingness. The soul begins to sing again, a song it remembers with glee.
Our yearly vacations by the sea have become a much needed escape from suburban life. For weeks the children secretly plan what they will pack in their bags, they choose journals to write in and point out recipes they might like to try. Giggles can be heard far past the prescribed bedtime as they recount the stories from the previous trips. Memories have been made that will, hopefully, last a lifetime to remind them of their carefree time as a barefoot child on the sand. Each year I notice an inch or two has been gained and a little more freedom has been granted, widening the circle of our sandy camp. The oldest will soon replace her purple sand bucket for a purple ipod and cell phone, the younger ones will inherit her bucket in stride. I will notice this and quickly burn the picture of my little girl into the recesses of my mind.
We go as individuals needing time to be together, we leave as a family renewed with a greater spirit. The sea has many gifts to offer, but for me the greatest bounty is the common memory each individual of our family holds so dear. We go to bed tonight to wake to our journey home tomorrow, leaving the sea behind. A tear will well in the corner of my eye, the promise of return will quickly dry it.
Sleep tight my little ones, let the sea sing you a lullaby, let mama's love keep you all the night through.
Our yearly vacations by the sea have become a much needed escape from suburban life. For weeks the children secretly plan what they will pack in their bags, they choose journals to write in and point out recipes they might like to try. Giggles can be heard far past the prescribed bedtime as they recount the stories from the previous trips. Memories have been made that will, hopefully, last a lifetime to remind them of their carefree time as a barefoot child on the sand. Each year I notice an inch or two has been gained and a little more freedom has been granted, widening the circle of our sandy camp. The oldest will soon replace her purple sand bucket for a purple ipod and cell phone, the younger ones will inherit her bucket in stride. I will notice this and quickly burn the picture of my little girl into the recesses of my mind.
We go as individuals needing time to be together, we leave as a family renewed with a greater spirit. The sea has many gifts to offer, but for me the greatest bounty is the common memory each individual of our family holds so dear. We go to bed tonight to wake to our journey home tomorrow, leaving the sea behind. A tear will well in the corner of my eye, the promise of return will quickly dry it.
Sleep tight my little ones, let the sea sing you a lullaby, let mama's love keep you all the night through.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos.
Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos. This statement has never been more true than when one is on vacation. The idea of a day without ice cream can throw even the most civilized adult into a temper tantrum of sorts. It stands to reason that when taking a respite from the mundane that ice cream becomes a necessity.
You can leave behind schedules, carpools, homework, workout regiments and you can even leave the beds unmade. The mornings can start slowly, the nights can linger on, the sunsets can call you to the sea's edge and you can freely answer. You begin to plan your days around a visit to the local ice cream palace. It was on a cool summer night that the heavens opened up and shed light into the darkness and chased the chaos away. The most wonderful woman opened up her window and offered us deliverance from the mundane. Twenty plus flavors, ranging from Coconut Chip to Bordeaux Cherry tempt even the most serious of dieters. After some debate and many tasty samples later, an order is placed. The ice cream devotees pile back into the car, satisfied with their creamy piece of Heaven, ready to head home with their treasure.
As we ready ourselves for bed, having filled our bellies and our memories, we think about our next trip. Will we stick to our usual order or will we branch out into more exotic flavors? We have calmly fell into a routine, ending many a night at The Vanilla Bean Creamery, here in Cape May. It is tucked slightly outside of town, a quick trip over the bridge, a daring U-turn and you are there. The novice ice creamer may attempt to go before 5pm, but will be turned away by the purple OPEN DAILY 5PM sign. Some may be annoyed at this and not make the trip back, but for those that do a new routine will be born. Every flavor is carefully made on premise during the morning and afternoon hours. You can taste the fresh milk and lack of preservatives in every spoonful. Tomorrow is Friday, we anticipate a crowd so we will contemplate our flavor choice while we sleep and be one of the first to arrive at 5pm sharp.
Good Night, and Sweet Dreams
You can leave behind schedules, carpools, homework, workout regiments and you can even leave the beds unmade. The mornings can start slowly, the nights can linger on, the sunsets can call you to the sea's edge and you can freely answer. You begin to plan your days around a visit to the local ice cream palace. It was on a cool summer night that the heavens opened up and shed light into the darkness and chased the chaos away. The most wonderful woman opened up her window and offered us deliverance from the mundane. Twenty plus flavors, ranging from Coconut Chip to Bordeaux Cherry tempt even the most serious of dieters. After some debate and many tasty samples later, an order is placed. The ice cream devotees pile back into the car, satisfied with their creamy piece of Heaven, ready to head home with their treasure.
As we ready ourselves for bed, having filled our bellies and our memories, we think about our next trip. Will we stick to our usual order or will we branch out into more exotic flavors? We have calmly fell into a routine, ending many a night at The Vanilla Bean Creamery, here in Cape May. It is tucked slightly outside of town, a quick trip over the bridge, a daring U-turn and you are there. The novice ice creamer may attempt to go before 5pm, but will be turned away by the purple OPEN DAILY 5PM sign. Some may be annoyed at this and not make the trip back, but for those that do a new routine will be born. Every flavor is carefully made on premise during the morning and afternoon hours. You can taste the fresh milk and lack of preservatives in every spoonful. Tomorrow is Friday, we anticipate a crowd so we will contemplate our flavor choice while we sleep and be one of the first to arrive at 5pm sharp.
Good Night, and Sweet Dreams
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Embracing Your Second Calling: Finding Passion And Purpose For The Rest Of Your Life, by Dale Hanson Bourke
As I sat down to read Embracing Your Second Calling; Find Passion and Purpose For The Rest Of Your Life, by Dale Hanson Bourke, it was the occasion of my 40th birthday. As my lack of accomplishments danced in front of me, I successfully pigeon-holed myself into middle age. I opened the book and my eyes fell upon the dedication; it reads; To all the amazing women in the second half of life. Was I really in the second half of my life? Was being 40 really the benchmark for being halfway there? The book begins by describing the author's awareness of aging and the impending empty nest that she is facing, I wasn't quite there yet. My children are still in Elementary school, my nest will be bustling for quite sometime, I read on. Chapter 1 A New Beginning, ah this is where the answer lies, the author suggests. Now the book began to speak to me, "Somewhere between the memories of what has been and the hopes of what might be, we pause, take a deep breath, and wonder." Those words jumped out at me as if the author had heard my very thoughts. Dale Hanson Bourke knew exactly the way I was feeling at that very moment that I lay on my couch an emotional mess because a number was defining me.
It has been almost a month since I turned the first page of this book and I can say that it was one of the most incredible books, that I have ever read. Treating this book like a daily devotional, paying extra attention to the suggested Act and Reflect boxes dotted throughout the book, I was able to redefine my age. I recommend this book to every woman, of any age, who is feeling lost, unable to define themselves or find purpose in their lives. The author has included scripture references, as well as, quotes from inspiring woman to help the reader on the journey. This book has become a companion for me, tucked away with my study bible, the two travel with me to many places. Sometimes they merely make the trip to my bedroom, today they are with me at the seashore providing answers to many questions.
I received this book free from Thomas Nelson Publishers as part of their BookSneeze.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255
It has been almost a month since I turned the first page of this book and I can say that it was one of the most incredible books, that I have ever read. Treating this book like a daily devotional, paying extra attention to the suggested Act and Reflect boxes dotted throughout the book, I was able to redefine my age. I recommend this book to every woman, of any age, who is feeling lost, unable to define themselves or find purpose in their lives. The author has included scripture references, as well as, quotes from inspiring woman to help the reader on the journey. This book has become a companion for me, tucked away with my study bible, the two travel with me to many places. Sometimes they merely make the trip to my bedroom, today they are with me at the seashore providing answers to many questions.
I received this book free from Thomas Nelson Publishers as part of their BookSneeze.com
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Meet Alice Anders
Today Alice Anders entered the world. Anxious to start her life, she quickly puts on her new dress and unpacks her suitcase. We have been waiting for her arrival for sometime now. Miss Anders, with her ink stained hands and well worn leather tote enters stage left. The audience is curious, who is this enigma, this quirky little woman with a twinkle in her eye?
To be quite frank I am not sure who Alice Anders will become but I can tell you how she started. Alice first appeared on the scene earlier this morning on a car ride with my daughters and my mother. She came calling when all others had failed to knock loud enough. Miss Anders writes children's fiction, bites the tip of her pencil and never, and I mean never goes anywhere without her journals. Busy little characters dance in her head, squirrels playing in the field cause a mad dash to her journal. Pencil, pen, even crayon in hand she writes, drawn to her characters like a moth to light. Alice Anders has come to stay, we welcome her with open arms and look forward to the journey she is about to bring us on.
To be quite frank I am not sure who Alice Anders will become but I can tell you how she started. Alice first appeared on the scene earlier this morning on a car ride with my daughters and my mother. She came calling when all others had failed to knock loud enough. Miss Anders writes children's fiction, bites the tip of her pencil and never, and I mean never goes anywhere without her journals. Busy little characters dance in her head, squirrels playing in the field cause a mad dash to her journal. Pencil, pen, even crayon in hand she writes, drawn to her characters like a moth to light. Alice Anders has come to stay, we welcome her with open arms and look forward to the journey she is about to bring us on.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Perfect Flight
It was quite apparent, even to my young brain, that I was experiencing something new. I was probably eleven or twelve at the time, the time my heart first skipped a beat. Before my heart skipped a beat when I got a new toy or we went to a new place or I read a really good book, this was different, I wasn't sure I liked it.
Of course, as all young girls do, I had thought about the time when I would like a boy in that way, but up until that moment boys had cooties and liked to eat dirt. Now, for some unexplained, unwanted reason their cooties were cute and maybe eating dirt wasn't so bad after all. Alright, so the eating dirt part still was gross but the boys, not so much! That summer my life changed forever. I grew up a little and left the I Hate Boys Club, at least for a time. I would later join a new club, a more educated club, a more cynical boy hating club that comes after your heart is broken a few times. But for now I was entering into a world unknown, a world I had only glimpsed at through my older sister's eyes, a world I probably wasn't quite ready for, but dove into head first. My stomach turned in knots, by heart began to race, I began to worry about my clothes, my hair, my words. The dance of 'does he like me, or does he like her' had begun. It is inevitable, this waltz, with it's highs and lows. No matter what we do biology pushes us onto the dance floor.
My first crush happened without warning, without heed for my mixed emotions and most of all without an instruction manual. I stumbled into puberty scared and excited and most certainly unsure of my right to be there. A rush of emotions come flooding back when I think of this time in my life. There are still mixed emotions but for the most part bring me back to a place of naive wonder and exuberance. There is no doubt that my young foolish heart was broken not too far into the journey but I wouldn't change anything about it. I keep those butterflies of young love tucked into a deep pocket in my heart, letting them out from time to time. We all have those same butterflies tucked away in our hearts, many of us have clipped their wings, afraid to let them fly free. A few, the lucky, have learned to look in wonder at the beauty of naive young love with reverence and have collected a few more butterflies along the way. Today I will let my butterflies fly free, I will feel like a young girl again ready to experience things for the first time, afraid but willing.
Of course, as all young girls do, I had thought about the time when I would like a boy in that way, but up until that moment boys had cooties and liked to eat dirt. Now, for some unexplained, unwanted reason their cooties were cute and maybe eating dirt wasn't so bad after all. Alright, so the eating dirt part still was gross but the boys, not so much! That summer my life changed forever. I grew up a little and left the I Hate Boys Club, at least for a time. I would later join a new club, a more educated club, a more cynical boy hating club that comes after your heart is broken a few times. But for now I was entering into a world unknown, a world I had only glimpsed at through my older sister's eyes, a world I probably wasn't quite ready for, but dove into head first. My stomach turned in knots, by heart began to race, I began to worry about my clothes, my hair, my words. The dance of 'does he like me, or does he like her' had begun. It is inevitable, this waltz, with it's highs and lows. No matter what we do biology pushes us onto the dance floor.
My first crush happened without warning, without heed for my mixed emotions and most of all without an instruction manual. I stumbled into puberty scared and excited and most certainly unsure of my right to be there. A rush of emotions come flooding back when I think of this time in my life. There are still mixed emotions but for the most part bring me back to a place of naive wonder and exuberance. There is no doubt that my young foolish heart was broken not too far into the journey but I wouldn't change anything about it. I keep those butterflies of young love tucked into a deep pocket in my heart, letting them out from time to time. We all have those same butterflies tucked away in our hearts, many of us have clipped their wings, afraid to let them fly free. A few, the lucky, have learned to look in wonder at the beauty of naive young love with reverence and have collected a few more butterflies along the way. Today I will let my butterflies fly free, I will feel like a young girl again ready to experience things for the first time, afraid but willing.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Perfect Pilgrimage?
A book review of The Sacred Journey The Ancient Practices By Charles Foster with forward by Phyllis Tickle
As part of the Ancient Practices series edited by Phyllis Tickle, The Sacred Journey by Charles Foster explores the practice of pilgrimage. Foster pulls from many perspectives: Biblical, historical, his own personal experience and those of others he has met along the way. This book did not reveal it's true self to me until I was able to navigate out of the first few chapters. Once I was able to connect with this work, I was surprised at what was revealed to me. I am still unsure if it was the work of the author that lead me to this place or my personal desire to walk on a spiritual path. No doubt Charles Foster has presented some interesting theology and perhaps enabled one to question their desires for spiritual movement. However, this reader is left wanting more, not necessarily from this author.
The Nomadic lifestyle that is described in the book in both an historic and Biblical perspective is interesting and well worth the read, however, is not to be confused as a 'how to' guide to pilgrimage. In an attempt to discuss pilgrimage in a world view the author has perhaps diverted from the path a bit. This book could perhaps offend many a Christian and make one wonder if Charles Foster has some disdain for Christianity. I believe the author is attempting to suggest that in order to grow spiritually we must keep moving, never becoming sedate or planted in a 'city'. Foster would much prefer we live on the fringe of complacent suburban life and join on a road outside of the settlement. The overall problem with this work is that one is lead to make the best of the worst bits in an attempt to come away with something from the author. This reader came away with a stronger understanding of my own need and desire to seek out what is around the bend, always guided by Jesus. It is hard to say what you may come away with from this book and therefore, at this time, I am not recommending this as a 'must read'.
Disclaimer: The Sacred Journey by Charles Foster was provided by Thomas Nelson through the Book Sneeze program for the purpose of this review.
As part of the Ancient Practices series edited by Phyllis Tickle, The Sacred Journey by Charles Foster explores the practice of pilgrimage. Foster pulls from many perspectives: Biblical, historical, his own personal experience and those of others he has met along the way. This book did not reveal it's true self to me until I was able to navigate out of the first few chapters. Once I was able to connect with this work, I was surprised at what was revealed to me. I am still unsure if it was the work of the author that lead me to this place or my personal desire to walk on a spiritual path. No doubt Charles Foster has presented some interesting theology and perhaps enabled one to question their desires for spiritual movement. However, this reader is left wanting more, not necessarily from this author.
The Nomadic lifestyle that is described in the book in both an historic and Biblical perspective is interesting and well worth the read, however, is not to be confused as a 'how to' guide to pilgrimage. In an attempt to discuss pilgrimage in a world view the author has perhaps diverted from the path a bit. This book could perhaps offend many a Christian and make one wonder if Charles Foster has some disdain for Christianity. I believe the author is attempting to suggest that in order to grow spiritually we must keep moving, never becoming sedate or planted in a 'city'. Foster would much prefer we live on the fringe of complacent suburban life and join on a road outside of the settlement. The overall problem with this work is that one is lead to make the best of the worst bits in an attempt to come away with something from the author. This reader came away with a stronger understanding of my own need and desire to seek out what is around the bend, always guided by Jesus. It is hard to say what you may come away with from this book and therefore, at this time, I am not recommending this as a 'must read'.
Disclaimer: The Sacred Journey by Charles Foster was provided by Thomas Nelson through the Book Sneeze program for the purpose of this review.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Perfeclty Patriotic
Today I am getting my family ready for our Spring road trip. We have chosen as our destination Colonial Williamsburg. This year I am traveling with my mother and 3 young children. My husband has decided to stay at work and have a vacation from the chaos of 3 bickering siblings suffering from cabin fever over Spring break. I decided early on that I would invite my mother to join us on a road trip. After my father passed away I was worried that my mom would never get to a lot of the places they had talked about going to. My father's battle with cancer was long and hard on our family and his death was harder than any of us thought it would be. The last time I was in Williamsburg with my husband and kids I tucked a picture of my dad into my purse and brought him along for the ride. This time I will not tuck that picture into my purse for he is safely and securely planted in my heart.
My mother and I have traveled this road of lose together for the last 4 years. My journey has been somewhat different, as I lost a father and she a husband. We have walked side by side and at times diverged from the same path, always to find our way back to one another for a quiet rest. My road has been dotted with hills and valleys, some of which I have been unable to cross over while others I have been able to soar high above. I could have done none of it without my mother. I could not have walked anywhere without the Lord. Often the walking has been enough for me and other times I struggle to get to a destination. I have found that getting to the destination isn't always as satisfying as the trying to get there was. Today I am preparing for a journey that has an exact physical destination but I am looking forward to the 'getting there' as well. I can't wait to see what the road will bring, what new people will be placed upon it, what new sights and smells will be delivered. Much as our forefathers must have sensed along their journey to building a new nation, I look forward to letting go of the past and going into the future.
The highlight of a trip to Williamsburg for me has always been the entrancing march of the fife and drum band down the main street of Colonial Williamsburg. My heart skips a beat as I can hear the winds of time in the notes of the fife and the marching on of life that is pounded out on the drum. I am excited to share this with my mother, to walk side by side with her on this road, to feel in unison, perfectly patriotic.
My mother and I have traveled this road of lose together for the last 4 years. My journey has been somewhat different, as I lost a father and she a husband. We have walked side by side and at times diverged from the same path, always to find our way back to one another for a quiet rest. My road has been dotted with hills and valleys, some of which I have been unable to cross over while others I have been able to soar high above. I could have done none of it without my mother. I could not have walked anywhere without the Lord. Often the walking has been enough for me and other times I struggle to get to a destination. I have found that getting to the destination isn't always as satisfying as the trying to get there was. Today I am preparing for a journey that has an exact physical destination but I am looking forward to the 'getting there' as well. I can't wait to see what the road will bring, what new people will be placed upon it, what new sights and smells will be delivered. Much as our forefathers must have sensed along their journey to building a new nation, I look forward to letting go of the past and going into the future.
The highlight of a trip to Williamsburg for me has always been the entrancing march of the fife and drum band down the main street of Colonial Williamsburg. My heart skips a beat as I can hear the winds of time in the notes of the fife and the marching on of life that is pounded out on the drum. I am excited to share this with my mother, to walk side by side with her on this road, to feel in unison, perfectly patriotic.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Perfect DVD Review
A Children's DVD Review: Gigi God’s Little Princess “Gigi’s Big Break” Sheila Walsh
"Gigi's Big Break" is a two-story DVD about Gigi, the main character from Sheila Walsh's children's books. In the first story, Gigi breaks a vase but blames it on her pet cat. When her mom doubts her story, Gigi embellishes it to convince her, but the lies continue to grow until Gigi can no longer bear it and finally confesses. Her parents help her see the damage that lying can do. Teaches the lesson of 1 John 1:8-9.
The second story begins with Gigi learning that she is going to be a big sister. Gigi's first response is, "Why?" She's used to being the only child and the center of their world. Afraid that her parents will no longer love her when the baby arrives, she plans to run away and live with her best friend. But Mom and Dad reassure her their love for her will never change, and she soon discovers the joy of being a big sister. Teaches the lesson from Jesus’ prayer in Luke 10:21.
This video held the attention of both my 5 year old son and 3 year old daughter. The lessons presented were easy for them both to grasp, while enabling them to identify with the main character. As an educator and Sunday School teacher, I was very pleased with Sheila Walsh’s delivery of the scripture messages. This video is not only entertaining and educational for home use, it is a must for lesson extensions at any Sunday School. I feel that this video can meet the needs of multi-aged groups and leads to open discussion about who Gigi came to apply the word of GOD in her life.
After viewing this video my children were able to give real life examples from their own experiences that reinforced the scripture presented. As a mom this enabled me to open up conversation with them as to how we can better apply what we know GOD wants us to do in our own lives. Our family highly recommends this video and suggests you add it to your own DVD library.
Thomas Nelson has provided me with a complimentary copy of this DVD.
"Gigi's Big Break" is a two-story DVD about Gigi, the main character from Sheila Walsh's children's books. In the first story, Gigi breaks a vase but blames it on her pet cat. When her mom doubts her story, Gigi embellishes it to convince her, but the lies continue to grow until Gigi can no longer bear it and finally confesses. Her parents help her see the damage that lying can do. Teaches the lesson of 1 John 1:8-9.
The second story begins with Gigi learning that she is going to be a big sister. Gigi's first response is, "Why?" She's used to being the only child and the center of their world. Afraid that her parents will no longer love her when the baby arrives, she plans to run away and live with her best friend. But Mom and Dad reassure her their love for her will never change, and she soon discovers the joy of being a big sister. Teaches the lesson from Jesus’ prayer in Luke 10:21.
This video held the attention of both my 5 year old son and 3 year old daughter. The lessons presented were easy for them both to grasp, while enabling them to identify with the main character. As an educator and Sunday School teacher, I was very pleased with Sheila Walsh’s delivery of the scripture messages. This video is not only entertaining and educational for home use, it is a must for lesson extensions at any Sunday School. I feel that this video can meet the needs of multi-aged groups and leads to open discussion about who Gigi came to apply the word of GOD in her life.
After viewing this video my children were able to give real life examples from their own experiences that reinforced the scripture presented. As a mom this enabled me to open up conversation with them as to how we can better apply what we know GOD wants us to do in our own lives. Our family highly recommends this video and suggests you add it to your own DVD library.
Thomas Nelson has provided me with a complimentary copy of this DVD.
Perfectly "Sicklical"
I have been fighting a cold all week long and I am getting a little sick and tired of it. I have asked this miserable cold to leave my body at once; it has been ignoring my request. A 5,000lb cloud has landed on my head and taken up residence. It has caused me to pay too much attention to the physical and not enough on the emotional balance. I am familiar with this game my body plays with me, this passive aggressive attempt to detract me from dealing with the emotional issues at hand. None the less I find myself battling stomach problems, allergies or back aches whenever there is an issue I don't want to deal with. I believed that at least the knowledge of what my body and mind were doing would be enough, apparently not so much the case. I act like a brave soldier and try and dig deep down inside to find what it is exactly I am repressing. I think that at least if I allow my brain to fully process what is going on it will finally release my body.
Today I am still in a headlock, my brain is winning this match. My body has crumbled under the strong hand of my cerebral nemesis. My nose is running, my head is pounding and I have no doubt that my bowels will soon catch up with the rest of me. My choices are limited, go to bed and give in to my brain's control over me or sit up and talk it through. I can engage in a battle of words with my nemesis and finally quiet the thoughts that are causing this, or I can continue to ignore them and wait it out. The cold will pass, the bowels will work it through and life will go on, but the cycle will begin again another day.
As a wife, mother, daughter, sister and human being there are tremendous restrictions placed on us. We picture what it is to be the perfect person, we attempt to make ourselves fit into a mold that someone else has chosen for us. In many cases we give control of our destiny to some foreign body and then blame ourselves for failing to comply. We find ourselves in a battle to break the mold, yet we ourselves walk blindly into the battle. It has been a challenge to meet all of the expectations I have allowed others to put on me. I have failed miserably and found myself resentful for being put to the test to begin with. As it turns out I am my own worst enemy.
As I finish this article; a few days after I started; I have regained control of my symptoms. Have I won the battle of physical vs emotional, or have I merely quit to fight another day? I think the latter is more to the truth. This struggle will be mine for as long as I allow it to be and I'll be damned if I have mastered the art of this war. Today is a good day, there are no little hammers pounding at my head nor a vise gripped tightly around my neck. My nose has decided to stop running and my eyes have shrunk back down to their normal size. My skin tone has returned to it's normal shade of pasty pale and my stomach has stopped dancing the Argentinian Tango. Whether I will become a decorated soldier or remain a wounded mess has yet to be determined, but for now I will take this retreat as a small victory and live to fight another day.
Today I am still in a headlock, my brain is winning this match. My body has crumbled under the strong hand of my cerebral nemesis. My nose is running, my head is pounding and I have no doubt that my bowels will soon catch up with the rest of me. My choices are limited, go to bed and give in to my brain's control over me or sit up and talk it through. I can engage in a battle of words with my nemesis and finally quiet the thoughts that are causing this, or I can continue to ignore them and wait it out. The cold will pass, the bowels will work it through and life will go on, but the cycle will begin again another day.
As a wife, mother, daughter, sister and human being there are tremendous restrictions placed on us. We picture what it is to be the perfect person, we attempt to make ourselves fit into a mold that someone else has chosen for us. In many cases we give control of our destiny to some foreign body and then blame ourselves for failing to comply. We find ourselves in a battle to break the mold, yet we ourselves walk blindly into the battle. It has been a challenge to meet all of the expectations I have allowed others to put on me. I have failed miserably and found myself resentful for being put to the test to begin with. As it turns out I am my own worst enemy.
As I finish this article; a few days after I started; I have regained control of my symptoms. Have I won the battle of physical vs emotional, or have I merely quit to fight another day? I think the latter is more to the truth. This struggle will be mine for as long as I allow it to be and I'll be damned if I have mastered the art of this war. Today is a good day, there are no little hammers pounding at my head nor a vise gripped tightly around my neck. My nose has decided to stop running and my eyes have shrunk back down to their normal size. My skin tone has returned to it's normal shade of pasty pale and my stomach has stopped dancing the Argentinian Tango. Whether I will become a decorated soldier or remain a wounded mess has yet to be determined, but for now I will take this retreat as a small victory and live to fight another day.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Perfect Shades of Gray
I was wondering when I would no longer be able to ignore the every increasing presence of gray hair atop my head. For the last several years I have been able to give a nod of acknowledgment to these strands and not give them much thought. I had begun to develop a relationship with my few gray hairs. I could recall with pride when I found my very first one. It was the day after I gave birth to my first child that I noticed a few long gray hairs sweeping across my face. I wore them like a badge of honor, scars from my right of passage into motherhood. I wistfully tied them up into my signature ponytail and grew into my new found maturity. Our relationship grew with the birth of our second child when more of the ashen troops laid their mark atop my crown. I gave a nod of approval, but this time I was not as happy to welcome the invasion. Our family continued to grow and so did my conscious effort to ignore my graying hair. I was living in wonderful ignorance, unaware of my growing vanity. I was happy with my perfect shades of gray, or so I thought.
This is the year I turn 40, the year I am supposed to come into my own. My mother described turning 40 as the beginning of the decade she best knew who she was. I have been anticipating this year for some time. Looking forward I began to formulate a plan as to how I would approach this new awakening. I would finally take the time to write my first book ,I would finally love the skin I am in and I would really know who I was. Wait a minute, I was pretty sure I already knew who I was, my book had been something I had toyed with for years and quite frankly it'll take a miracle for me to love the stretched out droopy, post child-birthing skin I am in. Let's face it folks I am no more ready to embark on a 40's awakening than I was when I turned 30. The only obvious change is my now ever-present annoyance at my ever-invading shades of gray. The only change I could see coming my way this year was going to come out of a hair dye bottle. And so began my quest to battle the gray. Armed with a drugstore hair dye kit I set out to change, to quell the population of ashen invaders and to enter into 40 a Mocha Caramel Brunette.
I foolishly chose the night of the Oscar's to delve into this unknown territory of hair dye. Head turned upside down, hands gloved and children looking on in amazement I went to war. I had chosen as my weapon a non-permanent gray covering dye, after all I may some day make peace with the enemy. I squeezed and I mashed and I saturated my hair until I was sure I had achieved victory. With one flip of the head and a twist of an old towel the battle was over. My kid's eyes were wide and I could see a hint of terror and wonder in them. "Mommy did you mean to dye your face too?" asked my middle child. Rushing my hands to my face I could feel the tell-tale wetness of dye dripping down my forehead and ears. The thought occurred to me that this probably wasn't going to wash right off so I made a mad dash to the bathroom to assess the damage. Once sure that my face would not forever be streaked with mocha and caramel I continued to finish the job. I carefully removed the towel from my head to reveal the deed. Shockingly, my hair had not fallen out of my head into a heap at my feet as I had secretly feared. There was indeed a less noticeable amount of gray. The gray was definitely gone, but now a painful burn began to creep up on my scalp. Oh my goodness, what had I done. Grabbing the box and scouring over the instructions I looked for clues as to why my head was burning. It was possible I was having an allergic reaction to the dye, I may have left the stinky stuff on too long, or simply and more likely it was my punishment for being vain.
Today the burning has stopped and my grays have remained in exile. I have won the battle for now, but I am sure another one is just around the corner. We haven't even begun to talk about my battle with gravity! For now I will have to be content with my store-bought perfect shade of brown and worry about shrinking another day.
This is the year I turn 40, the year I am supposed to come into my own. My mother described turning 40 as the beginning of the decade she best knew who she was. I have been anticipating this year for some time. Looking forward I began to formulate a plan as to how I would approach this new awakening. I would finally take the time to write my first book ,I would finally love the skin I am in and I would really know who I was. Wait a minute, I was pretty sure I already knew who I was, my book had been something I had toyed with for years and quite frankly it'll take a miracle for me to love the stretched out droopy, post child-birthing skin I am in. Let's face it folks I am no more ready to embark on a 40's awakening than I was when I turned 30. The only obvious change is my now ever-present annoyance at my ever-invading shades of gray. The only change I could see coming my way this year was going to come out of a hair dye bottle. And so began my quest to battle the gray. Armed with a drugstore hair dye kit I set out to change, to quell the population of ashen invaders and to enter into 40 a Mocha Caramel Brunette.
I foolishly chose the night of the Oscar's to delve into this unknown territory of hair dye. Head turned upside down, hands gloved and children looking on in amazement I went to war. I had chosen as my weapon a non-permanent gray covering dye, after all I may some day make peace with the enemy. I squeezed and I mashed and I saturated my hair until I was sure I had achieved victory. With one flip of the head and a twist of an old towel the battle was over. My kid's eyes were wide and I could see a hint of terror and wonder in them. "Mommy did you mean to dye your face too?" asked my middle child. Rushing my hands to my face I could feel the tell-tale wetness of dye dripping down my forehead and ears. The thought occurred to me that this probably wasn't going to wash right off so I made a mad dash to the bathroom to assess the damage. Once sure that my face would not forever be streaked with mocha and caramel I continued to finish the job. I carefully removed the towel from my head to reveal the deed. Shockingly, my hair had not fallen out of my head into a heap at my feet as I had secretly feared. There was indeed a less noticeable amount of gray. The gray was definitely gone, but now a painful burn began to creep up on my scalp. Oh my goodness, what had I done. Grabbing the box and scouring over the instructions I looked for clues as to why my head was burning. It was possible I was having an allergic reaction to the dye, I may have left the stinky stuff on too long, or simply and more likely it was my punishment for being vain.
Today the burning has stopped and my grays have remained in exile. I have won the battle for now, but I am sure another one is just around the corner. We haven't even begun to talk about my battle with gravity! For now I will have to be content with my store-bought perfect shade of brown and worry about shrinking another day.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Perfectly Terrified
Today I entered into the 3rd grade world of my daughter's classroom. After fighting nerves all day, I packed my bag and headed out onto my journey. Now nerves have never gotten the best of me when being in front of a classroom, heck I used to teach. Twenty five inquisitive faces have only inspired never terrified me, that is until today. Today was different, today I was being more me than I have ever been in front of anyone. Today I was a writer, not just a mom who ferries her kids from place to place, or throws pretty decent kid's parties. Today I was sitting in front of my first critical audience, ready to bare my soul, or at least the souls of my characters.
I steadied myself and plunged right in. After I read the first few lines I knew I was indeed in friendly waters. My characters were met with kindness and curiosity, I had a captivated audience. Trying desperately not to embarrass my daughter, I read more, chapter after chapter. As I did I could feel my heart stop racing and open up so wide that I can truly say I love every aspect of writing. I even discovered that I love sharing my writing, which up to this point scared the heck out of me. It is no longer a solitary endeavor, done in the darkness of night after the kids are sleeping. Writing can hold an equal place in my heart. I can be a mom, wife and writer on a perfectly absurd pursuit of perfection. I am no longer perfectly terrified, I am perfectly passionate about all things in my life. Thank you my dearest daughter for allowing me into your world.
I steadied myself and plunged right in. After I read the first few lines I knew I was indeed in friendly waters. My characters were met with kindness and curiosity, I had a captivated audience. Trying desperately not to embarrass my daughter, I read more, chapter after chapter. As I did I could feel my heart stop racing and open up so wide that I can truly say I love every aspect of writing. I even discovered that I love sharing my writing, which up to this point scared the heck out of me. It is no longer a solitary endeavor, done in the darkness of night after the kids are sleeping. Writing can hold an equal place in my heart. I can be a mom, wife and writer on a perfectly absurd pursuit of perfection. I am no longer perfectly terrified, I am perfectly passionate about all things in my life. Thank you my dearest daughter for allowing me into your world.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Perfect Honesty
Today I found myself being perfectly honest to a fault. I found myself saying things to my sister that were too honest. Is there such a thing as too honest? I believe in some instances there are. For instance, I honestly believe she has made some major mistakes in her life as of late and will continue to make them in the near future. Did I honestly need to tell her that today? I can now say, probably not. When we take it upon ourselves to lay honesty on another person we may need to stop and take measure of the other person's ability to handle your honesty. It would seem that even if your intentions are pure and your desire is to help a person who is dear to you to see potential harm coming there way, honesty may not be the best approach.
My sister is 7 years my elder, she was the teenager I looked up to, she was my guidepost. She did everything before I did. She wore a bra, kissed a boy, fell in love, married, had kids, and grew up before me. When I first felt the pang of a broken heart she reassured me that life would go on. When I had questions about being a mother she gave her advice freely. When I stumbled as a young bride she listened to my complaints and helped me gain the confidence I needed. She was there for me in my youth as I have tried to be there for her now. We have not always seen eye to eye as is to be expected, but we always disagreed in a gentle manor. Lately I have felt myself wanted to scream from the rooftops a cautionary warning to her. I want to grab her hand, yank her off the train that she is on and tell her exactly what I think. I have restrained myself, that is until today. Today I was honest to a fault. I said too much, more than she could handle. I yanked her so hard from that train that I fear I am part of the wreckage that I wanted so desperately to save her from.
So again I question honesty. Is it always the best policy? As I sit here writing this I don't know the answer. I only know that my words fell on deaf ears, my 'rescue' attempt was clumsy at best and my sister felt the sting of perfect honesty. How do the super heroes do it? They save the world, have an innate ability to make people see the err of their ways and never tear their capes while doing it. Honesty happens sometimes without being eloquent, gentle, or well received, and I fear I tore my cape today.
My sister is 7 years my elder, she was the teenager I looked up to, she was my guidepost. She did everything before I did. She wore a bra, kissed a boy, fell in love, married, had kids, and grew up before me. When I first felt the pang of a broken heart she reassured me that life would go on. When I had questions about being a mother she gave her advice freely. When I stumbled as a young bride she listened to my complaints and helped me gain the confidence I needed. She was there for me in my youth as I have tried to be there for her now. We have not always seen eye to eye as is to be expected, but we always disagreed in a gentle manor. Lately I have felt myself wanted to scream from the rooftops a cautionary warning to her. I want to grab her hand, yank her off the train that she is on and tell her exactly what I think. I have restrained myself, that is until today. Today I was honest to a fault. I said too much, more than she could handle. I yanked her so hard from that train that I fear I am part of the wreckage that I wanted so desperately to save her from.
So again I question honesty. Is it always the best policy? As I sit here writing this I don't know the answer. I only know that my words fell on deaf ears, my 'rescue' attempt was clumsy at best and my sister felt the sting of perfect honesty. How do the super heroes do it? They save the world, have an innate ability to make people see the err of their ways and never tear their capes while doing it. Honesty happens sometimes without being eloquent, gentle, or well received, and I fear I tore my cape today.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Our Perfect Dog Simba
Simba is a 13 year old Samoyed-Spitz mix that has been with our family since he was 3months old. When we first saw him at the shelter in North Carolina we knew he was the dog for us. He was jumping up and down yelping at us. I thought he was too nervous and questioned our choice, his eyes convinced me we had done the right thing. We filled out the necessary papers and waiting for the shelter to call us back. There were 3 people ahead of us on his request sheet. We were told if they changed their minds or didn't show up on adoption day he would be ours. I secretly prayed that the other families would change their minds. We drove to the shelter on adoption day, nervously chatting about 'our' dog. We would call him Simba. We had a collar and a name, surely he would be coming home with us. We entered the building and assumed our position on the line. It was an agonizing 15 minute wait. Finally, we reached the head of the line. We were greeted by a not-so-friendly clerk, who glanced at our paper-work, pulled out a stamp and said "check please". It was that simple, pay the man and he was ours. The other people on his adoption list had not come in that morning, so as fate would have it Simba was coming home with us.
We greeted him with such enthusiasm, you would have thought we just won the lottery. He was reluctant to come with us, but I had a plan. I had stashed a dog treat in my coat pocket for that initial meeting. Simba sniffed the treat but wasn't too quick to accept this offering from these strange humans. We led him to our car, helped him in and headed home. At the time my husband and I lived in an apartment in Charlotte, N.C. It was 3 flights of stairs up and Simba ran ahead of us, eager to see his new digs. It was a moment like no other we had experienced as a young couple before. We were a family, man, wife and dog. We giggled and made such a fuss over him in those first few hours, it was pure joy.
Over the next few weeks we undertook the task of training him to apartment living. We also had to train ourselves to be dog owners. We took turns taking him out in the middle of the night. This worked well at first, that is until we both were suffering from sleep deprivation. Eventually we trained him to go 'potty' before bedtime and we trained ourselves to remove his water bowl before 6 pm. We grew over the next few months into a power-dog couple. We took him to the car wash in our complex for baths every Friday. We made weekend trips to the local dog store to buy him a new treat or toy. We took him for drives in the rural countryside to see the cows. We bought our first house with him in mind. A house with a yard that he could play in was high on our list of priorities. We moved to a small town in South Carolina and took to the task of making a home.
It was during the years we spent in Clover that we all settled in as a family. Simba got to know the rhythms of our relationship and we got to expect an occasional lick on the face. We found ourselves putting little plastic sandwich bags on Simba's feet on the rare occasions that snow fell. You see Simba, the Samoyed, doesn't like the feel of snow on his paws. This, of course, is a contradiction to his breed who originally were sled dogs. We also came to learn that Simba is afraid of spiders. I wonder how much of that fear he learned from my husband. The two would run out of the room, husband yelling kill it, dog yelping 'help'. Hey what is wrong with this picture, isn't it supposed to be damsel in distress? It always amazed me at the fear a tiny spider could evoke in a dog that barked at everyone who came to our door. I never feared that an intruder would get passed Simba, but we might as well have put 'Welcome All Spiders' on our doormat.
We grew as a family with the arrival of our first child. Simba would sheepishly approach the bassinet and give a good sniff, then park himself at the nursery door to stand guard. He accepted this tiny new member of the pack without hesitation. He even stashed goodies in the cushions of the couch that he would offer up to the baby. It was a cute gesture, however disgusting the dried out shrimp looked. Again we found ourselves experiencing something new, being parents of the human sort. Simba had broken us in, trained us for this very moment. He stood tall like a peacock as if to say 'no problem mom and dad, glad to help".
We have since moved back North and have added 2 more children to the pack. Simba is old now and moves with hesitation. He no longer hides shrimp in the couch or requires plastic bags on his feet. Now he struggles down the back stairs to the snow covered yard, looking back at us as if to say "no problem mom and dad". I watch over him as he watched over our babies. He gave us such a gift as a young couple, the chance to be a family, we owe him so much. This may be the last Winter Simba struggles down the stairs, the last Spring he hides from spiders, but he will remain perfectly preserved in all the seasons of our hearts.
We greeted him with such enthusiasm, you would have thought we just won the lottery. He was reluctant to come with us, but I had a plan. I had stashed a dog treat in my coat pocket for that initial meeting. Simba sniffed the treat but wasn't too quick to accept this offering from these strange humans. We led him to our car, helped him in and headed home. At the time my husband and I lived in an apartment in Charlotte, N.C. It was 3 flights of stairs up and Simba ran ahead of us, eager to see his new digs. It was a moment like no other we had experienced as a young couple before. We were a family, man, wife and dog. We giggled and made such a fuss over him in those first few hours, it was pure joy.
Over the next few weeks we undertook the task of training him to apartment living. We also had to train ourselves to be dog owners. We took turns taking him out in the middle of the night. This worked well at first, that is until we both were suffering from sleep deprivation. Eventually we trained him to go 'potty' before bedtime and we trained ourselves to remove his water bowl before 6 pm. We grew over the next few months into a power-dog couple. We took him to the car wash in our complex for baths every Friday. We made weekend trips to the local dog store to buy him a new treat or toy. We took him for drives in the rural countryside to see the cows. We bought our first house with him in mind. A house with a yard that he could play in was high on our list of priorities. We moved to a small town in South Carolina and took to the task of making a home.
It was during the years we spent in Clover that we all settled in as a family. Simba got to know the rhythms of our relationship and we got to expect an occasional lick on the face. We found ourselves putting little plastic sandwich bags on Simba's feet on the rare occasions that snow fell. You see Simba, the Samoyed, doesn't like the feel of snow on his paws. This, of course, is a contradiction to his breed who originally were sled dogs. We also came to learn that Simba is afraid of spiders. I wonder how much of that fear he learned from my husband. The two would run out of the room, husband yelling kill it, dog yelping 'help'. Hey what is wrong with this picture, isn't it supposed to be damsel in distress? It always amazed me at the fear a tiny spider could evoke in a dog that barked at everyone who came to our door. I never feared that an intruder would get passed Simba, but we might as well have put 'Welcome All Spiders' on our doormat.
We grew as a family with the arrival of our first child. Simba would sheepishly approach the bassinet and give a good sniff, then park himself at the nursery door to stand guard. He accepted this tiny new member of the pack without hesitation. He even stashed goodies in the cushions of the couch that he would offer up to the baby. It was a cute gesture, however disgusting the dried out shrimp looked. Again we found ourselves experiencing something new, being parents of the human sort. Simba had broken us in, trained us for this very moment. He stood tall like a peacock as if to say 'no problem mom and dad, glad to help".
We have since moved back North and have added 2 more children to the pack. Simba is old now and moves with hesitation. He no longer hides shrimp in the couch or requires plastic bags on his feet. Now he struggles down the back stairs to the snow covered yard, looking back at us as if to say "no problem mom and dad". I watch over him as he watched over our babies. He gave us such a gift as a young couple, the chance to be a family, we owe him so much. This may be the last Winter Simba struggles down the stairs, the last Spring he hides from spiders, but he will remain perfectly preserved in all the seasons of our hearts.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Perfect Mix-up
The other day we had a bit of snow that covered our driveway and walkway. You could hear the roaring brigade of snow blowers in the neighborhood. You could also hear the quietness that surrounded our snowed-in house. You see my husband fears snow blowers. He believes that their sole purpose is to chop, mangle and eat his foot. As a result of this belief we shovel our way out. I should correct that statement, he shovels his way out as I refuse to feed his irrational belief in the flesh hungry snow blower. Occasionally I rely on the kindness of strangers (said in my head with a delightful southern accent) to dig me out.
We are lucky to have strong, fearless, rational neighbors with snow blowers who come to our rescue. They will see my husband struggling against the elements and clear the sidewalk for us as he tackles the driveway. A good neighborly exchange follows, the two have a male bonding moment and we all live happily ever after. So when it snowed this week I anticipated a similar routine. Husband, shovel in hand, attacks driveway. Husband gets wet and cold, flings shovel over left shoulder, enters house muttering under breath, snow wins. I went to take a nap as it was obvious the car was not moving from it's snowy prison. Defeated, my husband retired to his room to watch a game.
When I awoke from my winter's nap I was surprised to see the driveway had been cleared of snow, not by man and shovel but by roaring machine. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. How could this be? Did my husband have a change of heart and buy a snow blower? Just as I was about to find and question my husband he found me. He was telling me that the guy next door must have plowed the driveway. He was going on and on about the guy next door. The guy next door, whose name had obviously escaped my husband was now my husband's hero. We immediately found a bottle of red wine to send over as a thank you. My husband, after being reminded of our neighbor's name, brought the bottle over to offer his thanks. The exchange was quick, the wife accepted the wine and said she would pass our offering of gratitude on. Life continued and everyone lived happily ever after, so we thought.
It wasn't until I spoke with my sister a week later that I realized our folly. My brother-in-law wanted to know when he was getting his thank you. I searched my brain but couldn't remember what I had forgotten to thank him for. Well my sister took but a moment to inform me of my apparent slight. Apparently while I was napping and my husband stroked his bruised ego watching a game, my brother-in-law plowed our snow covered driveway. WHAT! I immediately told her she was mistaken, clearly the neighbor had done this random act of kindness. We delivered wine, really good wine. The token had been accepted, the thanks had gone to the appropriate recipient. Right? As it turned out the neighbor had indeed plowed our sidewalk but he had not turned his flesh eating, snow blowing machine onto our driveway. We had indeed sent accolades to the wrong guy. "Hey guy next door, my brother-in-law wants his wine back".
As I write this the snow has begun to fall again. The last remnant of blacktop has now disappeared. My husband's shovel is waiting for him by the garage door. The neighbor is probably anticipating a Chardonnay. My brother-in-law will forgive our perfect little mix-up and plow out my driveway; my husband will be thankful no one lost a foot. I will go to bed dreaming about having a perfectly grand snow blower of my own.
We are lucky to have strong, fearless, rational neighbors with snow blowers who come to our rescue. They will see my husband struggling against the elements and clear the sidewalk for us as he tackles the driveway. A good neighborly exchange follows, the two have a male bonding moment and we all live happily ever after. So when it snowed this week I anticipated a similar routine. Husband, shovel in hand, attacks driveway. Husband gets wet and cold, flings shovel over left shoulder, enters house muttering under breath, snow wins. I went to take a nap as it was obvious the car was not moving from it's snowy prison. Defeated, my husband retired to his room to watch a game.
When I awoke from my winter's nap I was surprised to see the driveway had been cleared of snow, not by man and shovel but by roaring machine. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. How could this be? Did my husband have a change of heart and buy a snow blower? Just as I was about to find and question my husband he found me. He was telling me that the guy next door must have plowed the driveway. He was going on and on about the guy next door. The guy next door, whose name had obviously escaped my husband was now my husband's hero. We immediately found a bottle of red wine to send over as a thank you. My husband, after being reminded of our neighbor's name, brought the bottle over to offer his thanks. The exchange was quick, the wife accepted the wine and said she would pass our offering of gratitude on. Life continued and everyone lived happily ever after, so we thought.
It wasn't until I spoke with my sister a week later that I realized our folly. My brother-in-law wanted to know when he was getting his thank you. I searched my brain but couldn't remember what I had forgotten to thank him for. Well my sister took but a moment to inform me of my apparent slight. Apparently while I was napping and my husband stroked his bruised ego watching a game, my brother-in-law plowed our snow covered driveway. WHAT! I immediately told her she was mistaken, clearly the neighbor had done this random act of kindness. We delivered wine, really good wine. The token had been accepted, the thanks had gone to the appropriate recipient. Right? As it turned out the neighbor had indeed plowed our sidewalk but he had not turned his flesh eating, snow blowing machine onto our driveway. We had indeed sent accolades to the wrong guy. "Hey guy next door, my brother-in-law wants his wine back".
As I write this the snow has begun to fall again. The last remnant of blacktop has now disappeared. My husband's shovel is waiting for him by the garage door. The neighbor is probably anticipating a Chardonnay. My brother-in-law will forgive our perfect little mix-up and plow out my driveway; my husband will be thankful no one lost a foot. I will go to bed dreaming about having a perfectly grand snow blower of my own.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Perfectly Breathtaking
When I look into the faces of my children I see perfection. Perfect little creations that for some unknown reason God decided to grace me with. For a very short moment my breath is taken away. Then I tremble. My mind races in a thousand different directions. Did I check all the homework? Are their clothes laid out for tomorrow? Did I do everything within my power to make the world; at least our little part of it; safe for them today? The weight of it almost causes me to crumble to my knees. Then my breath returns and the trembling stops and I see perfection again. I am confident that my job is done for tonight at least.
It is how my mind works. Always keeping three steps ahead of peril, heartache and dandruff, yes dandruff is a daily exercise. Does this rule my world? No. I have yet to meet a mother who doesn't lose her breath at least once a day over her children. It is what we do. We sustain life from the very moment they are conceived. I anticipate many breathless moments in my time, not all of them due to peril.
Many times I am left breathless at the mere sight of my children at play. I stand, dishtowel in hand, in awe of their simple kindnesses to one another. They are so artful at surprising you. Just when you think there is no hope for sibling reconciliation, they share a juice box and all is forgiven. They are wildly complex creatures, yet simply inspirational. They are humane, forgiving, loving, optimistic beings from which we could gain such wisdom. They are remnants of our former selves, reflections of our past purity. They are the best parts of us, the parts we sometimes shelve and forget to take down and dust.
They are my perfectly breathtaking little beings!
It is how my mind works. Always keeping three steps ahead of peril, heartache and dandruff, yes dandruff is a daily exercise. Does this rule my world? No. I have yet to meet a mother who doesn't lose her breath at least once a day over her children. It is what we do. We sustain life from the very moment they are conceived. I anticipate many breathless moments in my time, not all of them due to peril.
Many times I am left breathless at the mere sight of my children at play. I stand, dishtowel in hand, in awe of their simple kindnesses to one another. They are so artful at surprising you. Just when you think there is no hope for sibling reconciliation, they share a juice box and all is forgiven. They are wildly complex creatures, yet simply inspirational. They are humane, forgiving, loving, optimistic beings from which we could gain such wisdom. They are remnants of our former selves, reflections of our past purity. They are the best parts of us, the parts we sometimes shelve and forget to take down and dust.
They are my perfectly breathtaking little beings!
My First Blog
Well here it goes, my first blog. Of course I will attempt to do it perfectly and fail. But that is ok. I am sitting at my computer way past my bedtime. I can hear my children sleeping in their beds. Everyone is tucked in for a good winter's nap, that is except me.
The words call to me like a thief in the night. They come to steal my sweet slumber. They want to be heard, to be put down on paper. I would prefer they danced in my head a little while longer. I need to sleep, tomorrow is a school day for 2 out of 3 of the kids. I am going to regret the trade. The lost sleep for blogging and quieting down the words in my head.
Tonight my husband went off to watch the Super Bowl....I on the other hand made jokes about the Super Bowl being a giant toilet that flushed well. This did not go over very well with the football lovers. Alas my humor was lost. The evening was spent baking triple chocolate brownies that will be hand delivered to my children's teachers for Valentine's Day. Only 2 dozen survived the night. There had to be a sacrificial dozen for the house. I feared anarchy if I didn't give the tribe what they wanted.
Tomorrow I will continue on my pursuit of perfection and finish the goodie bags for my daughter's class party. Undoubtedly my efforts will be delayed by one or more crying children. I will take a breath, put the bags down and dry the tears, bandage the wound, feed the tummy that is rumbling and continue my day. I will crawl into bed with pen in hand (archaic I know) and perhaps write a few more lines in my book. Or maybe I will just close my eyes and let the images of the day call me to sleep.
Whatever it is it will be perfect.
The words call to me like a thief in the night. They come to steal my sweet slumber. They want to be heard, to be put down on paper. I would prefer they danced in my head a little while longer. I need to sleep, tomorrow is a school day for 2 out of 3 of the kids. I am going to regret the trade. The lost sleep for blogging and quieting down the words in my head.
Tonight my husband went off to watch the Super Bowl....I on the other hand made jokes about the Super Bowl being a giant toilet that flushed well. This did not go over very well with the football lovers. Alas my humor was lost. The evening was spent baking triple chocolate brownies that will be hand delivered to my children's teachers for Valentine's Day. Only 2 dozen survived the night. There had to be a sacrificial dozen for the house. I feared anarchy if I didn't give the tribe what they wanted.
Tomorrow I will continue on my pursuit of perfection and finish the goodie bags for my daughter's class party. Undoubtedly my efforts will be delayed by one or more crying children. I will take a breath, put the bags down and dry the tears, bandage the wound, feed the tummy that is rumbling and continue my day. I will crawl into bed with pen in hand (archaic I know) and perhaps write a few more lines in my book. Or maybe I will just close my eyes and let the images of the day call me to sleep.
Whatever it is it will be perfect.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Cape May Stats
http://www.capemaycountygov.net/Cit-e-Access/webpage.cfm?TID=5&TPID=4647
During the 2002-2007 period, Cape May CountyÕs per capita personal income increased by 21.9 percent to total $42,052. Cape May CountyÕs percent increase during this five-year period was well below that of the state (25.6%) and nation (25.2%). At just 84.9 percent of the stateÕs level ($49,511) in 2007, Cape May CountyÕs per capita income ranked 12th among New JerseyÕs 21 counties.
From 1970 to 2008, Cape May County ranked 6th among New JerseyÕs 21 counties for percentage population growth. The countyÕs 60.9 percent population increase was nearly three times the stateÕs rate of 21.1 percent. Four municipalities, Ocean City and the townships of Upper, Middle and Lower, accounted for 29,436 or 81.1 percent of the Cape May CountyÕs population growth since 1970.
Racial Origin: 2008
White: 92.6
Black: 5.1
Asian: 0.9
Multiracial: 1.2
American Indian/Alaska Native: 0.2
Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander: 0.0
Total*: 100.0
Cape May CountyÕs population is projected to grow by 1,300 from 2006 to 2016. The countyÕs projected rate of growth (1.3%) is less than the stateÕs (4.6%) and ranks last (tied with Essex County) among New JerseyÕs 21 counties.
Possible Press connection
Home to CapeMay.com & Cape May Magazine, an internet and print magazine for AmericaÕs Oldest Seaside Resort. Find a Cape May Bed and Breakfast, Hotel or Guest House, special offers, events in Cape May, information on how to have a Cape May wedding and much more.
Mid-Atlantic Center for the Arts
ask4arts@capemaymac.org
www.capemaymac.org
During the 2002-2007 period, Cape May CountyÕs per capita personal income increased by 21.9 percent to total $42,052. Cape May CountyÕs percent increase during this five-year period was well below that of the state (25.6%) and nation (25.2%). At just 84.9 percent of the stateÕs level ($49,511) in 2007, Cape May CountyÕs per capita income ranked 12th among New JerseyÕs 21 counties.
From 1970 to 2008, Cape May County ranked 6th among New JerseyÕs 21 counties for percentage population growth. The countyÕs 60.9 percent population increase was nearly three times the stateÕs rate of 21.1 percent. Four municipalities, Ocean City and the townships of Upper, Middle and Lower, accounted for 29,436 or 81.1 percent of the Cape May CountyÕs population growth since 1970.
Racial Origin: 2008
White: 92.6
Black: 5.1
Asian: 0.9
Multiracial: 1.2
American Indian/Alaska Native: 0.2
Native Hawaiian/Pacific Islander: 0.0
Total*: 100.0
Cape May CountyÕs population is projected to grow by 1,300 from 2006 to 2016. The countyÕs projected rate of growth (1.3%) is less than the stateÕs (4.6%) and ranks last (tied with Essex County) among New JerseyÕs 21 counties.
Possible Press connection
Home to CapeMay.com & Cape May Magazine, an internet and print magazine for AmericaÕs Oldest Seaside Resort. Find a Cape May Bed and Breakfast, Hotel or Guest House, special offers, events in Cape May, information on how to have a Cape May wedding and much more.
Mid-Atlantic Center for the Arts
ask4arts@capemaymac.org
www.capemaymac.org
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Emily had been a contributor to society and to those that knew and loved her....we named a stray cat that found a home with us Emily in honor of her. She has no one to remind her of the memories that elude her now, I keep the memory of a very interesting woman who gave me the key to my new home. We have since moved a mile or so away from that house, the new owners did a complete renovation stripping it down to the studs. We gave our cat Emily to my mom after my dad died to keep her warm at night. Everything that was has been erased, but I will never forget Emily or the day she handed me her memories.