I Can See Clearly Now

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When I started this blog, I thought it would be easy to write something every day. My head was filled with ideas and I was enthusiastic, supported by the knowledge that this was something I could do. While I was writing or engaged in some other activity I was constantly thinking of topics I wanted to write about. Of course, I forgot to take into consideration what every adult person should know - "Expect the Unexpected". If your life takes the “normal” path, you do not grow old overnight. You don’t suddenly wake up one morning and find out that your hair has turned gray or your face has become an unrecognizable map of sags and wrinkles. It is a slow process. One day you notice a hair sprouting where it shouldn’t, a new age spot on your hand or a twinge or ache during a seemingly easy activity. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always follow a straight path. Not everyone lives to be 100 and while we are living another day something unexpected happens that knocks the wind out of us.

The last two months have been rocky for me. Not devastating, not life changing, but enough to make me take stock of my life and remember that fate may have other plans for us. Turning 60 was pretty uneventful. I didn’t go to bed one night and wake up the next morning and think, “Today I am one year older” because I wasn’t. I was one day older and nothing had changed except that I had to renew my driver’s license and I could get the senior discount at a local grocery store. It was the little things that I didn’t expect that momentarily took the wind out of my sails: the illness and death of Paws my 14 year old cat, the loss of two new Koi that we recently purchased (Jin and Clown), and most recently the death of d'Artagnan one of our three year old cats. However, the thing that had the most impact was the loss of one of my contact lenses.

Without my contacts I would probably be considered legally blind. My husband has told me several times that I would have walked off a cliff if I had been born during a time when glasses and contact lenses were non-existent. Several weeks ago, late in the afternoon on a Saturday, I dropped one of my contact lenses. This happens from time to time and my husband usually comes to the rescue and finds the missing lens. This time was different. I didn't hear the lens drop and it just vanished, never to be seen again. I wear mono-vision lenses; the left one is for reading and the right one is for seeing far away. The two lenses work together to enable me to read and see distances. I lost the right lens. I didn’t have a usable spare lens and my only pair of glasses are at least 40 years old. Without the contact lens I wasn't able to watch TV, clean, cook or work in the yard. I also wasn't able to read. I found an old pair of hard lenses that I hadn’t worn in at least ten years and used one as a temporary replacement until I could make an appointment with my eye doctor. The temporary lens irritated my eye, causing it to turn red and weep constantly, which in turn irritated the area surrounding my eye causing wrinkles to appear. By the time I went to the eye doctor on Monday afternoon, I felt like I had suddenly aged 10 years. I left the house without makeup not caring how I looked and dreading a future with impaired vision. The doctor fitted me with a temporary pair of soft lenses until my replacement lenses arrived, so I could see during the week I would be without my gas permeable lenses. I spent several frustrating days crying because the much larger lenses were impossible to get into my small aging eyes and impossible to get out because of the irritation caused by my crying.

Today I am almost back to normal. I can see things that are far away much better with my new contact lenses. I can read text on the TV and see items on grocery store shelves that were previously blurry with my old lenses. Unfortunately, the stronger new prescription has impacted my ability to read. Some days I can read the newspaper and books, while on other days the letters are twisted and blurred. And that is the point of this little story. Sometimes things happen that are life changing: an event, an accident, an occurrence that impacts the life we are living. If we are lucky, it is merely a temporary set-back, a wake-up call so we can appreciate what we have and recognize the fragility of life. For a moment I got of glimpse of what it is like to lose everything I had taken for granted.

“We tend to forget that happiness doesn't come as a result of getting something we don't have, but rather of recognizing and appreciating what we do have.” ~Frederick Keonig
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Dreading the Decade

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Having your birthday coincide with a decade is convenient. It is easy to remember how old you without really thinking about it. Unfortunately, the significant birthdays that mark a passage of sorts have also been years of change and, more often than not, tragedy. My sole surviving grandparent died when I was 20. When I turned 30 I went through some sort of crisis/soul searching. I had been married eight years, was childless, and was stuck in a dead end job. It was that year I decided to go to law school and within a few months discovered I was pregnant with my first child. Forty was a year I would like to forget: my mother and my father-in-law died within six weeks of each other, my husband lost his job, and I was involved in an auto accident while driving my three children to piano lessons, totaling my Volvo station wagon. I don't remember my fiftieth birthday at all. There was no celebration. My only sibling, who hasn't spoken to me in years because she decided I was not part of her family, sent me a birthday card which I do remember throwing in the trash.

I did not look forward to 2010. Unfortunately, this 60th year of my life is staying true to the pattern. The year is only half-way through and my family has suffered two significant losses: two of our eight cats have died within a two month period. Paws, our 14.5 year old cat died in May. Last week Spot, one of our foster cats who never found a forever home, became ill. His death was unexpected and I am having a difficult time trying to understand why this had to happen. My son B is taking the loss even harder than me since Spot and his family have been his daily companions. I don't like being blind-sided, I don't like change, and I don't like the fact that many things in life are beyond our control.

TRIBUTE~ Last night my family buried our three year old cat d'Artagnan aka Spot/Clumpy. He had been at the vet’s office for almost a week undergoing treatment for a urinary tract infection/blockage. Yesterday he unexpectedly took a turn for the worse and died. We are devastated. This is the second loss our family has suffered in two months. Our 14 year old cat Paws left us in May. Spot is survived by his mother and five siblings who were going to be killed on a tobacco farm in rural Kentucky. R.I.P. Spot - Three short years were not enough ~ July 2007 - July 13, 2010

"Whole years of joy glide unperceived away, while sorrow counts the minutes as they pass." ~William Havard
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My Cousin Janet

Sibling Rivalry

Starting Over

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Several years ago my son, my husband, and I dug a pond in our backyard on the site of our no-longer-used trampoline. The circular area had no grass and was in an area that received sun for most of the day. The project was ongoing for several years. B started the excavation and chopped out old tree roots that crisscrossed the area. One summer my daughter C and her friends camped out by the site and my husband built a bonfire, which could have easily consumed our house, in the soon-to-be pond. Over a two to three year period the project progressed and eventually a round pond approximately 18 feet across and 3.5 feet deep at its lowest level with a waterfall and stream was created.

The first year we stocked the pond with a few fish. We purchased two 3 to 4 inch koi at a local pond store and named them Keiko and Hot Lips. We also purchased a few comets and shubunkins. Over the next few years the Koi grew, the comets and shubunkins reproduced, and we added more small koi that we purchased at The Pond Store and at the Louisville Koi and Goldfish Club's annual Koi show and fish auction. We were lucky. Our pond had few casualties and the fish were healthy. Unfortunately, we failed to heed the axiom "expect the unexpected". One hot summer day when the temperature reached 101 degrees and my husband was out of town, my son B forgot the hose in the pond. When our youngest dog came into the house with wet feet, my investigation led to the pond which had overflowed its banks. Fish were floating everywhere. In our panic we failed to recognize that it wasn't the heat that was killing the fish, but the chlorine from the newly added water. Over a 24 hour period we lost 11 of our 13 koi and over 100 comets and shubunkins. As my son B buried the fish in a mass grave in our garden, he measured Hot Lips who had grown to 22 inches.

For the next two years I lost interest in the pond. It was painful to look at the two koi and the few comets that had survived the holocaust. I no longer took joy in daily feedings and I had no desire to watch the fish which had previously enthralled me for hours. When I worked in the garden I missed hearing the smacking sound that one of the fish used to make as he ate algae. As time passed and the ache lessened, we slowly restocked the pond. This Memorial Day weekend we attended the koi show and purchased four small koi: Jin, Sun, Akage-ru and Migoto. The pond now has 14 Koi, including the two survivors Noname and Sashimi, one shubunkin and many comets. Although I feed the fish every day and spend time watching them as they glide in the tranquility of the pond, it will never have the same attraction for me. In the back of my mind I can't help thinking of all that we lost one hot summer day and all that are buried in my garden.

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~Gilda Radner ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Papa's Birthday

Grave nights

We had a thunderstorm tonight. It was the kind of storm that would have sent Paws scurrying under the bed. Storms frightened her. Instead of being under the bed, Paws was in her grave which is near the entrance to my oriental garden. I try not to think about it. The wound caused by her loss is too new. I try to think about other things. When I worked in the yard today, the first day in more than a week that was hospitable to those seeking to be outside, I passed by her grave several times and left roses for her.

My garden is a cemetery. As we chose a location for Paws’ grave, my son B commented that we are running out of room. We have buried three dogs, four cats, two guinea pigs, a frog, and one hundred koi and comets in our yard. Our dog Windsor was the first pet we buried in the woodland garden. His death was unexpected. I couldn’t find him one morning and after searching the house I went outside and found him in the area near the fence appearing to be asleep. As we buried him and said some words over his grave, the bells at the nearby church began to ring as they do at six o’clock every evening. When we buried Cutty Sark, our Scottish Terrier, next to Windsor 10 days later we chose the same time. Every evening I would sit on the bench in the woodland garden , listen to the bells ring, and cry.

I wanted to bury Paws next to her brother Goliath, but the area is filled with roots. Paws is buried in good place. It gets sun in the morning and it’s cool during the heat of the day. A weeping cherry is next to the site and I will plant a hydrangea on top of where she sleeps forever.

A Piece of My Heart

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Our oldest cat Paws died tonight. She had been failing for weeks, so I knew her days were numbered. Watching her grow weaker every day and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable was agonizing. I didn’t want her to suffer, but at the same time I didn’t want to let her go. Every day that she stayed with me was a gift and during her last two days I was able to be near her, comfort her, and let her know how much she meant to me.

Paws was part of our lives for 14 years and 7 months. She was born under my son A’s bed, the offspring of a pregnant barn cat that we adopted. Paws initially went to the home of one of my son B’s friends, but she was returned to us when the family discovered their live in babysitter/cousin was allergic to cats. Paws’ mother Phantom and her brother Goliath had bonded by the time Paws came back to us, so she was always an outcast. Goliath was the big lovable one and Phantom was my lap cat. Paws was the one we hardly noticed. She was quiet, independent, and didn’t seek our attention. After the others died, Paws was basically an only cat even though we had seven other cats. Our younger cats were kept upstairs because they harassed Paws and our two older dogs dislike cats. Paws was much older and not very active, so she could coexist with the dogs and could easily be separated from them.

My life with Paws fell into a pattern. Every morning she would greet me, meowing a hello and beckoning me to her food dish or water bowl. When I sat down at the computer after breakfast Paws would come to me to have her head scratched and then she would share my chair with me. When she wasn’t next to me she would sit in the “old lady chair” in the living room, on the floor in a patch of sunlight, or on the round table next to the window where she had a good view of the front yard. If there was a thunderstorm, she would sleep under our bed because storms scared her. Most nights she slept in her chair in the living room and if she got bored, she would scratch at the bedroom door.

Paws died in the same room where her mother died next to the room were she was born. I wish she could have been with us for many more years, but I take comfort in the fact that she had a good life. The house is empty without her. I know as the days pass I will look for her in her old familiar places and maybe, before I remember that she is gone, I will catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. She will always be with me.

“Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a worn out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.” ~Irving Townsend
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Gloom & Doom

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My daughter has a nickname for me: "Debbie Downer". Debbie was a fictional character on Saturday Night Live. The character developed into a slang phrase referring to anyone who spreads bad news and negative feelings, thus bringing down the mood of everyone around them. My Uncle Phil's wife, Aunt Francis, was the original Debbie Downer. My mother called her "the voice of gloom". The only time Aunt Francis ever called our family was to tell us that someone had died or some other bad thing had occurred.

I don't view myself as a Debbie Downer, but sometimes I hear about something that really bothers me or circumstances arise that so overwhelm me with negative feelings that I need to share with someone. Sharing often makes me feel better, but unfortunately, it also has the effect of ruining someone else's day.

The past few days have been rainy and gloomy. The constant rain and the inability to enjoy my garden have caused me to dwell on several situations over which I have no control. First, the baby elephant at the Louisville Zoo died. Scotty was a favorite of staff and visitors, and I remember taking pictures of him the last time I visited the zoo. Knowing that this oversize baby is gone make me extremely sad.

Second, shelters have been killing animals without giving them time to be adopted or rescued. Spring is puppy and kitten season which means shelters are overflowing with unwanted babies, pregnant animals, and animals with babies. My anger and frustration with ignorant, irresponsible humans is boundless. People are dumping animals using every lame excuse and several shelters have flooded which has caused overcrowding in other shelters and overburdened rescues. One rescue, that has helped a previously high kill shelter become low kill, may have to close due to financial difficulties. When I try to talk to family members about all the needless suffering and situations over which I have no control, they tell me they don't want to hear about it.

Probably the real reason I feel down is that Paws, my 13 year old cat, is fading away before my eyes and there is nothing I can do about it. During the past several weeks Paws has lost half her body weight. She has gone from being strong and robust to frail and skeletal. Her voice, which used to be loud and conversational, is soft and weak. I force feed Paws several times a day to keep her from dehydrating and I go to bed ever night fearing that she will be dead in the morning. It hurts me to look at what she has become, but it hurts me more to think about losing her.

I don't want to be a Debbie Downer. I want to focus on what is good in life and the things that make me happy, but even on the sunny days when all is well with the world, there is always a cloud nearby waiting to cast a shadow. If listening to another person eases a pain or lessens a burden, my ears and shoulders are waiting. I would like to think others would be willing to do the same for me.

“Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow” ~Swedish Proverb

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Beginnings and Endings

cemetaries

Miss Wilson

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When I moved to Louisville in 1978, I had no job, no friends, and no car. When finding employment proved to be impossible and being isolated in a small apartment while my husband attended classes was more than I could bear, I decided to volunteer at the art library at the Speed Museum. The museum was adjacent to the law school at the University of Louisville and every Tuesday and Thursday I would ride to and from the museum with my husband. While performing research, dry mounting photos, and updating files I became acquainted with another volunteer, Elizabeth Wilson. Miss Wilson was petite and pleasantly plumb. She had a sweet round face, a full head of white hair, and was many years my senior. She was also one of the most interesting and knowledgeable people I had ever met. Despite the difference in our ages, we soon became friends. We talked for hours while working in the library and began to have lunch together. For some reason Miss Wilson enjoyed my company and my husband and I began spending time with her outside the museum.

Miss Wilson was born in 1902 and was one of three sisters. Her father and a brother died when she was young and she was raised by her mother. All three sisters were talented and interesting. Miss Wilson often spoke about her childhood and her life. She was involved in the theater when she was young and she was the coordinator of the Louisville Service Club during World War II. She lived in Germany after the war working with the United Service Organization. Miss Wilson is mentioned in the encyclopedia of Louisville and the Elizabeth A. Wilson Papers are available in The Filson Historical Society Special Collections: http://kdl.kyvl.org/static/findaids/kyead/kyead_KUK-Knt001309.html

Miss Wilson was like a surrogate mother to me. She often praised me and encouraged my endeavors. She was kind and generous. She was a living archive and shared her time and interests with me and my family. Miss Wilson mentioned me and my husband in the annual Christmas letter she sent to friends. She and her sisters invited us into her sister’s home during the holidays and my children visited her in the nursing home after she fell and required temporary care. Unfortunately, as my children grew older and their activities and work overtook my life, my contact with Miss Wilson decreased. We still exchanged Christmas cards and notes, but we no longer spent time together. New friends partook of Miss Wilson’s knowledge and enthusiasm for life. I thought of her often, but, to my great regret, did not make an effort to renew our relationship.

Miss Wilson died January 28, 2000 at the age 97. At her funeral friends spoke of her most recent interests, including donating a doll that had been in her family for many years and learning gospel songs. Miss Wilson and her sisters had no children and she was survived by one cousin. Her friends were her extended family. I am honored to have been one of Miss Wilson’s many friends.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive. ~Anais Nin
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Camp

A Garden of Memories

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Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. ~From the television show "The Wonder Years"

I always wanted to create a memory garden filled with plants, bushes, and flowers associated with special people and pets. A memory garden can honor a deceased loved one or recognize the living. It can also include mementos related to events, special occasions, or something in our lives we don’t want to forget. I don’t have an area in my yard that I can dedicate to this type of garden, so I have been planting “special” flowers and rose bushes here and there. In my front yard against the picket fence I planted a Constance Spry rose in remembrance of my Aunt Connie and every year I plant impatiens aka Patient Lucy in memory of my Aunt Lucy. My mother was one of three sisters and my father had four sisters. They were neighbors and grew up together. I planted a Seven Sisters rose bush in the berm near our pond to honor all of them. Although the majority of my memory plants were chosen to remember someone who is deceased, some of the plants in my garden recognize the living. I planted an Adam’s Needle next to the pond in honor of my oldest son.

Choosing the right plant for my memory garden isn’t always easy. Most of the time I try to find a namesake plant: a plant with a name similar to the person I am honoring. I searched many months to find a plant named Kelly to plant in memory of my oldest son’s deceased friend. Sometimes I choose plants that are related to a memory. My grapevine covered arbor is a daily reminder of my paternal grandfather Joseph who had his own grape arbor. Chinese lanterns grow in my front yard under an old tree just as similar plants grew in the backyard of my Uncle Johnny and Aunt Annie in New York. The lilac bush that blooms near my vegetable garden every May reminds me of my childhood in Rochester, New York, which is known as the lilac city. The lilacs in the yards of my childhood bloomed in May and I always thought they were a birthday gift to me.

Although those who are special to us always remain in our hearts and memories having visible reminders is a special joy. The johnny jump ups planted for Uncle Johnny and the Michaelmas Daisies planted for Uncle Mike, the lilac bush that blooms every May, and the Eternal Flame hostas planted on the graves of my pets are comforting to me. The problem with planting flowers or bushes in remembrance of a person is that there is always the chance that the plant won’t survive. This has happened to several of my memory plants. The rose bush “Mary Rose” that I planted in memory of my mother and her sister Rose, the Kelly plant I selected for Kelly, and an “Angel Face” tree rose planted for my Uncle Butch (aka Angelo) failed to thrive in my garden. The loss of a memory plant is always a reminder of the fragility of life.

Many gardens don’t survive their creators. Sometimes I wonder what will happen to my garden after I am gone. Will one of my children or the person who lives in my house pick up a shovel and hoe and continue my work? Will the plants I loved and tended be overtaken by weeds or perish due to lack of care? Will the ground grow fallow like it did in my grandfather’s vegetable garden? Some plants, like my grandfather’s grapevine, continue on their own unattended and become a living legacy. How will my children remember me? "Where my caravan has rested, flowers I leave you on the grass." ~Monica Dickens
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Mother’s Day

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Today is Mother’s Day. It is also my 60th birthday. The two days always fall within the same week if not on the same day and I always feel cheated because there will be only one celebration instead of two. Turning 60 doesn’t seem so significant. In reality I am only one day older than I was yesterday. As for Mother’s Day, I doubt that the day will be special in any way. My daughter is in Paris and my two sons probably don’t even remember that this day is not only Mother’s Day, but also my birthday. What is significant about this day is that it is one more Mother’s Day that I will not be able to call my mother or send her flowers.

My mother died twenty years ago. I remember those last weeks very clearly because it was the year I was turning 40. My children were young, ages 1, 5 and 8. I had planned to send my mother 40 roses for my birthday to thank her for my life. However, things don’t always go the way we plan. First of all, I didn’t have the money to send her 40 roses. Second, my mother was in the hospital on my birthday. She had been in the hospital before because of her diabetes and the problems it caused, but this time she called me and requested that I come visit her, something she had never done before. I viewed this request with foreboding.

My husband and I celebrated my 40th birthday at a restaurant. What I remember most about that meal was me crying because I knew this upcoming visit would probably be the last time I would see my mother. My daughter and I flew to Rochester the next day. For two weeks I visited my mother daily. My daughter played by her bedside and visitors came and went. Some times my mother was lucid and other times she seemed near death. I remember she said to one visitor in my presence, "I'm too young to die." The physicians gave us no hope and my family discussed funeral arrangements. During that time and in my absence my oldest son “graduated” from the school he had attended for six years and my father-in-law died unexpectedly. The following week I returned to Kentucky with the intention of returning to New York in a few weeks with all of my children. My mother died before I could return.

I was not my mother’s favorite child. I don’t ever remember my mother hugging me, telling me she was proud of me, or saying she loved me. I can count the vacations we went on together on one hand. Many times during my childhood I felt unloved and unwanted. What I do remember is that my mother was always there when I needed her. I miss her every day.

“On Mother's Day I have written a poem for you. In the interest of poetic economy and truth, I have succeeded in concentrating my deepest feelings and beliefs into two perfectly crafted lines: You're my mother, I would have no other!” ~Forest Houtenschil
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Simple Gifts

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My children and husband always ask me what I want for my birthday, Mother’s Day or Christmas. I could name dozens of things I want or would like to have, but few things I really need. For some reason I prefer to give gifts rather than receive them. When my husband and I were dating, I would often surprise him with a little gift: a small book, an inexpensive item from a store that we could use together like a kite we could fly or a toy boat we could sail in a local quarry, or something simple, but useful that he wouldn’t think to buy for himself. I continued this practice of giving small gifts with my children. When they were young I would buy them a book every month purchased from the sale table at a local bookstore. I gave them treat bags for Halloween, Easter baskets for Easter, and bags of candy for St. Valentine’s Day. I enjoyed filling their Christmas stockings with useless items and candy. I purchased Advent boxes for them when they were young and still continue the practice of filling the boxes with small items to count down the days to Christmas. They complain and often tell me I can discontinue the practice, but I know they would miss having something to look forward to each day. This year when I didn’t get around to creating bags for St. Valentine’s Day my older son asked me if I had forgotten.

Many years ago when I had more time than money, I made gifts for family members. One year it was bathrobes. Another year I made needlepoint Christmas stockings, pillows, and ornaments. Sometimes the gifts were simple like homemade cookies, candy and pizzelles. My sister-in-law said those were her favorite gifts. I too have discovered that the simplest gifts are the ones I love the most. A drawing or card made at school, photographs hand colored by my daughter, an inexpensive gift chosen because the giver knew I would like it, a hand painted vase filled with handmade paper flowers.

Every year when my children ask what I would like for Christmas, I always tell them to have their photo taken with our dogs and Santa. I think they don’t realize how much that photo means to me. I keep the most recent one next to my desk and look at it many times during the day. When I tell my children I don’t need anything, I am being truthful. They are my gift.

“You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” ~Khalil Gigran
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School Days

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When I was a child in the 1950’s I attended Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School aka #43. Like most neighborhood schools at that time it was within walking distance of my house and many of my schoolmates were friends and neighbors. Very few children rode a bus to school. Most of the children, like me, walked to school in all kinds of weather and went home for lunch. The school had a lunchroom in the basement for those who rode buses to school.

#43 played a major role in my life for eight years and I have a clear picture in my mind of the layout of the building, the teachers whose names I still remember, and my classmates. The school had two floors. Kindergarten through grade 3 were located on the first floor and 4th through 7th grades were on the second floor. The administrative and nurse’s offices were on the first floor on the north side of the building and the kindergarten classes had their own small wing on the south side. A gymnasium with a balcony and stage was in the center of the building and seats were set up by the janitor for assemblies, recitals, and plays. The school had a fenced-in playground and parking lot in the back.

The school had a music teacher with his/her own room, an art teacher, and a workshop where students learned woodworking and other skills. Music lessons and other activities , such as gymnastics classes, were offered by private individuals after school hours for a fee. Students were released early one afternoon a week to attend religious instruction classes off the school property. The school did not have a library, but once a week a bookmobile would come to the school and we would be allowed to check-out books.

Teachers were respected and students were expected to be polite and well-behaved. Students were sent to stand in the hallway or to the principal’s office for the slightest infractions and in those days paddling was acceptable. It was a privilege to be assigned chores, like cleaning the erasers, picking up the milk for snack time, and running off copies in the school office. If you arrived at school too early, you had to stand in line outside the entrances leading to your classrooms until the bell rang. If the weather was inclement, students were allowed to line up inside, but members of the safety patrol ensured everyone remained in line and kept their voices low.

We played kickball, baseball, and dodge ball during gym classes and auditioned for plays and the school choir. We recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning before school began and we collected money for the red cross in little white boxes. Student hygienists visited the school once a year to clean our teeth and we received the polio vaccine in sugar cubes that were lined up on trays. I remember singing a song at a school recital, having one line in a school play about Theodore Roosevelt (I still remember the line!), and being a Dutch girl with my blond hair braided for a kindergarten performance. I remember making Valentine boxes for St. Valentine’s day, sitting on the hallway floor with my head down during air raid drills, and the smell of clay kept in a big jar in the closet in my Kindergarten classroom.

Those were the days before children were over-scheduled with after-school activities and lessons, and they went home to stay-at-home mothers instead of empty houses. Children played outside with friends instead of sitting in front of televisions and computer screens, and people read books to learn what they didn’t know. I don’t know if those days were better, but parents didn’t make excuses for bad behavior, children were taught to respect themselves and others, and values were more important than money and self-gratification.

Intelligence plus character--that is the goal of true education. ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
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Obligations and Resentment

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Mother’s Day is fast approaching and, as the days pass, my resentment grows. It will be another day I will have to share with my mother-in-law and another day that I will not be able to spend with my mother. I will have to buy a gift and make a meal while trying to ignore the fact that my mother is gone. I feel petty and mean to express these feelings, but I can’t deny them.

My mother-in-law is not a bad person. She has many good qualities and never intentionally hurt me. She is elderly and is not the same person she used to be. What upsets me is not that my mother-in-law isn’t my mother. It is the fact that she was not a good grandmother. When my oldest son, their first grandchild, was born almost thirty years ago, my in-laws came to the hospital and then went on vacation. It isn’t as if the birth was unexpected or they had jobs that required them to choose that week. It was a conscious decision on their part. As my family grew, my in-laws' involvement with their grandchildren did not increase. My mother-in-law occasionally babysat at our house when we asked and my in-laws picked up our children every Sunday morning so they could be indoctrinated in their religion. They never took their grandchildren out for a snack or meal, never took them to a park or to see a movie, and never suggested that they come to their house for a few hours so they could spend some time together. Only one of my children ever spent a night at their house and that was because my husband and children bought me a puppy as a surprise for my birthday/mother’s day and my younger son didn’t want the puppy to spend the night alone at his grandparents' house.

My mother-in-law was 68 when my father-in-law died. She was relatively young and healthy. My children took piano lessons for a period covering at least 16 years and had at least two recitals each year. My mother-in-law attended two recitals. My children were also involved in sports: soccer, field hockey, wrestling, baseball and basketball. My in-laws came to one of my oldest son’s soccer games when he was four, left early, and never came to another sports-related event. My mother-in-law missed my daughter’s solo performance at a Grandparent’s Day at school and her last performance in a play at a drama school because she had other obligations. She often tells stories of the experiences she had with her grandparents, and my husband has memories of being with his grandparents, but my mother-in-law chose not to be involved in the lives of her grandchildren. Instead she chose to spend time with friends, volunteered at her church, a hospital and a nursing home, was active in clubs, and played bridge.

I have come to the point in my life where I realize I will probably never have grandchildren and, if I do, they will probably live far away or I will be too old to be the kind of grandparent I would like to be. I imagine myself reading to them, baking cookies with them, feeding the fish, exploring the garden, going out for lunch, seeing a movie, and taking them places I visited with my children. I resent the fact that my mother-in-law had the opportunity to know and spend time with her grandchildren and decided they weren’t important enough. I resent the fact that my family had planned to move to New York so we could be near my relatives, but both of my brothers-in-law announced they were moving out-of-state, thereby obligating us to stay in Kentucky so my mother-in-law wouldn't be alone. I resent the fact that I have spent too many Mother's Days with my mother-in-law and too few with my mother. And most of all, I resent the fact that this Mother’s Day will be another day without my mother.

The tragedy of life is not so much what men suffer, but rather what they miss. ~Thomas Carlyle
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Old Friends

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Almost forty years ago my husband had a college roommate named Gregg. For two years they shared a room at their fraternity house and their senior year they rented an apartment together. Gregg asked his girlfriend Jodie to find a blind date for his roommate. I was the victim/winner depending upon your perspective. Jodie and Gregg were married in June after we graduated from college and my husband and I were married the following November. Fast forward thirty something years. In March 2009 Gregg showed up on our doorstep. He and his second wife were ending their marriage, they had sold their house, and Gregg was unemployed. He was estranged from his brothers and hadn’t spoken with his only daughter in ten years. Gregg had no money, no home, no job, no vehicle, and nowhere to go. He came to his old friends and we took him in.

Gregg lived with us for eight months. He shared our meals, watched TV with us every evening, and celebrated holidays with us. He partied with my children and their friends on Derby Day and joined us when we went out to dinner to celebrate the birthdays of various family members. Gregg borrowed my husband’s car to get to work when he finally found employment and borrowed clothes when needed. He drank too much, smoked too much, and worked too little. The older version of Gregg was a shadow of the person we had known. He called himself a minimalist because he had shed or lost everything he had and traveled with the few possessions that he owned. For eight long months we shared our home, our food, and our family with someone we had known for three brief years almost four decades ago. Gregg ultimately found employment in China teaching English as a second language and left on a new journey.

People have asked why we took Gregg in and how we were able to have someone live with us for so many months. The answer, of course, is how could we not. What kind of people would we be if we turned our backs on someone who didn’t have any options or resources? Wouldn’t we want someone to help us if we were in a similar situation? When I hear that someone is homeless or living in a shelter, I always ask myself, “Don’t they have family or friends?” Saying we believe in the Golden Rule and actually treating others the way we want to be treated may not always be easy or convenient. In the end, all we have is each other.

“A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out.” ~Grace Pulpit
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Progress, Prudence, and Preservation

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Many of my memories are associated with buildings: a favorite store, a much frequented restaurant, the site of a celebration. Every time one of these businesses closes and the building is leveled or another business opens in the same location, it is as if a part of our past has been taken away. One of the places that had many memories for my family was the White Castle restaurant in St. Matthews. My husband remembers the building from his childhood. We took my nephew and niece to the restaurant when they visited us from upstate New York in the late 1980’s and we often went there with our children for an afternoon snack or an after game treat. My sons and their friends would always walk to White Castle when they had sleepovers at our house. Standing in line behind an intoxicated customer at midnight was a common experience because the restaurant was one of the few places that was open late at night.

In April 2002 the White Castle in St. Matthews closed its doors after 63 years in business. The reason given by the powers that be was the location could not accommodate a drive-thru window. Offers were made to buy the restaurant in an attempt to keep it from closing, but the offers were rejected. The company claimed other locations in the area were being considered for a new restaurant. Eight years later St. Matthews still lacks a White Castle restaurant and the site of the old building is now occupied by a bank with a drive-thru window. Unfortunately, destruction of “landmarks” in the name of progress is all too common.

I yearn for the days when I could go downtown to shop at large department stores like Stewart's in Louisville, KY or Sibley's in Rochester, NY. I miss buying fabric and buttons at Baer’s Fabric on Market Street, a family owned business that had been in operation for 103 years before closing in July 2008, and seeing a movie at a neighborhood theater like the Vogue which was within walking distance of my home. Businesses are closed and buildings are razed in the name of progress, but the modern replacements lack the charm, character and memories of the ones they replace.

Today many cities in America are similar. The names of the cities are unimportant. We might as well call them anyplace, USA. You can shop at the same stores and dine at the same restaurants anywhere you travel. Being able to eat Kentucky Friend Chicken or McDonald’s burgers in China or France is not progress. Closing a restaurant that was part of a community for 63 years under false pretenses and replacing it with a bank when there were 20 other banks within a two mile radius was a decision based on corporate greed rather than the needs and desires of the community. Progress should be tempered with prudence and preservation. The bank building on the site of the old White Castle may be more aesthetically appealing, but it is just another bank. White Castle was an old familiar friend that can't be replaced.

"A building does not have to be an important work of architecture to become a first-rate landmark. Landmarks are not created by architects. They are fashioned by those who encounter them after they are built. The essential feature of a landmark is not its design, but the place it holds in a city's memory. Compared to the place it occupies in social history, a landmark's artistic qualities are incidental." ~Herbert Muschamp
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Derby Day

Our Peaceable Kingdom - The Early Days

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We have five dogs, eight cats, and a Chameleon named Napoleon. This wasn’t planned. We never intended to become crazy animal people. When one pet left our lives, we always sought out another to fill the void. It was a natural process. My husband and I purchased our first dog, a Scottish Terrier named Chivas Regal, before we married. My dog Lady had died while I was away at college and when I came home for summer break I couldn't live in a house without a dog. Chivas lived with my parents while I completed my last year of college and attended graduate school. Chivas died two weeks before he was going to come live with me and my husband. We subsequently adopted Piper who was also a Scottie.

Piper was the child we didn’t have. He played hide and seek with us, wore costumes on Halloween, and went with us on outings. At that time we lived on a farm and Piper shared our home with Katerina, a stray cat my cousin Janet was seeking to rehome, and Charlie Chaplin, an offspring of a barn cat. As a kitten C.C. was mauled by our neighbor’s dogs and injured her back legs. Seeking a safe place she crawled into the space between our front door and screen door and into our hearts and home.

When my husband decided to continue his education, we were forced to move to another state. During those days of transition, Piper disappeared. (Years later we learned he was another victim of the neighbors’ dogs). I searched for him for six weeks and when my search proved unsuccessful, we adopted a stray Benji-type dog that was going to be taken to a local kill shelter. Heyu moved with us to Kentucky. We left Katerina in the care of my sister and C.C. with my parents.

Heyu was our only dog for 17 years. When our second child was four months old, we adopted a gray kitten that had been abandoned at my parents’ farm and was destined to be a barn cat. We named her Panther. Heyu and Panther accepted each other without hesitation. After Heyu died, my husband and children gave me Cutty Sark, a three month old Scottish Terrier, as a combined birthday/Mother’s Day gift. Cutty was the best gift I had ever received. When my cousin Janet was unable to keep Windsor, her West Highland White Terrier, she shipped him to us. Windsor quickly adjusted to his change in circumstances and his new fur siblings.

Panther died at age 10 while my children and I were in New York visiting my parents. We searched in the barn for a new cat to adopt. Phantom, a pregnant cat with respiratory problems, had been dumped on the farm. She was an outcast. We adopted Phantom and she delivered her kittens under my son A’s bed. Phantom's offspring Paws and Goliath stayed with us and Kabuki was adopted by my husband’s brother’s family.

Our home was a peaceable kingdom where our cats and dogs ate, slept, and played together. Other animals were also part of our family: goldfish, hermit crabs, Siamese fighting fish, hamsters, guinea pigs, and an Iguana we named Juan. The years passed and our children, cats, and dogs grew older. As with most things in life, we weren’t prepared for what was to come.

Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives. ~John Galsworthy
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Serenity Now!

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My backyard is made up of a series of garden rooms. When we first moved to our house, the backyard was sparsely landscaped with a few large trees, an old metal shed, some scraggly bushes, and an area that was boggy in the spring and cracked and dry in the summer. Over the years some of the trees died and we added a wooden swing set and a trampoline for our children. I transplanted some of the bushes to hide the shed and started planting flowers. Gradually the yard evolved into a series of garden rooms. These include a woodland garden where our deceased pets are buried; an oriental garden with a gravel floor and a hammock to rest; a French/secret garden highlighted by dwarf fruit trees; a vegetable garden with raised beds and a grape arbor created from the wooden swing set our children outgrew; an herb garden with dwarf crabapple trees and blueberry bushes, and a berm of flowers and rosebushes. The center of the yard has a small grassy area and a pond with a stream where the trampoline used to stand.

My garden is my sanctuary; my place to escape. Whenever I am bored, sad, or angry I only need to step outside the back door to find a world where worries and time are forgotten. The garden is constantly changing. It offers many distractions to occupy my time. I follow the paths from room to room, looking for plants that have recently sprouted, a blossom that has become a miniature apple or peach, or a bud that will soon open. There is always something that needs to be done: weeds to pull; trees and bushes to prune; plants to tend, feed and water. There are benches, chairs and hammocks where I can sit and read or watch the never ending activity offered by the garden. The dogs play and explore using pathways they have created. The koi and comets in the pond glide through the water, dining on insects and algae. Birds splash in the stream, flutter from bush to tree, and dine at the bird feeders. Butterflies glide by and bees move from flower to flower. Soon the dragonflies and hummingbirds will return. The air is scented with lilacs, honeysuckle and roses. The sounds of the outside world are muffled by the waterfall and birdsong. If I am quiet and listen, I can almost hear the earth breathing.

“A garden isn't meant to be useful. It's for joy.“ ~Rumer Godden
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Losing Home

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I once had a farm in New York.

When I say those words, I think of myself as the main character in the movie “Out of Africa” who had a farm, a life, and lost everything. My father purchased the farm when I was 15 years old. Every weekend, weather permitting, family and friends would gather at the farm to work and have impromptu picnics. One year after our marriage, my husband and I moved into a small house on the farm that had been converted from a barn. We had a Scottish Terrier named Piper and two cats, Charlie Chaplin and Katerina. I had a quarter acre garden and a small greenhouse where I started seedlings and grew babies breath. The house was filled with 90 houseplants and I could look out the windows and see horses grazing in the pastures. It was a time when I was surrounded by family and friends. We had a party or invited guests for dinner every month and the farm was a place where people came to visit and enjoy the pleasures of life in the country.

After two and half years we moved to Kentucky so my husband could continue his education. Our dog and two cats were lost or dead within the year, casualties of our move, and we adopted a stray dog whom we named Heyu. Most of my plants did not survive the move. We lived in a small apartment on the second floor of an older building in a city where I had no family or friends and could not find employment for one year. Nothing of interest was in walking distance, I did not have a car, and I was alone and isolated except for two days a week when I volunteered at a local museum.

As the years passed my husband and I made annual trips back to the farm to visit my parents and extended family, and after my children were born we would visit for the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day and four to six weeks during the summer. Every time I drove through the front gates of the farm a voice inside me would shout “Home” and when we left I would always cry for all I was leaving behind.

After my parents died, my sister and I inherited the farm. My children and I continued to make our summer trips for a few years, but circumstances beyond my control brought those visits to an end. As the years passed, the farm fell into disrepair. Ultimately, I was forced to make the decision to sell the farm to a family member or else risk having it auctioned due to unpaid taxes. In order to save my parents’ legacy, I chose to sell.

All I have left of those happy days are memories, photographs, and a set of coffee mugs my husband gave to me as a gift for one of my birthdays. The mugs are identical to those we had given my parents as a gift with the name of the farm on one side and a picture of a racehorse on the other. Every morning I drink coffee from one of my mugs and think about those days of milk and honey.

"And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise."
~From “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas
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Vanquishing the Vogue

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“Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.” ~From the movie An Affair to Remember

All of us of a “certain” age have a memory of a neighborhood movie theater. My childhood haunt was the Lyell Theatre in Rochester, New York. For my husband it was the Vogue Theater in Louisville, Kentucky. Although divided by several states and 600 miles, those neighborhood theaters had many similarities. Both were within walking distance of our homes and during the summer months and on weekends we went to the theater with friends unaccompanied by adults. Unlike the monster multi-plex theaters of today, these neighborhood theaters had one or two outside ticket windows, a lobby with posters advertising upcoming movies, and an area with a food counter and dispensing machines where you could purchase popcorn, hot dogs, ice cream, soft drinks, coffee, and candy. The single theater had a high ceiling, a center aisle, one large viewing screen, and a stage. Instead of cup holders, the arms of the seats had mini ashtrays.

People in those days did not have cellphones to disturb theater patrons, and talking and rude behavior were not tolerated. Ushers with flashlights monitored the audience and seated late arrivals. The cost of admission was fifty cents or less for children under 12 and purchased an afternoon of entertainment. Instead of previews and one main feature, my friends and I could see two feature movies plus cartoons and previews. If one time around wasn’t enough, we could stay and watch the movies and cartoons a second time for the price of the one admission ticket. My cousin Patty and I saw the Beatles movie “A Hard Day’s Night” eleven times in two days.

As time passed neighborhood theaters lost their clientele and many, like the Lyell, became “Adult” theaters. Others adapted and survived by showing independent, foreign, and art house films and cult movies. The Vogue Theater took this route. After moving to Kentucky with my husband, I remember going to the Vogue following a showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The floor was slick with water, rice and other things thrown during the movie. The Vogue Theater opened on December 22, 1939 and closed September 1998 - the last single screen, privately-owned theater in Louisville. KY. Today it has been “reborn” as part of an upscale shopping center. The theater has been gutted, the stage and seats removed, but the marquee remains to remind us of the days when children could walk to a neighborhood theater unchaperoned without the fear of child predators lurking behind bushes or sitting next to them during a movie.
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A Full Cup

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We have become a country of whiners and finger-pointers. I am tired of complainers and crabby people. I am sick of negativity, naysayers, and people who blame their problems on others. I am frustrated with people who constantly make poor choices and continue to repeat their mistakes. I am angry with those who fail to take responsibility for their actions and those who are doing well, but feel no need to extend a helping hand to others. As my husband so often states, everyone sees himself as a victim.

I am surrounded by people who see their cup as half empty instead of half full, who focus on the negative instead of the positive, and who only see problems instead of opportunities and solutions. Their failure to see what they have and their need to focus on what they don’t have is a dark cloud that they carry with them. They suck the happiness out of life and infect others with their inner darkness. Other people can’t make you happy, but they can make you unhappy.

Many years ago a TV commercial featured an elderly woman getting out of bed. I don't remember the product she was trying to sell, but I remember what she said: “When I get up in the morning I can choose to be happy or I can choose to be sad. I choose to be happy.” This philosophy may seem simplistic or unrealistic, but the fact is our feelings and expectations affect our lives. We can’t move forward or resolve our problems if we believe the obstacles are too great to overcome or that we have been dealt a bad hand in the game of life. Some people are born lucky while others make their own luck. We are self fulfilling prophecies.

If you have a home, your health and people who love you, you have more than most people in the world. For some people, whatever they have is never enough. The grass always seems to be greener elsewhere. Everyone has problems, some more than others. It seems that the people who have been faced with the worst situations, who have been blindsided by tragedies that should have crushed them, are the ones who have the best outlook on life. Their losses do not overwhelm or define them. They are the ones who are generous with their time and money, who appreciate the simple things in life, and who have found a purpose that is not self serving. They have discovered what it means to have "enough".

"Make a note to yourself to start thinking more about what you have than what you want. For perhaps the first time in your life you’ll know what it means to be satisfied." ~Richard Carson
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Grandpa’s Garden

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My grandfather was a gardener. He grew roses in his front yard, a grapevine on an overhead arbor near the side door of his house, and a vegetable garden in his backyard. A visit to Grandpa’s house during the growing season always included inspecting the progress of what was growing in the garden. This backyard was the site of my parents’ wedding reception, many family gatherings and celebrations, picnics and clambakes, and annual Easter egg hunts. My cousins and I would put on our snowsuits and build snowmen in the backyard during the winter. My grandfather constructed a fireplace/grill in one corner of the yard and another corner was designated for his garden. An old apple tree dominated the backyard until it died. As I grew the size of the backyard seemed to diminish. The yard that was the location for so many happy childhood events was in reality no larger than a postage stamp.

When my Uncle Dom, my grandfather’s oldest son, purchased a house outside the city limits my grandfather moved his garden to the much larger backyard. My aunts told me that while inspecting my grandfather’s new garden, I held out my hands palms pointed upwards and asked my grandfather, “but where are the watermelons” which I pronounced as “water mel-owns” just like grandpa. Years later my father bought a small farm even further out on the same road and my grandfather created an even bigger garden. He chose a site far from a water source and spent much of the day carrying buckets of water to his garden and then resting in the shade.

I am a gardener. I plant vegetables in a space in my backyard as small as my grandfather’s original site and when the seeds burst from the ground and the plants grow and bear fruit I feel a connection with my grandfather and those simpler times. Last year I planted a watermelon plant. The vine grew and produced three tiny melons no bigger than baseballs. I think my grandfather would have been proud of me.

"There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again." ~Elizabeth Lawrence
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Stormy Weather

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The local weather stations are predicting a spring storm tonight with heavy rains, high winds, thunder and lightning - my favorite kind of evening. I love lying in bed in the middle of the night hearing the storm passing overhead, shaking the tree branches and battering the roof. When thunder shakes the house and rattles the windows, my dogs bark in response. If the storm intensifies and sets off a warning siren, the dogs join in with a howling song to ensure that no one sleeps while danger is near.

I like dark rainy mornings when I can pull the covers over my head and sleep as if time has stopped and the obligations of the day have been suspended. I like rainy days when I have nowhere to go and I can idle away the hours with my dogs, a good book, and a cup of tea. I like the way the world looks after the storm has ended - everything is clean and renewed, and the raindrops sparkle in the sunshine.

I have many memories associated with rain and thunder storms: Standing in the backyard at my cousin Joey’s house, imagining that the thunder was caused by giants bowling in the sky; Walking back to the dorm at night after seeing a movie at a local theater with a group of college friends, dancing in the street and splashing in the puddles; Driving to New York in the early morning hours with lightning so bright the pre-dawn hours seemed like day, my children sleeping in the back seat and the windshield wipers thumping out a monotonous tune. My favorite memory is sitting with my parents on their front porch during one of our annual summer visits to their farm. We watched the lightning in the distance as a storm approached. My parents and I talked, enjoying the evening, while my children played on the front lawn.

My children are grown, my parents long gone, and my extended family and college friends far away. The passing storm reminds me of those moments that seemed insignificant at the time, but it is those simple moments that are the essence of life.

When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain. ~Madelein L'Engle
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Inspiration? Motivation?

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“My mother always told me I wouldn't amount to anything because I procrastinate. I said 'Just wait.'” ~Judy Tenuta

When I began this 365 days of change project, I thought it would be easy: just do one thing every day. I was enthusiastic, I was inspired, I was ready to take on the world and become a new me. The reality is humbling. I feel overwhelmed. My website needs updating, the house is begging for a spring cleaning, the yard keeps beckoning me to plant, weed, and water, and the clutter I want to eliminate is a constant reminder of my lack of initiative.

I don't know what is more difficult: fitting in something new, starting a project I have been avoiding, or finding something to write about. When I am working in the yard, cleaning the house, or exercising I am inspired. I have ideas of subjects I want to write about, my thoughts are clear and well-formed (or so they seem as they rattle around in my head), and I am anxious to write something down. However, as soon as I sit at my computer or try to outline my ideas on the back of an envelope, the thoughts evaporate. When I am at the computer, I tell myself I will just do one more thing and then I will wash the windows, sweep the patio, or spend 15 minutes cleaning out a drawer or closet. Twenty minutes later I am still at the computer doing one more thing that can't wait. Before I know it the whole day has passed and I haven't accomplished anything. Every day it's the same story.

At night I can't sleep. I think of all the projects I should have started, all the weight I should have lost, and all of the people I should have "reached out and touched." The days, weeks, and months are flying by. Wasn't it January 1st a week ago when I made my New Year's resolutions? What happened to Lent and my pledge to give up sweets and bread? I have always been proud of the fact that I finish what I start, but I am beginning to realize I never get started! It's late, but not too late. Tonight I am Scarlett O'Hara. I'm not going to think about the past. I am not going to worry about today and the missed opportunities." After all, tomorrow is another day"
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Earth Day 2010

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Today is the 40th Earth Day and from where I am standing the world has gotten a lot worse. The earth is polluted, overcrowded, and overused. The need to consume and destroy has increased. The people on Earth act as if they have another planet to go to. Somewhere along the way the idealists and demonstrators of the 1960’s and 1970’s have lost their way. Many have become politically conservative and worship the god of conspicuous consumption. In the past few days I have read reports of oil spills, roads and dams being constructed in the Amazon, destruction of old growth forests, and poverty in the mostly densely populated areas in the world. Locally, the news reports focused on the amount of trash left behind by people attending Thunder Over Louisville, a local business dumping remodeling debris in a ravine near their building, and warnings not to swim or eat fish in the Ohio River. I don’t have to look further than my own back yard to see evidence of global warming; the birds are returning earlier each year and flowers are blooming two weeks before their “normal” bloom date.

When I was in college 40 years ago the young people of my generation were in a position to make changes that would benefit the world. They protested against the Vietnam War, supported equal rights for women and people of color, and for a moment believed in the ideas discussed in books such as “Diet for a Small Planet” and "The Silent Spring”. They used catch phrases like “Zero Population Growth” and “Make love, not war” and I thought they were sincere in their beliefs. Greed and profit appear to be stronger than altruism and common sense. My husband remembers participating in the first Earth Day Parade held in the small town where we both attended college. He says he and a friend drove to the site of the parade in the friend’s GTO, walked three blocks, returned to the car, and drove back to their fraternity house. We had an opportunity to change the world and we threw it all away.

Mother nature is beginning to show signs of her wrath. In the last few years reports of earthquakes, intense hurricanes, mudslides, ice, snow and rain storms, and most recently volcanic eruptions seem to be on the increase. If humans are unable to control themselves and realize that the world was not made for them to use and abuse, maybe they need a wake-up call.

“For a moment, or moments, it was as it had been in the beginning, before fear, before evil, before death, at the time of the creation, when the earth was new and living things flourished therein, where the earth was fair and all living things dwelt together as kindred. For a moment, or moments, beasts and children were friends, there in the sweetness and silence of the night, there in the calm and lovely fields of the Lord.”~Glendon Swarthout
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Unfinished Stories

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My mother never spoke about her early childhood. I really didn’t think about that fact until after she was gone. I do have some information about those early years because two of my aunts, my father’s sisters, were constantly telling stories of their childhood. My father’s family and my mother’s family were backyard neighbors. My mother had two sisters Rose and Lucy. Rosie was one year younger than my mother and Lucy was 13 years older. My father’s sisters, Anne and Connie, were the same ages as my mother and Rosie and they were best friends.

One of the stories that was often repeated was one told by my Aunt Connie. She remembers the day the four companions played a game that included my Aunt Rosie being struck by a car. This was the late 1920's and the fact that not every family owned an automobile probably influenced this macabre "play." A wheelbarrow served as the automobile. After the “accident” Aunt Connie picked up Rosie and carried her to a place of safety. Three days later my mother’s godmother came to visit. My mother, my aunts, and their dog Puchinello crossed the street to greet the visitor. Aunt Rosie was the last one to cross. A car driven by a chauffeur struck her. Aunt Connie picked up Rosie and carried her to the house. Aunt Lucy, who was married and expecting her first child lived in a nearby apartment house. She heard the noise from the street, came out onto her balcony, and saw her youngest sister being carried away.

Rosie died the following day. Due to the stress my Aunt Lucy suffered a miscarriage and began to hemorrhage. She died three days later. My aunts remember Lucy wearing her wedding dress in her coffin. They never spoke of Rosie’s funeral or the grief that most assuredly surrounded those terrible days. In retrospect I now understand that they viewed the events through the eyes of children and they remembered the facts, but not the emotions. My mother never spoke of those days and rarely mentioned her sisters. She did remember her mother going to the parish priest and asking to borrow a bible and her father expressing his grief by throwing bottles into the street to flatten the tires of passing vehicles.

Lucy and Rosie died many years before I was born. I assume I am named for Rosie even though my mother never admitted this fact. When I would ask about the origin of my name, she would say it was the name of a character in a long forgotten book or movie. Lucy’s wedding portrait hangs on a wall in my home. Every day I see her in her wedding dress with her new husband forever captured in that happy moment untouched by the foreknowledge of what was to come.

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~Gilda Radner
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Angels Amongst Us

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If angels exist and walk on earth, then my grandmother Marialetta Guigno Andolina was one of them. Grandma asked very little from life and gave everything she had to others. She placed great faith in God and her life reflected the values of true Christianity. She was the personification of goodness, charity, and selflessness. My father said that grandma was the best woman he had ever met, which is high praise coming from a son-in-law.

My memory of Grandma is of a small, careworn woman with wire rim glasses perched on her nose. Her hands were wrinkled and lined with veins. Photographs of her when she was much younger than I am now show a woman aged prematurely by hard work and loss. When I look at photographs of her before she married my grandfather, I see a face I don’t recognize, a pretty woman who does not resemble the woman I knew and loved.

Grandma never owned a house or a car, never traveled more than 60 miles from home after she emigrated with my grandfather from Sicily to the United States, and was preceded in death by of four of her nine children. When she went to her church to borrow a bible after her daughters Rose and Lucy, ages 7 and 21, died within three days of each other, she was told by the parish priest (who later fathered a child) that “her kind of people couldn’t be trusted”. For many years, and without complaint, she cared for my grandfather who was blind and a double amputee.

Grandma was deeply religious and constantly quoted the bible. She was kind, generous and loving. She gave money to those who needed it even though she had very little and shared her home with others when they had no place to stay. She always wore an apron with pockets filled with candy for neighborhood children and she was known for crocheting scarves, hats and blankets for friends and family. She once gave a friend the dress off her back and the curtains from her windows because the friend had admired them. Grandma was a wonderful cook and baker who never used a recipe and she loved flowers. I remember her saying, “Give me flowers when I’m alive”...and when she died so many people sent flowers that the hallways of the funeral home were lined with flowers floor to ceiling. For many years I couldn’t stand the smell of flowers or look at a gladiola without thinking of Grandma and those sad, sad days.

My grandmother died when I was 14, too soon for me to fully understand all the wisdom and knowledge she had to share. I wish I had asked her about her childhood and her journey to the United States, about leaving her parents and a sister behind knowing she might never see them again (which she didn't), and how she survived the many losses she suffered. I now understand that her faith in God and the belief that one day she would be reunited with her family were her salvation. My grandmother was not rich, or famous, or well-educated. Like many people she lived her life unnoticed and unappreciated. Despite the hardships she endured, Grandma never lost her faith in God, her belief that there was good in the world, or her ability to find joy in simple things. Her legacy was a life well lived.

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone. ~George Elliot
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My Lost Saints

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I am an agnostic, bordering on being an atheist. This is something I don’t often admit although it is no secret to my family. My loss of faith was not a sudden decision, but rather a natural process over time. I come from a long line of Catholics and I was raised a Catholic. While I was growing up I attended mass every Sunday and on religious holidays with my aunts and sister. I loved the mystery and rituals of the church, the words spoken by the priest, especially when the mass was in Latin, and the ceremonies marking passages. My favorite church was the cathedral-like St.Joseph’s located in downtown Rochester, NY. The church had large stained glass windows, tiered rows of lighted candles, an enormous altar that encompassed the entire front wall, paintings of animals with angel wings on its high domed ceiling, and a large pipe organ in the balcony.

When I went away to college I stopped attending mass. The only Catholic Church in town was not close to my school and I didn’t have a car. I probably could have found a ride, but I made no effort to do so. I felt no guilt about my decision. My husband and I were married in a Catholic Church, but we did not have a full mass since my husband was an Episcopalian. Religion was not an important aspect of our life. All three of our children were baptized in a Catholic church, but attended Sunday services with their Episcopal grandparents. We celebrated Easter, Christmas and other religious holidays, but we were not a religious family. We taught our children to be good, kind, and honest, and to "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

Over the years I began to question my faith influenced by logic, inconsistencies in the Bible, and the hypocrisy of some people who claimed they were religious. I invited people of various religions into my home when they came to my door and we discussed our beliefs. These discussions lead me further away from religion. When my son’s friend became ill, I prayed and pleaded with God to save her. Her death was the final blow. I didn't suffer a loss of faith; I made a conscious decision not to believe. Benjamin Franklin once said, "As we grow older, it becomes difficult to just believe. It's not that we don't want to, but too much has happened that we just can't.”

I will not, cannot, choose not to believe in a deity who allows suffering, who allows the young to die, and who stands by while bad things happen to good people. A deity who expects allegiance without question, belief without proof, and faith without thought. “It was God’s will” or “God saved me” are two statements that anger me. What kind of God chooses to let someone die because he wants them to be with him? Why is one person more deserving of life than another? Man has given God human attributes, human weaknesses, and male gender. Man has created a god in his own image with all of his cruelty, selfishness, and ego. Why are natural disasters called Acts of God? Why was everyone banished from the Garden of Eden for a wrong supposedly committed by one or two people? Why do people who are "born again" use the lack of God in their lives as an excuse for their previous bad actions? They always had the option, the choice, the free will to be good or bad.

Am I am bad person because I no longer believe in God? Am I less moral, less kind, less deserving of love and respect than I was the day before I made my decision? Doing the right thing should not be something that is motivated by a fear of hell and punishment. We should do good, be good simply because it is the right thing to do. I don’t need commandments to believe lying, stealing, and killing are wrong nor do I lack a moral compass because I do not believe I will be rewarded in Heaven. It is as if I have walked out of the shadows into the sunlight and nothing has changed.

"He who toward all living things is kind... Ah! He indeed will true religion find." ~The Sacred Book of the Sikhs
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One Loss Too Many

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Yesterday should have been a gray day with a weeping sky. That was the forecast. Instead the day was sunny and cool - a perfect spring day. The sunny weather was a betrayal. In a world where children die and dreams are destroyed, a sunny day can be unbearable. Eight years ago yesterday my son A’s friend Kelly died. Kelly was 20 years old and had been diagnosed with Leukemia when she was fifteen. Kelly never learned to drive a car, but she graduated from high school at the top of her class, spent the summer before college working with children in the Americorp program, and became engaged while away at college. Her whole future was before her.

“I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving..."
~Les Miserables - I Dreamed a Dream

The following summer everything fell apart. Kelly began to come out of remission and her oncologist recommended a bone marrow transplant. Instead of giving up and retreating from life, Kelly chose to live. She enrolled in college locally, moved into her own apartment, worked part-time at a hospital with the goal of becoming a physician, and adopted a cat she named Sage. In October of 2001 she underwent the bone marrow transplant. Over the following five months Kelly was in the hospital for every holiday - Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, St. Valentine’s Day, and Easter. One day I asked my son when Kelly would be leaving the hospital and he responded, “Not in this lifetime.”

"I had a dream my life would be
So different from this Hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.”

Kelly died on a Wednesday and was buried on the day Louisville began its pre-Derby celebration. The day was gray and rainy as if the whole world was weeping for the loss it had suffered.

I am not a religious person. I do not believe in a literal Heaven or Hell. Children should not die before their parents and dreams should not be destroyed. If there is a hell, it is here on earth. Scientists say that energy cannot be destroyed. I hope that somewhere everything that was Kelly still exists ~albeit in another form. To believe otherwise would make life unbearable.

What the caterpillar perceives is the end, to the butterfly is just the beginning. ~Unknown

Every time I see a butterfly I think of Kelly and what should have been.
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Being Good Neighbors

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We have good neighbors. When we moved into our house many years ago, the woman across the street brought us a loaf of fresh baked bread. When a storm struck the city and knocked down trees, people worked together to remove them from the road. One neighbor cuts an elderly neighbor's grass in summer and shovels his driveway in winter. Last year a neighbor divided her iris and set the extras on a table with a sign “free to good home.” I adopted some of these orphans and they are growing happily in my garden.

Many people in our country have forgotten what it means to be a good neighbor. Instead of working together to solve the many problems our society faces, the people who were silent or attempted to silence others when those in power made decisions which impacted negatively upon our economy, our personal welfare, and our status in the world now believe the solution is to condemn big government and its alleged intrusion into their daily lives. They have jobs, and homes, and access to health care, so why should they care about those who do not.

Common sense and civility have been replaced with name calling, negativity, and hypocrisy. These people, whom I call The Madhatters, come to the table empty headed and empty handed. They complain about attempts being made to solve problems, but offer no solutions of their own. They claim they don’t want the government interfering with their lives, but many receive Medicare, Social Security, Disability and/or Unemployment benefits while wanting to deny similar benefits to others. They see no contradiction in a “wanna be” politician receiving $250,000 in farm subsidies while stating that the government should not provide universal health care.

Photographs of gatherings of the Madhatters show a sea of white faces, grey hair, flags and guns. Like the followers of cultist Jim Jones, they see themselves as ignored, disenfranchised and used by society. They drink in the poisonous words spouted by their leaders and know-it-all talk show hosts and accept lies and misinformation as fact. We have become a society that judges success by wealth, values personal welfare over that of others, and equates capitalism with democracy. We have forgotten that our founding fathers lived in a time when neighbors helped each other and people believed in the Golden Rule. I want to live in a neighborhood, a country, a world where people care about each other, where we share our bounty with those less fortunate, and where tea and sympathy replace cyanide laced grape drinks.

The individual who remembers that we are responsible for the beasts, children and those who can no longer fare for themselves - that is the individual who will prosper and thrive in times both harsh and plentiful. The individual who cannot or will not acknowledge these most basic tenets of humanity... are destined for a life of inhumanity and may be the one flailing their hands when they themselves most need assistance. ~Unknown
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Pizza Night

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“Ponder well on this point: the pleasant hours of our life are all connected by a more or less tangible link, with some memory of the table.” ~Charles Pierre Monselet

Friday night is pizza night at our house. This weekly ritual was not planned, it simply evolved. When my children were young and the days long and hectic, I looked forward to Friday night because it was the beginning of a few days together without the bustle of school, work and scheduled activities. The evening meal was always something simple like tacos or hamburgers or, on rare occasions, a takeout pizza.

One of my earliest and fondest childhood memories was going to my grandmother’s house on Wednesday for dinner. My mother, who did not drive at that time, would walk to my elementary school and from there she and I would walk to my grandmother’s house. Upon our arrival we would be greeted by the smell of bread baking in the oven, fresh made pasta drying on a towel laid over the back of a chair, and a homemade pizza sitting on the counter as a pre-dinner “snack”.

Grandma’s pizza would not be recognizable by most Americans. It was thick, but light and the toppings were usually limited to tomatoes, cheese (not mozzarella), and the occasional anchovy--which I always removed. More like focaccia than store bought pizza, grandma’s creation was good hot, cold or day old for breakfast. It was the standard by which I have measured every other pizza. After my grandmother died my Aunt Ida replicated my grandmother’s recipe, which was not written down anywhere, and continued the tradition.

After years of ordering pizzas and trying the various products offered in stores, I decided to try my own hand at making pizza. Initially I purchased frozen bread dough and applied my own toppings. My children often helped, so even if the dough was less than satisfactory we were pleased with the results. As time passed, our expectations grew. Several years ago I purchased a food processor that could blend dough. I experimented with many different recipes and finally found one that comes close to my memory of my grandmother’s pizza.

Every Friday at noon I make fresh dough and let it rise all day. The toppings each week vary depending on what is in the refrigerator, pantry, and freezer. My son B makes a wonderful pizza consisting of canned tomatoes, bacon, caramelized onions, and oregano. I favor a pizza with fresh tomatoes, basil leaves, a variety of fresh vegetables and a thick topping of mozzarella cheese, My husband likes a traditional pizza with tomato sauce, meat and cheese. If I suggest that I make something other than pizza on a Friday night, I am met with complaints. Friday evenings have become a time of family, relaxation, tradition, and memories. Some of the best things in life can’t be purchased. They are created.

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The Memory Keepers

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As we grow older our memories of the past change and fade. This is evident when listening to members of an even older generation repeat stories of their younger days and we realize that some of the people and events in the stories have changed or don’t match previous tellings. Personal and family history are important to me. I come from a family of “memory keepers” who maintained photo albums documenting their daily activities. When I was in high school I began compiling a family tree and as a freshman in college I created my first scrapbook chronicling that significant year of my life. I subsequently became the caretaker of the dorm scrapbook, which hadn’t been updated in years, and created annual scrapbooks of my four years in college.

After I married and before I had children the need to document my life faded. However, in 1981 when I had my first child, the urge to record family history began anew. Each of my three children has a completed baby book and their own scrapbook/album recording their activities during the first year of their lives. Since that time I have made an annual family scrapbook. The early ones were created in the days before scrapbooking became popular, so instead of stickers and fancy printed papers many of the pages are embellished with drawings and memorabilia. Our collection of scrapbooks also includes scrapbooks that document a life rather than a year. I made a “This is Your Life” scrapbook when each of my sons turned 21, my daughter turned 18, and my husband celebrated his 50th birthday. I have started a wedding scrapbook and a scrapbook of the “missing years” between marriage and parenthood is in the planning stages. Most days these scrapbooks sit on the bookshelf untouched and unnoticed, but at least once a year a family member gets the urge to “relive” their past and we spend hours browsing through the books and remembering the days when our lives were a blur of endless activities.

Now that my children are grown the new scrapbooks are thinner and document holidays, parties, special days, and things I believe are important enough to remember, like the pumpkin I grew last year or the new koi we purchased at an annual fish show. Three years ago, when my daughter began her freshman year of college, I gave her a scrapbook for her to fill. I come from a family of memory keepers. The tradition continues.

"Remember me in the family tree My name, my days, my strife; Then I'll ride upon the wings of time And live an endless life." ~Linda Goetsch
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My Own Eden

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One of my favorite movies is “The Wizard of Oz”. It is the first movie I remember seeing at a movie theater and a movie my children and I watched over and over again. I love the characters, I love the songs, and I love the way the movie changes from black and white to color when Dorothy leaves her house to enter Oz and Munchkin Land. At the end of the film Dorothy is asked what she has learned from her experiences and she replies: “If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard.”

I like to think of myself as a gardener. Each year I know spring has arrived, not because the weather is getting warmer or more birds are singing outside my bedroom window each morning, but because I feel it in my bones. My garden “calls” to me. I feel a compulsion to dig in the dirt and plant flowers. I think it is genetic. My paternal grandfather planted a vegetable garden every year and he had grapevines and roses. My maternal grandmother’s yard was filled with snapdragons, hollyhocks, hens and chicks, and tomato plants growing next to the garage. When I work in my yard, when I plant, water, mulch and sow, I feel I am carrying on a tradition. My grandparents are with me and I am creating my own Eden.

Yesterday was the perfect day. It was warm, but not hot. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my five dogs stayed close by while I pulled weeds and mulched the beds surrounding the Koi pond my family had created in our back yard six years ago. After my work was done, I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs next to the pond with my lap dog Pinch and read a book. Birds drank from the stream and fed at the nearby bird feeder, the dogs chased squirrels and wandered through the various garden rooms I have created, and for a few moments the problems of the every day world disappeared.

"What is paradise, but, a garden, an orchard of trees and herbs, full of pleasure and nothing there but delights." ~William Lawson ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Becoming a Collector

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All of us have collections of one sort or another. I used to collect rolling pins and cookbooks; my husband collected mugs; and my children collected pins, key chains, frogs, and thimbles--and most recently, shot glasses and travel stickers. Presently, and for many years, I have been a collector of quotations.

I can’t remember when this fascination with quotes began. I think it can be traced back to a line in a poem that stuck in my head as a child, “I think that I will never see, a poem as lovely as a tree,“ from “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer which I had to memorize in elementary school. I also clearly remember a line from “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost, which we were forced to read in high school.

“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

As a freshman in college, when the Vietnam War was raging, the poem "Patterns" by Amy Lowell expressed what many young people were feeling: “In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?“ In my freshman English class I chose to analyze T. S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” as my major project. For some reason the “song” of an aging man who “measured his life with coffee spoons” resonated for me.

My real “collecting days” began when I worked at the reference desk at a law library. I had access to “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” and other similar works and read through them whenever I had a free moment. Years later, I found quotations to include in letters we were asked to write when my children went on their senior high school retreats. Currently, I collect quotes to post on my website and to send to my daughter whom I have been emailing every night while she is away at college. The quotes I send to my daughter usually relate to something I mentioned in the email or a line or two to inspire.

I don’t know what the appeal of quotes is, but I find it somehow comforting to know that others share my thoughts and feelings - and have expressed them in a form worth remembering and repeating. The quotes capture a moment, an idea, a feeling, or a goal we would like to accomplish. I will never say or write anything worth remembering, but I am still a work in progress.

"Love the earth and sun and animals,
Despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks,
Stand up for the stupid and crazy,
Devote your income and labor to others...
And your very flesh shall be a great poem."

~Walt Whitman

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