For a long while, I felt like a failure. Surely, I thought, there was something I could have done--planned more mother/daughter activities, taken more time to listen, hugged more, laughed more...
By God's loving grace, I finally began to see through the fog of agony that enveloped me. Cheryl had become an adult--granted, not necessarily a mature adult. She was going to make her own choices in life. I could no longer choose for her or protect her from bad choices. I had to let go...and let God take care of her. That's a difficult decision to make.
By letting go, I faced not knowing what was going on in her life. There were times I didn't even know where she was. I had to field questions from family and friends: "How is Cheryl? What's she doing now? How's the baby?" Questions I had no answers for. Questions that made me feel like the world's worst mother.
Worry is a mother's worst nightmare and believe me, I inherited the biggest worry gene from my mother. It took a concentrated effort to give that up to God as well. I have absolutely no control over what Cheryl does with her life. (Let me reread what I wrote--you see, I have to keep reminding myself.)
But did I/do I have any influence? Were those 14 years she allowed me to be her mother wasted?
Monday, August 29, 2005
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 15
When we went before the judge to make our adoption of Cheryl and Don final, Cheryl was asked if she wanted to be a part of our family--she was only six. She answered,"I want to be a Robbins forever and ever!" And then promptly hid her head in Bob's jacket.
At twenty-one, when Cheryl was asked by the judge at her divorce hearing if she wanted to return to her maiden name, she said no. She chose the name of her biological family instead.
It hurt.
Something happened in those teen years that I still do not understand. Maybe it was something that was there all along and we just didn't see it. Hindsight tells us that we should have had counseling for her and us. We just thought that loving her, caring for her, providing a stable home and family was all that was necessary. We never thought that perhaps the "baggage" she carried from her young life would stay with her.
Looking honestly at the way I relate to my children, I have to say that yes, there is a difference. The twins being the oldest were our "learning experience." Kids don't come with a manual and we certainly learned by trial and error with them. Andy came along and was a whole different personality from the beginning. And, having those three as babies made our bonding experience different than the adoption experience. Don had handicaps to deal with and Cheryl was a girl--now that in itself was all new territory. There is no way to love each child the same. No two children are exactly the same. (I can speak from experience since my husband is an identical twin and quite different from his brother.)
We have raised three young men who are functioning as solid, loving, independent adults who love their family. Don is living "independently" in his own apartment and wouldn't dream of abandoning the family. Had I failed as a mother with Cheryl? Why had she abandoned us?
At twenty-one, when Cheryl was asked by the judge at her divorce hearing if she wanted to return to her maiden name, she said no. She chose the name of her biological family instead.
It hurt.
Something happened in those teen years that I still do not understand. Maybe it was something that was there all along and we just didn't see it. Hindsight tells us that we should have had counseling for her and us. We just thought that loving her, caring for her, providing a stable home and family was all that was necessary. We never thought that perhaps the "baggage" she carried from her young life would stay with her.
Looking honestly at the way I relate to my children, I have to say that yes, there is a difference. The twins being the oldest were our "learning experience." Kids don't come with a manual and we certainly learned by trial and error with them. Andy came along and was a whole different personality from the beginning. And, having those three as babies made our bonding experience different than the adoption experience. Don had handicaps to deal with and Cheryl was a girl--now that in itself was all new territory. There is no way to love each child the same. No two children are exactly the same. (I can speak from experience since my husband is an identical twin and quite different from his brother.)
We have raised three young men who are functioning as solid, loving, independent adults who love their family. Don is living "independently" in his own apartment and wouldn't dream of abandoning the family. Had I failed as a mother with Cheryl? Why had she abandoned us?
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Adoption--Bonding14
Don's disabilities were an obvious outcome of genes. The speech patterns from his father were too similar. We had always been told that there were probably some genetic conditions that lent to his motor skills being poor. There was just no disease that doctors could put a finger on that would have contributed other than a slight case of cerebral palsy.
Today, I can see how environment has helped Don. He grew up with a supportive family that encouraged him to stretch his skills and overcome the disabilities as much as he could. He is living independently with the help of our county board of mental retardation, and the support of his family, friends, and church. He's developed Bob's sense of humor. The bantor between the two is amusing and keeps Don's wit harp.
But what about Cheryl? She was in the same environment but yet, instead of seeking to make herself independent and self-supportive, she has chosen to live much the same way her biological parents have. I mentioned the similarities in her life to her biological mother's life. Without knowing beforehand, Cheryl followed the same path.
Cheryl's birth mother was also adopted. On another visit to her birth family, Cheryl was taken to a nursing home to see her birth mother's adoptive mother. Cheryl's married a man (now divorced) with mental disabilities although not as severe as her birth father's. And...Cheryl's first child (and more recently two more) was removed from the home by children's services.
Why was there such a difference between the way Don responded to the environment of our home and the way Cheryl did? Personality? Different genes? Why had we bonded so well with Don and not with Cheryl?
Today, I can see how environment has helped Don. He grew up with a supportive family that encouraged him to stretch his skills and overcome the disabilities as much as he could. He is living independently with the help of our county board of mental retardation, and the support of his family, friends, and church. He's developed Bob's sense of humor. The bantor between the two is amusing and keeps Don's wit harp.
But what about Cheryl? She was in the same environment but yet, instead of seeking to make herself independent and self-supportive, she has chosen to live much the same way her biological parents have. I mentioned the similarities in her life to her biological mother's life. Without knowing beforehand, Cheryl followed the same path.
Cheryl's birth mother was also adopted. On another visit to her birth family, Cheryl was taken to a nursing home to see her birth mother's adoptive mother. Cheryl's married a man (now divorced) with mental disabilities although not as severe as her birth father's. And...Cheryl's first child (and more recently two more) was removed from the home by children's services.
Why was there such a difference between the way Don responded to the environment of our home and the way Cheryl did? Personality? Different genes? Why had we bonded so well with Don and not with Cheryl?
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Adoption--Bonding13
At the risk of confusing you, I need to jump back and forth a bit here to explore the genes/environment issue. When Cheryl turned 18, she hit a breaking point in her emotional problems that had built up through the teen years. She determined to leave our home and seek out her "real" parents. She felt this would be an answer to all that troubled her.
In the process of "finding herself" she met a guy, got pregnant, and then got married. Just as I was beginning to think that she was settling down, she announced that she had found her real parents. She invited us along to meet them for the first time. The place we found them in was a relative's home that looked just like the place described to us by the social services when they took Cheryl and Don.
The rundown house sat in the middle of an automobile graveyard. I skipped over the first step on the porch for fear my foot would go through the rotted wood. Inside, the floors looked like they had not seen a vacuum in years. Boxes of stuff--newspapers, old junk, ????--were piled up agains the walls. A small computer desk sat in one room amidst the boxes and a large screen TV was in the living room across from a dirty looking couch.
The house was filled with a dozen relatives, all of whom seemed happy to ignore Cheryl, her husband, and us--even the baby. Don had chosen not to go. It confused him to think that he might have a second set of parents.
We met Cheryl's biological mother and I could see where Cheryl's physical features had come from. Then we met her father. When he spoke, I recognized Don's speech pattern immediately.
I had put together a book of pictures showing significant times in Cheryl and Don's lives. I tried to include pictures that didn't have Bob and I in them. There was no need to remind them that someone else had been there instead of them. They set the album aside and were much more interested in showing Cheryl the pictures of when they were little and living with them. It was good, I told myself, Cheryl needed to see pictures of herself as a baby.
We left before they were about to serve cheese sandwiches. I'm sure they were good but they came from a kitchen that was full of trash and grease and...well, you get the picture. Cheryl and her husband stayed on. I was later to learn that they spent the night. I shuddered.
The obvious learning disabilities and retardation that the social services had reported to us during the adoption process were there. The conditions of the house were the same. But Cheryl's head was to be filled with stories of how the children's services unfairly took them and the authorities were lied to by other family members who were trying to stir up trouble. Later Cheryl would find out from another relative these stories were fabricated and she eventually lost faith in her "real" parents. The strange thing was that she never gave us credit for telling her the truth.
As the relationships within the biological family unfolded, we were surprised at the similarities between Cheryl's life and that of her mother. Genes? Coincidence?
In the process of "finding herself" she met a guy, got pregnant, and then got married. Just as I was beginning to think that she was settling down, she announced that she had found her real parents. She invited us along to meet them for the first time. The place we found them in was a relative's home that looked just like the place described to us by the social services when they took Cheryl and Don.
The rundown house sat in the middle of an automobile graveyard. I skipped over the first step on the porch for fear my foot would go through the rotted wood. Inside, the floors looked like they had not seen a vacuum in years. Boxes of stuff--newspapers, old junk, ????--were piled up agains the walls. A small computer desk sat in one room amidst the boxes and a large screen TV was in the living room across from a dirty looking couch.
The house was filled with a dozen relatives, all of whom seemed happy to ignore Cheryl, her husband, and us--even the baby. Don had chosen not to go. It confused him to think that he might have a second set of parents.
We met Cheryl's biological mother and I could see where Cheryl's physical features had come from. Then we met her father. When he spoke, I recognized Don's speech pattern immediately.
I had put together a book of pictures showing significant times in Cheryl and Don's lives. I tried to include pictures that didn't have Bob and I in them. There was no need to remind them that someone else had been there instead of them. They set the album aside and were much more interested in showing Cheryl the pictures of when they were little and living with them. It was good, I told myself, Cheryl needed to see pictures of herself as a baby.
We left before they were about to serve cheese sandwiches. I'm sure they were good but they came from a kitchen that was full of trash and grease and...well, you get the picture. Cheryl and her husband stayed on. I was later to learn that they spent the night. I shuddered.
The obvious learning disabilities and retardation that the social services had reported to us during the adoption process were there. The conditions of the house were the same. But Cheryl's head was to be filled with stories of how the children's services unfairly took them and the authorities were lied to by other family members who were trying to stir up trouble. Later Cheryl would find out from another relative these stories were fabricated and she eventually lost faith in her "real" parents. The strange thing was that she never gave us credit for telling her the truth.
As the relationships within the biological family unfolded, we were surprised at the similarities between Cheryl's life and that of her mother. Genes? Coincidence?
Friday, August 19, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 12
Having raised my older boys from babies, I was accustomed to touching them and they were familiar with my touch. I knew how to hold them when they needed it. I knew what soothed them when they cried. I had no knowledge of that with Cheryl and Don.
I could perch Don on my lap but when I tried to cuddle him, he responded stiffly. Cheryl didn't like to be held. She would sit on Bob's lap long enough for a story but then she was off and running again. There just wasn't the physical kind of touching, holding, cuddling, that there would have been if they were babies. And, I wasn't sure what might have transpired in the biological or other foster homes that may have made them feel uncomfortable being held.
Much later we were to find out that children who have difficulty bonding are often those who have trouble cuddling, being held. This isn't just with adopted children but can also occur with biological children. Unfortunately, we learned this too late with Cheryl. If I were to give any advice about problems with bonding with your adopted children, I would say get some counseling for them and you. By the time we learned our lesson, Cheryl was 18 and refused any help.
While Don still is not terribly affectionate, he does give us awkward hugs and pats on the back. Sometimes it's hard to sort out what might be a bonding problem or just a result of his developmental handicap or just the fact that he's all grown up now and acting like a teenager--even though he's 27.
Throughout Cheryl and Don's childhood, there was always a question of nature or nurture. Did they respond a certain way because of their genes or was it because of their environment?
I could perch Don on my lap but when I tried to cuddle him, he responded stiffly. Cheryl didn't like to be held. She would sit on Bob's lap long enough for a story but then she was off and running again. There just wasn't the physical kind of touching, holding, cuddling, that there would have been if they were babies. And, I wasn't sure what might have transpired in the biological or other foster homes that may have made them feel uncomfortable being held.
Much later we were to find out that children who have difficulty bonding are often those who have trouble cuddling, being held. This isn't just with adopted children but can also occur with biological children. Unfortunately, we learned this too late with Cheryl. If I were to give any advice about problems with bonding with your adopted children, I would say get some counseling for them and you. By the time we learned our lesson, Cheryl was 18 and refused any help.
While Don still is not terribly affectionate, he does give us awkward hugs and pats on the back. Sometimes it's hard to sort out what might be a bonding problem or just a result of his developmental handicap or just the fact that he's all grown up now and acting like a teenager--even though he's 27.
Throughout Cheryl and Don's childhood, there was always a question of nature or nurture. Did they respond a certain way because of their genes or was it because of their environment?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 11
It took a major sibling brouhaha to wake me up to the fact that I was treating Don and Cheryl differently than my other children. I don't remember what it was about but I stepped in to squash the commotion. I was about to punish the older guys and gloss over what Cheryl and Don had done when I realized what I was doing. I was treating them as though they were guests in our home--not our children.
I meted out the punishments equally, sending everyone to their rooms. After I thought about it for a while, it was probably the biggest step I'd taken in those first few weeks to integrate our two new children into the family. All five were suddenly on an equal footing with Mom. It changed their relationship with each other. No longer were the boys walking on eggs around Cheryl and respecting her space. She was an equal. She could be the target of sibling tricks or be just as guilty as the next one in breaking the rules. They still tended to protect Don, but I think that had more to do with his disabilities and his age as well as male bonding.
There was still one area of bonding however that truly bothered me.
I meted out the punishments equally, sending everyone to their rooms. After I thought about it for a while, it was probably the biggest step I'd taken in those first few weeks to integrate our two new children into the family. All five were suddenly on an equal footing with Mom. It changed their relationship with each other. No longer were the boys walking on eggs around Cheryl and respecting her space. She was an equal. She could be the target of sibling tricks or be just as guilty as the next one in breaking the rules. They still tended to protect Don, but I think that had more to do with his disabilities and his age as well as male bonding.
There was still one area of bonding however that truly bothered me.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 10
When you bring a newborn baby home, you begin a slow process of learning their needs and how to meet them. When you bring home older children to assimilate into the family, they come with a ready made history, good and bad, and a much different list of needs. As time went along, I became more aware of how unprepared I was even though I already had children who were older than Cheryl and Don.
I think I was more exhausted when my two new additions to the family moved in than when I brought my twins home. The babies you could put in a crib for a nap and sit down for a few minutes. Cheryl and Don were beyond the nap stage and were energized with the excitement of a new home, new family, and new activities.
Not knowing exactly what they might do or get into, I kept a vigilent eye. One afternoon, they went through the kitchen, drawer by drawer, to see what was in them. I wondered if this was their way of getting to learn the new house--after all, it was the seventh different home they'd been in during the last three years.
My constant vigilence caught up with me, however. One day they decided to sit on the floor in one spot for a few minutes and play. I plopped on the couch to watch them. I wanted to observe how they played, see how they interacted--basically, absorb all I could to truly get to know them. With no warning, I fell asleep. No nodding. No fighting heavy eyes. I was just asleep. I have no idea how long but I awoke with a start, fearful of what I had missed and where my new children were.
There was no need to fear. They sat on the floor at my feet, staring back at me, as curious about me sleeping as I had been about their play. It was the first time in a week or so that I actually began to feel comfortable with my new responsibility as their mother.
But, soon I would realize that I wasn't being a mother to them.
I think I was more exhausted when my two new additions to the family moved in than when I brought my twins home. The babies you could put in a crib for a nap and sit down for a few minutes. Cheryl and Don were beyond the nap stage and were energized with the excitement of a new home, new family, and new activities.
Not knowing exactly what they might do or get into, I kept a vigilent eye. One afternoon, they went through the kitchen, drawer by drawer, to see what was in them. I wondered if this was their way of getting to learn the new house--after all, it was the seventh different home they'd been in during the last three years.
My constant vigilence caught up with me, however. One day they decided to sit on the floor in one spot for a few minutes and play. I plopped on the couch to watch them. I wanted to observe how they played, see how they interacted--basically, absorb all I could to truly get to know them. With no warning, I fell asleep. No nodding. No fighting heavy eyes. I was just asleep. I have no idea how long but I awoke with a start, fearful of what I had missed and where my new children were.
There was no need to fear. They sat on the floor at my feet, staring back at me, as curious about me sleeping as I had been about their play. It was the first time in a week or so that I actually began to feel comfortable with my new responsibility as their mother.
But, soon I would realize that I wasn't being a mother to them.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 9
Perhaps it was the excitement of packing their worldly possessions, but this time Cheryl didn't seem to mind leaving Sherry and her foster sisters behind. We put their few boxes in the back of our car and they began their "good-byes" to Sherry and her family.
I turned to Sherry as we were ready to leave. Her eyes were misty.
"How do you do this over and over again?" I asked. My heart was hurting for her.
"I take a 'timeout'," she responded. "This time will be easier than others. Usually I have to give the babies or children back to the environment they came from knowing that they will proabably be back in the system again. This time, I know they will be with a good family who will love them and care for them. It'll be easier."
We waved good-bye and started on our way home. I wasn't sure if they truly understood this was THE DAY. There would be no coming back. We began singing in the car.
"Donny was a wee little man and a wee little man was he. He climbed up in a Sycamore tree for his Savior now to see...And Jesus said, 'Donny you come down for you're going to your new home to stay'." It didn't all fit the song but I made it up as I went along.
When we arrived home, the boys helped us get Don and Cheryl settled. We put things in drawers and hung stuff in closets. Then we sat down to dinner and for the first time, it began to sink in. This was it. I was committed. They were here to stay. No turning back.
I turned to Sherry as we were ready to leave. Her eyes were misty.
"How do you do this over and over again?" I asked. My heart was hurting for her.
"I take a 'timeout'," she responded. "This time will be easier than others. Usually I have to give the babies or children back to the environment they came from knowing that they will proabably be back in the system again. This time, I know they will be with a good family who will love them and care for them. It'll be easier."
We waved good-bye and started on our way home. I wasn't sure if they truly understood this was THE DAY. There would be no coming back. We began singing in the car.
"Donny was a wee little man and a wee little man was he. He climbed up in a Sycamore tree for his Savior now to see...And Jesus said, 'Donny you come down for you're going to your new home to stay'." It didn't all fit the song but I made it up as I went along.
When we arrived home, the boys helped us get Don and Cheryl settled. We put things in drawers and hung stuff in closets. Then we sat down to dinner and for the first time, it began to sink in. This was it. I was committed. They were here to stay. No turning back.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 8
[Apologies to you regular readers. I am on the road and my wifi connection has not worked properly. I'm now connected through blue tooth and dh's cell phone--basically a dial up that sometimes doesn't work. Please bear with me.]
Cheryl delved into my collection of old formals and played dressup for the weekend. Don busied himself with the boys and the hot wheels cars--we had a hard time keeping them out of his mouth though. He was still like a two year old putting things in his mouth.
We spent a couple of months shuffling the kids back and forth from their foster home to ours. Each stay was a little longer. Each separation from Sherrie a little harder for Cheryl. We were finally to the point where I was Mommy and Sherrie was Sherrie.
Sherrie sat down with me at one of the last overnight stays. She was experiencing some problems with Cheryl acting out. She was sure that Cheryl was just frustrated with the upheaval in her life and suggested that maybe we could talk with the social worker and move our placement date up a bit.
The social worker was in agreement and Cheryl and Don were scheduled to be placed with us October 3. As the day approached, the excitement built. So did my expectations. I was so sure that just having them in our home all the time, getting into a routine, would meld us magically as a family.
Magic is something found only in Harry Potter books.
Cheryl delved into my collection of old formals and played dressup for the weekend. Don busied himself with the boys and the hot wheels cars--we had a hard time keeping them out of his mouth though. He was still like a two year old putting things in his mouth.
We spent a couple of months shuffling the kids back and forth from their foster home to ours. Each stay was a little longer. Each separation from Sherrie a little harder for Cheryl. We were finally to the point where I was Mommy and Sherrie was Sherrie.
Sherrie sat down with me at one of the last overnight stays. She was experiencing some problems with Cheryl acting out. She was sure that Cheryl was just frustrated with the upheaval in her life and suggested that maybe we could talk with the social worker and move our placement date up a bit.
The social worker was in agreement and Cheryl and Don were scheduled to be placed with us October 3. As the day approached, the excitement built. So did my expectations. I was so sure that just having them in our home all the time, getting into a routine, would meld us magically as a family.
Magic is something found only in Harry Potter books.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 7
Cheryl cried and clutched at Sherrie not wanting to let go. Sherrie set her down but she clung to Sherrie's legs. My heart was breaking. I was torn between wanting to mother her and yet feeling her pain of separating from the mother she knew now.
We had started to get the kids to refer to us as "Mommy Sherrie" and "Mommy Karen" with the intention of eventually dropping the "mommy" from Sherrie's name. The problem was (I think) the kids had been shuffled to so many homes in three years that they had no idea what a "mommy" was other than the woman who took care of them. Sherrie's home was the 7th foster home in three years and we were the fourth home in that year where they were placed.
With some more gentle coaxing, Cheryl gradually let go of Sherrie and we got her interested in something in the house while Sherrie slipped out. Cheryl never let us know when she missed Sherrie. I'm sure she did, but she made no mention of it. Perhaps she assumed that was it. She was here to stay with a new mommy and daddy. And in her young mind, I'm sure she wondered "How long?"
We had started to get the kids to refer to us as "Mommy Sherrie" and "Mommy Karen" with the intention of eventually dropping the "mommy" from Sherrie's name. The problem was (I think) the kids had been shuffled to so many homes in three years that they had no idea what a "mommy" was other than the woman who took care of them. Sherrie's home was the 7th foster home in three years and we were the fourth home in that year where they were placed.
With some more gentle coaxing, Cheryl gradually let go of Sherrie and we got her interested in something in the house while Sherrie slipped out. Cheryl never let us know when she missed Sherrie. I'm sure she did, but she made no mention of it. Perhaps she assumed that was it. She was here to stay with a new mommy and daddy. And in her young mind, I'm sure she wondered "How long?"
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 6
Cheryl seemed satisfied with her examination of me and we played some more before eating dinner. Whatever had transpired in those few moments is still a mystery to me.
Our boys were enamored with the idea of having a new little brother and sister.
"Just think," I said to Andy. "You won't be the baby anymore."
There was silence. I turned in my seat to see if one of the twins had a hand over his mouth. He was studying his hands.
"It's kind of nice to be the baby in the family," he said quietly.
Wow, I thought. What do I do now?
"Andy, you will always be my baby. Don will be my little one." (This weekend, the little one will be 27 and my baby is 31. They still enjoy the distinction I made.)
Andy brightened and the chatter continued all the way home.
We gradually increased the time that Cheryl and Don would spend visiting us. They came to our home for a long afternoon and then again for an overnight stay. Andy had volunteered to share a room with Don so we shifted beds among the boys, putting the bunk beds in the largest bedroom for Don and Andy. Rob made out in the deal. He got a new bed.
Cheryl got a new bed as well. We purchased a white canopy bed with dresser and nightstand. I busily set about doing a pink room. While it wasn't a pink nursery it was still fun putting together something for a girl.
They arrived in the early afternoon. Don bounced out of the car immediately when Sherrie opened the door. Cheryl, on the other hand, slid out very slowly and clutched Sherrie's hand all the way into the house. It seemed strange. When we had parted the last time, Cheryl had seemed very eager to come back and spend the night. Now she didn't want to let Sherrie go.
Was I in for a troubling time?
Our boys were enamored with the idea of having a new little brother and sister.
"Just think," I said to Andy. "You won't be the baby anymore."
There was silence. I turned in my seat to see if one of the twins had a hand over his mouth. He was studying his hands.
"It's kind of nice to be the baby in the family," he said quietly.
Wow, I thought. What do I do now?
"Andy, you will always be my baby. Don will be my little one." (This weekend, the little one will be 27 and my baby is 31. They still enjoy the distinction I made.)
Andy brightened and the chatter continued all the way home.
We gradually increased the time that Cheryl and Don would spend visiting us. They came to our home for a long afternoon and then again for an overnight stay. Andy had volunteered to share a room with Don so we shifted beds among the boys, putting the bunk beds in the largest bedroom for Don and Andy. Rob made out in the deal. He got a new bed.
Cheryl got a new bed as well. We purchased a white canopy bed with dresser and nightstand. I busily set about doing a pink room. While it wasn't a pink nursery it was still fun putting together something for a girl.
They arrived in the early afternoon. Don bounced out of the car immediately when Sherrie opened the door. Cheryl, on the other hand, slid out very slowly and clutched Sherrie's hand all the way into the house. It seemed strange. When we had parted the last time, Cheryl had seemed very eager to come back and spend the night. Now she didn't want to let Sherrie go.
Was I in for a troubling time?
Monday, July 25, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 5
Cheryl informed me that she could take care of herself. I held the door shut for her. I didn't want her to latch it and force me to crawl under it if she couldn't get out.
Altogether, we spent about two hours with Cheryl and Don. When we returned, we planned our next visit where our boys could meet their prospective brother and sister.
Sherry and her husband had cordially invited us to a backyard BBQ where the kids would feel more comfortable and could play together. It was interesting to watch our boys interact. They were quite comfortable with Don. They could do all the young male bonding things--play with Hot Wheels, throw and catch a ball, etc. When it came to Cheryl, however, they were stymied. They had no clue what you did with a six year old girl. Their girl cousins were all their own age.
Cheryl and I began playing together, running in the grass, kicking a ball, playing 'keep away.' I fell and rolled on the ground and suddenly found Cheryl on top of me. She sat on my stomach and peered into my eyes. Her crystal blue eyes stared into mine while time seemed to stand still. It was as if she were looking into my soul--looking to see who I truly was. Would she like what she saw?
Altogether, we spent about two hours with Cheryl and Don. When we returned, we planned our next visit where our boys could meet their prospective brother and sister.
Sherry and her husband had cordially invited us to a backyard BBQ where the kids would feel more comfortable and could play together. It was interesting to watch our boys interact. They were quite comfortable with Don. They could do all the young male bonding things--play with Hot Wheels, throw and catch a ball, etc. When it came to Cheryl, however, they were stymied. They had no clue what you did with a six year old girl. Their girl cousins were all their own age.
Cheryl and I began playing together, running in the grass, kicking a ball, playing 'keep away.' I fell and rolled on the ground and suddenly found Cheryl on top of me. She sat on my stomach and peered into my eyes. Her crystal blue eyes stared into mine while time seemed to stand still. It was as if she were looking into my soul--looking to see who I truly was. Would she like what she saw?
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 4
The waiting didn't last long. We were contacted and asked to consider a sibling group of four girls. One, who was 16 did not want to be adopted but wanted to be near her sisters. They went to another family who lived closer to the sixteen year old. When we received the news, it was with the invitation to come and see a video of a brother and sister who had just become available for adoption. (See The Presence of His Spirit posts).
After viewing the video and talking with their foster mom, we made arrangements to meet Cheryl who was 6, and Don, 5. We went to the foster parents' home a little more than an hour away from ours.
Don was all smiles. He proudly shared his cars and trucks with us and brought us books to read. Cheryl was a bit withdrawn, clinging to Sherry, her foster mom. Eventually, she ventured forward, fingers in her mouth, and let me read a book to her. Both kids perked up when Sherry suggested we could take them to McDonald's for a burger and fries.
We were having a good time at McD's. The two were wolfing down their hamburger and fries like they'd never been fed (something I was sure was not true). Then Cheryl said she had to go to the bathroom. Bob looked at me and smiled.
"Guess you get to make bathroom trips now."
With our three boys, Bob had asssumed the major restroom responsibility once they got too old to take to the ladies room. He wasn't entirely off the hook though. Don indicated, in his garbled speech (Don is developmentally handicapped), that he needed to go too.
Once inside the ladies room, I suddenly felt awkward. She's too old to need help, isn't she? Do I go into the stall with her? Do I let her lock the door?
After viewing the video and talking with their foster mom, we made arrangements to meet Cheryl who was 6, and Don, 5. We went to the foster parents' home a little more than an hour away from ours.
Don was all smiles. He proudly shared his cars and trucks with us and brought us books to read. Cheryl was a bit withdrawn, clinging to Sherry, her foster mom. Eventually, she ventured forward, fingers in her mouth, and let me read a book to her. Both kids perked up when Sherry suggested we could take them to McDonald's for a burger and fries.
We were having a good time at McD's. The two were wolfing down their hamburger and fries like they'd never been fed (something I was sure was not true). Then Cheryl said she had to go to the bathroom. Bob looked at me and smiled.
"Guess you get to make bathroom trips now."
With our three boys, Bob had asssumed the major restroom responsibility once they got too old to take to the ladies room. He wasn't entirely off the hook though. Don indicated, in his garbled speech (Don is developmentally handicapped), that he needed to go too.
Once inside the ladies room, I suddenly felt awkward. She's too old to need help, isn't she? Do I go into the stall with her? Do I let her lock the door?
Monday, July 18, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 3
Whenever we talked about a family, Bob and I had always said that if the first two babies were the same sex, we would adopt the opposite to round out the family. Thus, we planned on three children. God has such a sense of humor...
With twin boys and a single birth resulting in another boy, we set out to find an adoption agency to begin a search for a daughter. The first attempt (when our youngest was two) fizzled when the social worker heard my children's voices in the background as I spoke with her on the phone.
"We're not accepting applications from people who have already been blessed with children of their own," she said stiffly.
I felt chastised. How could I have the audacity to ask for more children when there were couples who were childless? In my naivete, I hung up and did not pursue the issue further until the twins were 12 and Andy was 9, and I was much more savy about adoption and it's fit for our family.
I had no desire to adopt a baby. Bob would have loved it. He's the "baby person" in the family. I wasn't ready to take on diapers again and extend our initial parenting term another 10 years. We set out specifically to find a girl between 3 and 8 years of age. The other parameters we set included adopting special needs such as learning diabilities or slight retardation and/or a sibling group of 2.
We found an adoption agency in NE Ohio that dealt with "hard to place children" and began their orientation program. They explained the types of abuse the chidren placed in the system had experienced (basically: sexual, physical, and/or abuse from neglect). The other form of abuse came from just being "in the system"--shuffling from foster home to foster home, often for years.
The other part of their program was to get us to evaluate our strenghts and weaknesses as a parent. Could we parent a child who had been a thief? Sexually active? Usesd foul language? Was hyperactive? We discovered some things about each other that we didn't know before. I thought I could handle a thief but not someone who had been sexually active. Bob was just the opposite.
All this led up to our "white glove" home study, which really wasn't so bad. Then, we waited...
With twin boys and a single birth resulting in another boy, we set out to find an adoption agency to begin a search for a daughter. The first attempt (when our youngest was two) fizzled when the social worker heard my children's voices in the background as I spoke with her on the phone.
"We're not accepting applications from people who have already been blessed with children of their own," she said stiffly.
I felt chastised. How could I have the audacity to ask for more children when there were couples who were childless? In my naivete, I hung up and did not pursue the issue further until the twins were 12 and Andy was 9, and I was much more savy about adoption and it's fit for our family.
I had no desire to adopt a baby. Bob would have loved it. He's the "baby person" in the family. I wasn't ready to take on diapers again and extend our initial parenting term another 10 years. We set out specifically to find a girl between 3 and 8 years of age. The other parameters we set included adopting special needs such as learning diabilities or slight retardation and/or a sibling group of 2.
We found an adoption agency in NE Ohio that dealt with "hard to place children" and began their orientation program. They explained the types of abuse the chidren placed in the system had experienced (basically: sexual, physical, and/or abuse from neglect). The other form of abuse came from just being "in the system"--shuffling from foster home to foster home, often for years.
The other part of their program was to get us to evaluate our strenghts and weaknesses as a parent. Could we parent a child who had been a thief? Sexually active? Usesd foul language? Was hyperactive? We discovered some things about each other that we didn't know before. I thought I could handle a thief but not someone who had been sexually active. Bob was just the opposite.
All this led up to our "white glove" home study, which really wasn't so bad. Then, we waited...
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Adoption--Bonding 2
As I looked through the window at the newborn cribs, I anxiously awaited news of my baby. The nurse returned to the back of the chair and began wheeling.
"Your little one is keeping all the others up." She gave a little laugh. "They put him in a private room with the lights out hoping he would fall asleep."
She opened another door that led to a room off the nursery and there he was, soft little sobs shuddering his body as he fell asleep. We left him sleeping so that I could get some rest before the nursing schedule began early in the morning.
They let me sleep until 6 a.m. before they brought Andy in for his first feeding. The disappointment of not having a girl faded with one look at the beautiful infant God had blessed us with. He was pink and perfect. And just to be sure he would wind my heart around his little finger, he immediately cradled his head against my cheek, cuddling into a little ball of baby softness in my arms.
The bonding grew with each of my babies as we interacted, "talking" to each other, touching, exploring the world together. They made me feel needed and, in return, I did my best to meet their needs.
That bonding was easy. They were so little and so dependent upon me. But what would happen when I became the mother of two children, already past diapers and bottles, and with their individual personalities already formed--partly from the abuse in their lives?
"Your little one is keeping all the others up." She gave a little laugh. "They put him in a private room with the lights out hoping he would fall asleep."
She opened another door that led to a room off the nursery and there he was, soft little sobs shuddering his body as he fell asleep. We left him sleeping so that I could get some rest before the nursing schedule began early in the morning.
They let me sleep until 6 a.m. before they brought Andy in for his first feeding. The disappointment of not having a girl faded with one look at the beautiful infant God had blessed us with. He was pink and perfect. And just to be sure he would wind my heart around his little finger, he immediately cradled his head against my cheek, cuddling into a little ball of baby softness in my arms.
The bonding grew with each of my babies as we interacted, "talking" to each other, touching, exploring the world together. They made me feel needed and, in return, I did my best to meet their needs.
That bonding was easy. They were so little and so dependent upon me. But what would happen when I became the mother of two children, already past diapers and bottles, and with their individual personalities already formed--partly from the abuse in their lives?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Adoption--Bonding
Gwen commented on my previoius post about bonding with older children during the adoption process. I'm not an expert but I can tell you what I experienced and maybe that will help.
Cheryl was 6 and Don was 5 when they were placed in our home. We had three biological children, all boys. Ron and Rob were fraternal twins aged 12 and Andy was nine. I always tell people the reason we adopted was to have a cheerleader before we got a whole football squad. Don was a bonus. We would never have split siblings.
I remember the bonding process with my babies. Even though I delivered them and they were biologically mine, I felt a little awkward at first. Part of that was due to just being a new mom. They were lucky I knew which end the diaper went on. But as I cared for them, bathing them, feeding them, rocking them to sleep, I got more comfortable, it didn't take long before I was truly loving these little bundles--even through the crying in the middle of the night.
Then Andy came along. He was supposed to be our girl. Back then, 31 years ago, we didn't have the privilege of being able to know the sex of the baby through a routine ultra sound. The best the doctor could do was say his heart rate sounded like that of a girl (poor guy gets a lot of teasing about that). I was thankful he was healthy but, truthfully, a little disappointed that we didn't have a girl.
Down the hall, in the nursery, I could hear a baby crying as I lay in recovery waiting to go to my room. The cry sounded a little familiar. I dismissed the idea that it was my baby. After all, how could I know a cry I hadn't heard yet? As they wheeled me to my room, the nurse stopped to let me see him. He wasn't in the regular nursery. I panicked...
Cheryl was 6 and Don was 5 when they were placed in our home. We had three biological children, all boys. Ron and Rob were fraternal twins aged 12 and Andy was nine. I always tell people the reason we adopted was to have a cheerleader before we got a whole football squad. Don was a bonus. We would never have split siblings.
I remember the bonding process with my babies. Even though I delivered them and they were biologically mine, I felt a little awkward at first. Part of that was due to just being a new mom. They were lucky I knew which end the diaper went on. But as I cared for them, bathing them, feeding them, rocking them to sleep, I got more comfortable, it didn't take long before I was truly loving these little bundles--even through the crying in the middle of the night.
Then Andy came along. He was supposed to be our girl. Back then, 31 years ago, we didn't have the privilege of being able to know the sex of the baby through a routine ultra sound. The best the doctor could do was say his heart rate sounded like that of a girl (poor guy gets a lot of teasing about that). I was thankful he was healthy but, truthfully, a little disappointed that we didn't have a girl.
Down the hall, in the nursery, I could hear a baby crying as I lay in recovery waiting to go to my room. The cry sounded a little familiar. I dismissed the idea that it was my baby. After all, how could I know a cry I hadn't heard yet? As they wheeled me to my room, the nurse stopped to let me see him. He wasn't in the regular nursery. I panicked...
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The Presence of His Spirit 4
The question tumbled out of me.
"Sherry, you're a born again believer in Christ, aren't you?"
There. It was out. I held my breath as I waited for her response. It came quickly.
"Yes, I am. I have the feeling the two of you are as well." She was smiling and suddenly we were drawn closely together by the bond of a shared belief in a loving God who directed our lives.
"I want you to know," Sherry continued, "that our church has been praying for Cheryl and Don since they became available for adoption. We have prayed that a Christian family would find them and adopt them. You are an answer to our prayers."
I'd never considered myseslf an answer to prayer before. This was why God had so obviously directed our lives to this point. The three of us had felt his presence. It was as if He had physically placed his hand on our shoulders. By the prompting of His spirit I had sought the confirmation of Sherry's faith and she had received the answer she sought to her prayers for Cheryl and Don.
Our meeting took place 22 years ago. The presence of His spirit has been a comfort and a guide through good times and difficult situations as we parented our five children. His continued reassurance that I am never alone and that He loves me is a comfort always.
"...And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." Matthew 28:20
"Sherry, you're a born again believer in Christ, aren't you?"
There. It was out. I held my breath as I waited for her response. It came quickly.
"Yes, I am. I have the feeling the two of you are as well." She was smiling and suddenly we were drawn closely together by the bond of a shared belief in a loving God who directed our lives.
"I want you to know," Sherry continued, "that our church has been praying for Cheryl and Don since they became available for adoption. We have prayed that a Christian family would find them and adopt them. You are an answer to our prayers."
I'd never considered myseslf an answer to prayer before. This was why God had so obviously directed our lives to this point. The three of us had felt his presence. It was as if He had physically placed his hand on our shoulders. By the prompting of His spirit I had sought the confirmation of Sherry's faith and she had received the answer she sought to her prayers for Cheryl and Don.
Our meeting took place 22 years ago. The presence of His spirit has been a comfort and a guide through good times and difficult situations as we parented our five children. His continued reassurance that I am never alone and that He loves me is a comfort always.
"...And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." Matthew 28:20
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The Presence of His Spirit 3
My heart beat rapidly as fuzzy static turned into a picture on the TV. A very active six year old girl and five year old boy scurried back and forth in a playroom on the screen.
"What beautiful hair she has," I remarked. We had a difficult time seeing Cheryl's face. She managed to keep her back to the camera most of the time.
"He loves those trucks, doesn't he," Bob observed as Don, typical boy, was wearing out the knees of his pants pushing trucks across the floor.
The tape ended and I wished for more. They looked like wonderful children.
"As I told you before, Cheryl has some learning problems and is in a special kindergarten class," Joy began explaining. "Don does not talk well yet, and we know that he is delayed in his development. He is in a special Easter Seals program."
"What kind of progress could we expect from Don?" I asked.
"We can't tell you. We don't know. When he is nine or ten, they will be able to assess his future progress a little more successfully."
Sherry had been watching us as we viewed the video and talked with Joy. She removed some papers from a folder she brought and laid them before us.
"I thought you might like to see some of their school work." There were crayon drawings and kindergarten work sheets--mostly just marks on paper, although you could see the beginnings of some writing skills on Cheryl's work.
Sherry shared some of her experiences with the children in her home and answered questions about Don's language development. The more she talked, the more I began to feel I knew her somehow. I was certain we'd never met. Could the familiarity just be our common bond of motherhood?
The more we talked, the stronger the feeling of a bond grew. I became distracted from our purpose--unsettled.
"I have to leave for a moment," Joy said pushing her chair back. "I have a phone call to make. Excuse me."
We continued to talk for a few minutes. There was an urgency within me to ask a question I had never asked a total stranger before. I could feel my face redden with the anxiety as I opened my mouth to inquire...
"What beautiful hair she has," I remarked. We had a difficult time seeing Cheryl's face. She managed to keep her back to the camera most of the time.
"He loves those trucks, doesn't he," Bob observed as Don, typical boy, was wearing out the knees of his pants pushing trucks across the floor.
The tape ended and I wished for more. They looked like wonderful children.
"As I told you before, Cheryl has some learning problems and is in a special kindergarten class," Joy began explaining. "Don does not talk well yet, and we know that he is delayed in his development. He is in a special Easter Seals program."
"What kind of progress could we expect from Don?" I asked.
"We can't tell you. We don't know. When he is nine or ten, they will be able to assess his future progress a little more successfully."
Sherry had been watching us as we viewed the video and talked with Joy. She removed some papers from a folder she brought and laid them before us.
"I thought you might like to see some of their school work." There were crayon drawings and kindergarten work sheets--mostly just marks on paper, although you could see the beginnings of some writing skills on Cheryl's work.
Sherry shared some of her experiences with the children in her home and answered questions about Don's language development. The more she talked, the more I began to feel I knew her somehow. I was certain we'd never met. Could the familiarity just be our common bond of motherhood?
The more we talked, the stronger the feeling of a bond grew. I became distracted from our purpose--unsettled.
"I have to leave for a moment," Joy said pushing her chair back. "I have a phone call to make. Excuse me."
We continued to talk for a few minutes. There was an urgency within me to ask a question I had never asked a total stranger before. I could feel my face redden with the anxiety as I opened my mouth to inquire...
Friday, July 01, 2005
The Presence of His Spirit 2
"I have someone I'd like you to meet," said Joy, our social worker as she entered the room with papers in her hand. She turned to a young woman with long curly brown hair. "This is Sherry. She has been Cheryl and Don's foster mom for the past four months."
Bob rose and shook her hand. "Hi, we're glad to meet you."
Sherry took a seat next to Joy across the table from us.
"Sherry wanted to come and tell you a little about what she's experienced with the children and answer any questions you might have about them," Joy continued. Sherry smiled at us with warm brown eyes.
Joy turned on the VCR and adjusted the television. "Let's have a look at Cheryl and Don first and then we can fill you in on more background...let you ask questions..." She fiddled some more with the controls and the machine finally responded.
We leaned forward to get our first look at the children that would soon become ours.
Bob rose and shook her hand. "Hi, we're glad to meet you."
Sherry took a seat next to Joy across the table from us.
"Sherry wanted to come and tell you a little about what she's experienced with the children and answer any questions you might have about them," Joy continued. Sherry smiled at us with warm brown eyes.
Joy turned on the VCR and adjusted the television. "Let's have a look at Cheryl and Don first and then we can fill you in on more background...let you ask questions..." She fiddled some more with the controls and the machine finally responded.
We leaned forward to get our first look at the children that would soon become ours.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The Presence of His Spirit
(This story took place in 1983.)
Bob and I sat in a small conference room at a formica topped table next to green metal filing cabinets. The room was cheery in color but institutional. The social worker had stepped out for a moment to find the video tape that would introduce us to a brother and sister who were available for adoption.
We were a little nervous and very excited. Could these be the children God wanted us to have to finish our family?
Before we were married, we often talked of our dreams of a family. We both expressed a desire to adopt children who needed a loving home. So, when God blessed us with twin boys and then another boy three years later, we elected to adopt a girl to round out our family.
For two years we searched for an adoption agency who would accept us. Often we were turned away because we already had three children. We also wanted an agency with whom we could feel comfortable and confident.
Eventually, we found what we were looking for right around the corner from where we lived. They were an agency for hard to place children--children with siblings, disabilities, or older than three. We attended their orientation sessions and finished a home study. A social worker was assigned to us, and now we were about to meet two children that the agency felt would fit into our established family.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Shark Encounter 4
Everyone was still except for the bubbles escaping from their regulators as they exhaled. I looked toward the divemaster. He pointed two fingers at his eyes (the signal for "look"), then put his hand to the top of his head, fingers extended straight up ("shark"), and pointed to my right.
In the blue murkiness, between two large coral heads that rose like ghosts from the ocean bottom, a large shark was poised--watching. She looked us over carefully and when she was convinced there was no food, she turned and glided away into the blue gray shadows.
I watched in wonder. No panic. No racing pulse. Just awesome fascination and appreciation of a creature I'd never seen outside of glass walls.
Back on the dive boat after we surfaced, the shark jokes were replaced with fish stories. The divemaster proudly estimated the female shark at 8 feet. Of course, underwater everything appears about 25% larger than it really is.
Exaggerated fish stories aside, it was an encounter to remember.
Shark Encounter
Shark Encounter 2
Shark Encounter 3
In the blue murkiness, between two large coral heads that rose like ghosts from the ocean bottom, a large shark was poised--watching. She looked us over carefully and when she was convinced there was no food, she turned and glided away into the blue gray shadows.
I watched in wonder. No panic. No racing pulse. Just awesome fascination and appreciation of a creature I'd never seen outside of glass walls.
Back on the dive boat after we surfaced, the shark jokes were replaced with fish stories. The divemaster proudly estimated the female shark at 8 feet. Of course, underwater everything appears about 25% larger than it really is.
Exaggerated fish stories aside, it was an encounter to remember.
Shark Encounter
Shark Encounter 2
Shark Encounter 3
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Shark Encounter 3
"This dive site is near the area where we do our shark dive. We have a chance of seeing a shark or two in the area," the divemaster began as we motored to our destination. My heart thumped harder in my chest.
"Now...understand that we would not be taking you somewhere we didn't feel was safe. If you see a shark, you'll be fortunate." Fortunate was not the word I would have chosen.
"The sharks are Caribbean reef sharks and they are curious critters by nature," the divemaster continued. "They will not let you get any closer to them than they want you to be. They usually take a look and then swim away."
As soon as he finished all the shark jokes started. "Remember," one fellow diver said to another, "you only have to swim faster than the slowest swimmer."
In the water, we gathered at the base of the guide rope hanging from the boat. The divemaster signaled, "Follow me." We began weaving our way through the coral heads. Colors were muted without bright sunlight to filter through the water and the water seemed thicker--dense.
I began to relax and enjoy the marine life that scurries past my dive mask. My head bumped into Bob. I looked around and realized everyone had frozen in place...
Shark Encounter
Shark Encounter 2
Shark Encounter 4
"Now...understand that we would not be taking you somewhere we didn't feel was safe. If you see a shark, you'll be fortunate." Fortunate was not the word I would have chosen.
"The sharks are Caribbean reef sharks and they are curious critters by nature," the divemaster continued. "They will not let you get any closer to them than they want you to be. They usually take a look and then swim away."
As soon as he finished all the shark jokes started. "Remember," one fellow diver said to another, "you only have to swim faster than the slowest swimmer."
In the water, we gathered at the base of the guide rope hanging from the boat. The divemaster signaled, "Follow me." We began weaving our way through the coral heads. Colors were muted without bright sunlight to filter through the water and the water seemed thicker--dense.
I began to relax and enjoy the marine life that scurries past my dive mask. My head bumped into Bob. I looked around and realized everyone had frozen in place...
Shark Encounter
Shark Encounter 2
Shark Encounter 4
Monday, June 20, 2005
Shark Encounter 2
Our first day of diving in Freeport was exciting. The crew was helpful as we struggled with unfamiliar buckles on rented BCVs (bouyancy control vests) and worked our way to the diving platform on the boat. The challenge of diving is getting into the water without toppling over from the cumbersome air tank and weight belt hung on your back and around your waist while you shuffle across the deck with webbed feet.
Our first dive ignited the excitement of discovery as we explored coral heads teeming with small marine life and alive with color. The second dive of the day featured a small boat wreck that had been overgrown with corals and small marine vegetation. We leisurely explored all the nooks and crannies. I was very relaxed by the time we returned to shore. The anxiety of a close encounter with Jaws forgotten in the wonderful exploration of the sea life that had presented itself.
The next day, thick clouds dotted the sky making it look a bit foreboding. Still, the April temperatures were in the 80s and there were patches of blue sky between the clouds. We donned wet suits. The water would be a little cooler 40 feet down with cloudy skies...it would also be murkier...
Shark Encounter
Shark Encounter 3
Shark Encounter 4
Our first dive ignited the excitement of discovery as we explored coral heads teeming with small marine life and alive with color. The second dive of the day featured a small boat wreck that had been overgrown with corals and small marine vegetation. We leisurely explored all the nooks and crannies. I was very relaxed by the time we returned to shore. The anxiety of a close encounter with Jaws forgotten in the wonderful exploration of the sea life that had presented itself.
The next day, thick clouds dotted the sky making it look a bit foreboding. Still, the April temperatures were in the 80s and there were patches of blue sky between the clouds. We donned wet suits. The water would be a little cooler 40 feet down with cloudy skies...it would also be murkier...
Shark Encounter
Shark Encounter 3
Shark Encounter 4
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Shark Encounter
You always remember your first one.
"There's a shark dive available. Want to feed the sharks?" Bob asked as he perused the website of UNEXSO trying to decide which dive package we wanted for our trip to the Bahamas.
"Feed the sharks? I don't even want to see a shark." I'm not afraid of too many things, but visions of Jaws sent shivers up my spine.
"They put you in a chainmail suit and teach you how to use the shark feeding equipment. And...they'll tape the whole thing."
He was really pushing it, but only because he knew I'd refuse.
"Or, we could just go and be observers...watch someone else have all the fun." He grinned and I shot him one of my wifely looks.
"O.K., O.K. I'll be sure to tell them we don't want to be diving near the sharks." He turned back to his computer to reserve our four day stay in Port Lucaya that included four dives.
Two months earlier, we had finished our certification as open water divers. After being introduced to a beautiful underwater world in the Carribean, we were eager to explore it now at our leisure. UNEXSO (Underwater Explorers Society) offered a variety of dive sites and the special shark dive.
Diving with the sharks was for those of stout heart and steady nerves who liked to live on the edge. A group of divers kneel in the sand and watch as one diver feeds the 10-20 reef sharks that gather around.
Not long before our decision to go to the Bahamas, my son had assisted a professor from the University of Miami at Bimini, in a week long seminar course on sharks. He told us of being in the water, snorkeling with sharks around him, and suddenly realizing the professor was feeding the sharks to attract them for study. Just the stuff a mother wants to hear. He kept assuring me it was all right. They were only reef sharks.
To my understanding, they still had teeth. I was not comforted. I still wanted no part of diving with sharks.
I was in for a surprise...
Shark Encounter 2
Shark Encounter 3
Shark Encounter 4
"There's a shark dive available. Want to feed the sharks?" Bob asked as he perused the website of UNEXSO trying to decide which dive package we wanted for our trip to the Bahamas.
"Feed the sharks? I don't even want to see a shark." I'm not afraid of too many things, but visions of Jaws sent shivers up my spine.
"They put you in a chainmail suit and teach you how to use the shark feeding equipment. And...they'll tape the whole thing."
He was really pushing it, but only because he knew I'd refuse.
"Or, we could just go and be observers...watch someone else have all the fun." He grinned and I shot him one of my wifely looks.
"O.K., O.K. I'll be sure to tell them we don't want to be diving near the sharks." He turned back to his computer to reserve our four day stay in Port Lucaya that included four dives.
Two months earlier, we had finished our certification as open water divers. After being introduced to a beautiful underwater world in the Carribean, we were eager to explore it now at our leisure. UNEXSO (Underwater Explorers Society) offered a variety of dive sites and the special shark dive.
Diving with the sharks was for those of stout heart and steady nerves who liked to live on the edge. A group of divers kneel in the sand and watch as one diver feeds the 10-20 reef sharks that gather around.
Not long before our decision to go to the Bahamas, my son had assisted a professor from the University of Miami at Bimini, in a week long seminar course on sharks. He told us of being in the water, snorkeling with sharks around him, and suddenly realizing the professor was feeding the sharks to attract them for study. Just the stuff a mother wants to hear. He kept assuring me it was all right. They were only reef sharks.
To my understanding, they still had teeth. I was not comforted. I still wanted no part of diving with sharks.
I was in for a surprise...
Shark Encounter 2
Shark Encounter 3
Shark Encounter 4
Monday, June 13, 2005
The Laugher
Everyone has some kind of laugh. There are those whose laughter rings out deep and bellowing and those whose laughter is tight and restrained. But somewhere inbetween are those laughs that are warm, delightful, and often contagious.
It's the contagious part I like. It spreads joy. It says, "Join me and celebrate life." It's the laugh that the sit-coms welcome into their audience.
We have a laugher in our congregation. Her laugh is distinctive. At the very least, it makes you want to smile. What a lift it is to a weary spirit. I can't help thinking that it lightens God's day as well. I heard her this Sunday. While our speaker encouraged us with his words, her laughter encouraged us with the joy of a heart set free.
It's the contagious part I like. It spreads joy. It says, "Join me and celebrate life." It's the laugh that the sit-coms welcome into their audience.
We have a laugher in our congregation. Her laugh is distinctive. At the very least, it makes you want to smile. What a lift it is to a weary spirit. I can't help thinking that it lightens God's day as well. I heard her this Sunday. While our speaker encouraged us with his words, her laughter encouraged us with the joy of a heart set free.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Of Mice and Men--Part 3
It was a busy Sunday afternoon. I was getting ready for a writers conference and Bob was getting ready for his annual trade show. The temperature climbed into the upper 80s and I wondered if the peanut butter had melted off of the mousetrap.
Being the great white hunter that he is, Bob waited patiently until about eight o'clock that evening. I heard the door to the garage open and close but didn't think much of it until a little while later, he came into the den. He was grinning.
"I got the little bugger." He said with pride. "I knew he couldn't get that peanut butter off the trap."
The way he said it though made me wonder if Bob hadn't struggled with just a little edge of doubt--a slight suspicion that his small opponent might be a little too clever for an old fashioned mousetrap. After all, this is the era of electronical everything--who would guess something as old fashioned as a piece of wood, a spring, and a metal bar would still work so efficiently.
So, to the electronics wizards of the world--those great white hunters--Do we really need a better mousetrap or is it the bait that counts?
Being the great white hunter that he is, Bob waited patiently until about eight o'clock that evening. I heard the door to the garage open and close but didn't think much of it until a little while later, he came into the den. He was grinning.
"I got the little bugger." He said with pride. "I knew he couldn't get that peanut butter off the trap."
The way he said it though made me wonder if Bob hadn't struggled with just a little edge of doubt--a slight suspicion that his small opponent might be a little too clever for an old fashioned mousetrap. After all, this is the era of electronical everything--who would guess something as old fashioned as a piece of wood, a spring, and a metal bar would still work so efficiently.
So, to the electronics wizards of the world--those great white hunters--Do we really need a better mousetrap or is it the bait that counts?
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Of Mice and Men--Part 2
Have you ever played Operation? It's the game where a body is pictured on a cardboard base and little body parts are in small cavities wired with an alarm. The object is to pick out the body parts with tweezers and not set off the alarm. It's a delicate operation.
I suspected our little freeloader in the trunk of the Miata had lots of practice with that game. The traps were picked clean and neither was set off until Bob picked them up. He, obviously, did not have a lot of practice with the game.
Undaunted and slightly amused, Bob headed for the peanut butter jar.
"Let's see him get this off the trap." Was that a maniacal chuckle I heard?
The traps were baited and reset. To be honest, I wasn't sure who I was rooting for in this contest. I much prefer D-Con. After eating it the mice usually just crawl away somewhere and I don't have to worry about desposing of the remains. I didn't want to actually see this clever little guy's demise.
Bob replaced the traps in the trunk of the car and returned with all his fingers intact and healthy. We waited...
I suspected our little freeloader in the trunk of the Miata had lots of practice with that game. The traps were picked clean and neither was set off until Bob picked them up. He, obviously, did not have a lot of practice with the game.
Undaunted and slightly amused, Bob headed for the peanut butter jar.
"Let's see him get this off the trap." Was that a maniacal chuckle I heard?
The traps were baited and reset. To be honest, I wasn't sure who I was rooting for in this contest. I much prefer D-Con. After eating it the mice usually just crawl away somewhere and I don't have to worry about desposing of the remains. I didn't want to actually see this clever little guy's demise.
Bob replaced the traps in the trunk of the car and returned with all his fingers intact and healthy. We waited...
Monday, June 06, 2005
Of Mice and Men
The weather had warmed considerably. The cover came off the Miata. To his dismay, the little critter inside the trunk was encouraged to find a new home. I say "encouraged," because Bob cleaned out the trunk and tossed his fluffy nest into the trash figuring that would be the end of the rent-free intruder.
The little guy (the mouse, not Bob) had more stamina than he was given credit for. He rebuilt his nest--fluffy and warm, nestled against the spare tire. Bob discovered the little guy's handiwork this weekend.
"Don't we have a mousetrap around here somewhere?" Bob asked.
"I haven't seen it lately," I said with a smile. The Miata is Bob's "baby"--don't mess with the baby.
Bob tracked down two mousetraps, baited them with some swiss cheese, and set them in the trunk of the car. A smile on his face, he drove the Miata all day Saturday, confident that his freeloader would be taken care of shortly.
Sunday morning, Bob decided to check the trunk before we left for church. Like a great white hunter, stalking his prey, he opened the trunk...
The little guy (the mouse, not Bob) had more stamina than he was given credit for. He rebuilt his nest--fluffy and warm, nestled against the spare tire. Bob discovered the little guy's handiwork this weekend.
"Don't we have a mousetrap around here somewhere?" Bob asked.
"I haven't seen it lately," I said with a smile. The Miata is Bob's "baby"--don't mess with the baby.
Bob tracked down two mousetraps, baited them with some swiss cheese, and set them in the trunk of the car. A smile on his face, he drove the Miata all day Saturday, confident that his freeloader would be taken care of shortly.
Sunday morning, Bob decided to check the trunk before we left for church. Like a great white hunter, stalking his prey, he opened the trunk...
Friday, June 03, 2005
Coke or Pepsi?
Today, like most days, I had a diet Coke with lunch--classic, decaffeinated (caffeine does strange things to meopausal women). Coke is the prefered drink in this house. The only time Pepsi gets in our home is if my brother-in-law sneaks it in.
Coke is the prefered drink outside of our home as well. My husband always orders diet Coke then asks, "That is Coke--not Pepsi, right?" If the answer comes back "Pepsi," then his response is, "I'll have an ice tea."
Making choices in life is so much simpler when you truly follow your heart--or in this case, your tastebuds. Where your heart is concerned, the choices of life are made easier when your heart belongs to Christ.
Coke is the prefered drink outside of our home as well. My husband always orders diet Coke then asks, "That is Coke--not Pepsi, right?" If the answer comes back "Pepsi," then his response is, "I'll have an ice tea."
Making choices in life is so much simpler when you truly follow your heart--or in this case, your tastebuds. Where your heart is concerned, the choices of life are made easier when your heart belongs to Christ.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Striking Arrows
Being a Sunday school teacher teaches me more than those in my class. God always seems to prepare a lesson for what I need each week.
Last week, our topic was doubt (Chapter 10 of Committed But Flawed by Cec Murphey). I began to read through the chapter right after I received my latest rejection of a piece of work I felt had real promise.
It's easy to let doubt creep in when you're discouraged. When you are a writer, you have to continually step out and offer your work and be ready to hear "no thanks"--a lot. It doesn't make it easier to know that. Sometimes a written piece is offered multiple times--5, 10, 20, 30--before it finds publication. When you get discouraged, you want to stop after 2 or 3.
Our scripture verse this week led us to King Jehoash who went to Elisha just as the prophet was about to die. Elisha had the King shoot an arrow out the window and told him that represented the victory God would give him. Then he told the king to take the rest of the arrows and strike them on the ground. The kind did so--3 times.
Elisha got angry. "Why only three times? You should have struck them five or six times more."
It turned out that each strike would be a victory and King Jehoash could have won many more times if he had struck with his arrows again and again instead of stopping so soon.
There may not be a direct correlation--I don't consider editors or agents the enemy--but if I quit offering my writing after only 2 or 3 tries, I will never know the victory God has in store.
Last week, our topic was doubt (Chapter 10 of Committed But Flawed by Cec Murphey). I began to read through the chapter right after I received my latest rejection of a piece of work I felt had real promise.
It's easy to let doubt creep in when you're discouraged. When you are a writer, you have to continually step out and offer your work and be ready to hear "no thanks"--a lot. It doesn't make it easier to know that. Sometimes a written piece is offered multiple times--5, 10, 20, 30--before it finds publication. When you get discouraged, you want to stop after 2 or 3.
Our scripture verse this week led us to King Jehoash who went to Elisha just as the prophet was about to die. Elisha had the King shoot an arrow out the window and told him that represented the victory God would give him. Then he told the king to take the rest of the arrows and strike them on the ground. The kind did so--3 times.
Elisha got angry. "Why only three times? You should have struck them five or six times more."
It turned out that each strike would be a victory and King Jehoash could have won many more times if he had struck with his arrows again and again instead of stopping so soon.
There may not be a direct correlation--I don't consider editors or agents the enemy--but if I quit offering my writing after only 2 or 3 tries, I will never know the victory God has in store.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The Path to the Patch
The path to Grandma's strawberry patch (see previous blog) was always an adventure. We had to pass the field where Mr. Sully kept his bull.
I never saw the bull but I knew it was huge and had big horns. It was mean, too. It booted one of the neighborhood teenagers right over the barbed wire fence once. I didn't see that either but I knew all these things were true. My mother told me so.
There was an opening in the fence where the barbed wire and fence posts were weakened and falling over. The wires hung near enought to the ground that a little girl--an adventursome little girl--just might be able to step over them. This was the spot where we had to be very quiet. We didn't want the bull to know there was a hole in the fence. He might come charging through at us and who knows what would happen then.
The mystery, the tingle of fear, all made the trip down the path to the strawberry patch that much more exciting--the fruit that much sweeter.
Today, after five kids and knowing my mother's parenting tactics better, I think the bull story was just that. It was made up to keep me from venturing back to the strawberry patch on my own...I think...I never could be sure with Mom.
I never saw the bull but I knew it was huge and had big horns. It was mean, too. It booted one of the neighborhood teenagers right over the barbed wire fence once. I didn't see that either but I knew all these things were true. My mother told me so.
There was an opening in the fence where the barbed wire and fence posts were weakened and falling over. The wires hung near enought to the ground that a little girl--an adventursome little girl--just might be able to step over them. This was the spot where we had to be very quiet. We didn't want the bull to know there was a hole in the fence. He might come charging through at us and who knows what would happen then.
The mystery, the tingle of fear, all made the trip down the path to the strawberry patch that much more exciting--the fruit that much sweeter.
Today, after five kids and knowing my mother's parenting tactics better, I think the bull story was just that. It was made up to keep me from venturing back to the strawberry patch on my own...I think...I never could be sure with Mom.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Grandma's Strawberry Patch
It's getting closer to strawberry season around here. Just the thought of biting into a big red freshly picked berry, its sweet-tart juice running down my chin, begins to make my mouth water. We have plenty of U Pick 'Em places around here. The plants are neatly arranged in rows of mounded soil that's been covered with anti-weed plastic and mulched with straw to keep you from getting too dirty if you kneel to pick your berries.
Those fields are nice but my favorite field of strawberries when I was a kid was one my grandmother planted just before she died. Our house was right next to their farm--actually it was on a piece of land my grandfather had given my father. My bedroom window looked over fields that eventually were overgrown with weeds since my grandfather no longer worked the farm. The skyline of Cleveland rose in the distance, almost as though it were growing from my grandfather's fields.
I'm not sure what led my mother to my grandmother's patch of strawberries. It was quite a walk back to where she had planted it. Perhaps she was out wandering, taking a break from her two young children, when she discovered it. I think I was about 5 or 6 when she first took me back there.
We walked along a path where the weeds didn't grow through the shale that formed a smooth surface to tred upon. The weeds were tall--towering over my head--but I wasn't afraid. One hand was in my mother's hand and the other held my own little basket for my strawberries.
Even though the patch had been neglected for many years, the strawberries yielded a bumper crop. Some of the berries were so large, they filled the palm of my hand. Mom and I would pick and eat. She taught me that nothing was sweeter or tastier than the fruit fresh from the plant.
I don't remember my grandmother. She died when I was two. Her legacy lived on in that field. Somehow I had that connection to her through the strawberry picking. She gave my mother and I a great gift through that strawberry patch. It was our secret place. Mom never told anyone where she got the wonderful berries that made her strawberry jam so tasty.
The fields are gone. Suburbia encroached until all the farmland around us yielded houses. Here and there tucked in a "secret" little corner is a small field and a sign, "U Pick 'Em." Each year I go and pick. The berries aren't nearly as large or sweet--but then my hand is bigger and my memories sweeter.
Those fields are nice but my favorite field of strawberries when I was a kid was one my grandmother planted just before she died. Our house was right next to their farm--actually it was on a piece of land my grandfather had given my father. My bedroom window looked over fields that eventually were overgrown with weeds since my grandfather no longer worked the farm. The skyline of Cleveland rose in the distance, almost as though it were growing from my grandfather's fields.
I'm not sure what led my mother to my grandmother's patch of strawberries. It was quite a walk back to where she had planted it. Perhaps she was out wandering, taking a break from her two young children, when she discovered it. I think I was about 5 or 6 when she first took me back there.
We walked along a path where the weeds didn't grow through the shale that formed a smooth surface to tred upon. The weeds were tall--towering over my head--but I wasn't afraid. One hand was in my mother's hand and the other held my own little basket for my strawberries.
Even though the patch had been neglected for many years, the strawberries yielded a bumper crop. Some of the berries were so large, they filled the palm of my hand. Mom and I would pick and eat. She taught me that nothing was sweeter or tastier than the fruit fresh from the plant.
I don't remember my grandmother. She died when I was two. Her legacy lived on in that field. Somehow I had that connection to her through the strawberry picking. She gave my mother and I a great gift through that strawberry patch. It was our secret place. Mom never told anyone where she got the wonderful berries that made her strawberry jam so tasty.
The fields are gone. Suburbia encroached until all the farmland around us yielded houses. Here and there tucked in a "secret" little corner is a small field and a sign, "U Pick 'Em." Each year I go and pick. The berries aren't nearly as large or sweet--but then my hand is bigger and my memories sweeter.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Star Wars
Tonight is date night for us. Every Friday night that we are free, Bob and I have set aside to go and see a movie. We consider it a good year when we've been able to watch the Academy Awards and are familiar with their choices for best movie. That means the nominees haven't been more than PG13.
Star Wars is our only choice for a movie tonight. It's showing on 7 of the 24 screens in the Cinemark we frequent. All the rest of the showings are either movies we've seen or would never consider seeing.
So, I guess we stand in the crowds and sit elbow to elbow with all the others who have followed this unprecedented journey of sci-fi that George Lucas has taken us on. My boys were pretty young when the first movies came out. Their grandmother bought them all the figures and the ships. I have them in a shoe box and keep vowing to mount them in a shadow box and give them as Christmas gifts--some year.
This prequel is supposed to answer all the questions. I'm not sure what all the question are but I'll watch for the answers. I guess the one burning question I have is, what is "the force"? Is it a reference to God? If it can be used for good or evil, I think not.
Whatever the answers, it is an exciting series to watch and admire for all its computer generated effects--and I'll get my popcorn fix--buttered, of course.
This would be the place to say, "the force be with you," but I'd rather say, "God be with you."
Star Wars is our only choice for a movie tonight. It's showing on 7 of the 24 screens in the Cinemark we frequent. All the rest of the showings are either movies we've seen or would never consider seeing.
So, I guess we stand in the crowds and sit elbow to elbow with all the others who have followed this unprecedented journey of sci-fi that George Lucas has taken us on. My boys were pretty young when the first movies came out. Their grandmother bought them all the figures and the ships. I have them in a shoe box and keep vowing to mount them in a shadow box and give them as Christmas gifts--some year.
This prequel is supposed to answer all the questions. I'm not sure what all the question are but I'll watch for the answers. I guess the one burning question I have is, what is "the force"? Is it a reference to God? If it can be used for good or evil, I think not.
Whatever the answers, it is an exciting series to watch and admire for all its computer generated effects--and I'll get my popcorn fix--buttered, of course.
This would be the place to say, "the force be with you," but I'd rather say, "God be with you."
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Potato Pastor
Yesterday we had to say goodbye to our pastor of three years. For some reason, God has called him to move on to another church in Kansas. Maybe it's because of his farming experience. You see before he was a pastor, he was a potato farmer.
God had a reason for that as well. He learned a lot of lessons toiling in the soil to raise potatoes, fighting against the weather and the other things that can damage a crop. He used all that experience to create his own parables to teach about Jesus and Chrisian living.
One of our children's Sunday school classes filed by him individually, each handing him a potato as a going away gift. It was a tension breaker. Everyone was reining in emotions and a little light humor was just the thing that was needed. It also said, "We'll remember you and your stories."
I'm going to miss the 'potato parables'. They reminded me of Jesus and his parables and the great lessons of life our savior wants us to learn.
God had a reason for that as well. He learned a lot of lessons toiling in the soil to raise potatoes, fighting against the weather and the other things that can damage a crop. He used all that experience to create his own parables to teach about Jesus and Chrisian living.
One of our children's Sunday school classes filed by him individually, each handing him a potato as a going away gift. It was a tension breaker. Everyone was reining in emotions and a little light humor was just the thing that was needed. It also said, "We'll remember you and your stories."
I'm going to miss the 'potato parables'. They reminded me of Jesus and his parables and the great lessons of life our savior wants us to learn.
Monday, May 09, 2005
My Little Landscapers
Two years ago, I planted a bed of tulips near the side door of the house. It's in a spot that I can protect with a "scarecrow" that chases the deer. (The scarecrow is a motion detector that sends a spurt of water shooting out when something moves across its field of sensitivity--works pretty good on meter readers too). Last spring I had a glorious display of color that lasted about six weeks.
This year I anxiously awaited a double blessing since I figured the bulbs would have multiplied. I set the scarecrow out early to be sure the deer wouldn't eat the tasty little buds as the tulips developed. To my dismay, I saw very little evidence of tulip greens poking through the soil. I couldn't believe that so many would not have come back.
Last week as I began to get intimately involved with the yard work, pulling weeds and digging around behind bushes, I found splashes of color in hidden places--under the deck, behind the rhododendrons, between the pine trees. Obviously, the chipmunks and/or the squirrels had decided to move my tulips. I thought about moving them back to where I felt they belonged, but my little landscapers would probably just move them again and I hate to make more work for them. After all, they have all those holes to dig and mulch to scrape into piles--not to mention climbing up the bird feeder to clean out the seed and suet. Their work is never done.
This year I anxiously awaited a double blessing since I figured the bulbs would have multiplied. I set the scarecrow out early to be sure the deer wouldn't eat the tasty little buds as the tulips developed. To my dismay, I saw very little evidence of tulip greens poking through the soil. I couldn't believe that so many would not have come back.
Last week as I began to get intimately involved with the yard work, pulling weeds and digging around behind bushes, I found splashes of color in hidden places--under the deck, behind the rhododendrons, between the pine trees. Obviously, the chipmunks and/or the squirrels had decided to move my tulips. I thought about moving them back to where I felt they belonged, but my little landscapers would probably just move them again and I hate to make more work for them. After all, they have all those holes to dig and mulch to scrape into piles--not to mention climbing up the bird feeder to clean out the seed and suet. Their work is never done.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Asphalt Garden
The snow has finally melted, the weather warmed, and the call of the garden has been heard. Unfortunately that call is the sound of the weeds growing faster than the grass that was given its first dose of fertilizer.
I have spent a couple of nice days this week wrestling weeds from the soil and breaking up the matted mulch that's had a ton of snow laying on it from our record breaking winter. Needless to say this endeavor plays havoc with muscles and, though I try not to complain too much, I do manage a few groans and moans.
My cheerful husband--who hires out his part of the yardwork (the mowing) to the landscapers--said that if it was beginning to get to me, he had an easy solution. How sweet, I thought, he was going to suggest we have the landscapers do the flower beds as well.
When we moved into our new home, I had a lot less on my plate that needed doing and ambitiously suggested larger flower beds and a good sized pond that I was only too delighted to take care of as my summer hobby. I wouldn't take him up on a suggestion to give my work to a landscaper, but I would let him suggest it--just to hear his words of comfort.
"What's your suggestion," I asked innocently enough, looking at him through those trusting eyes of love.
"Asphalt--the whole yard in green asphalt."
I should have expected it.
I have spent a couple of nice days this week wrestling weeds from the soil and breaking up the matted mulch that's had a ton of snow laying on it from our record breaking winter. Needless to say this endeavor plays havoc with muscles and, though I try not to complain too much, I do manage a few groans and moans.
My cheerful husband--who hires out his part of the yardwork (the mowing) to the landscapers--said that if it was beginning to get to me, he had an easy solution. How sweet, I thought, he was going to suggest we have the landscapers do the flower beds as well.
When we moved into our new home, I had a lot less on my plate that needed doing and ambitiously suggested larger flower beds and a good sized pond that I was only too delighted to take care of as my summer hobby. I wouldn't take him up on a suggestion to give my work to a landscaper, but I would let him suggest it--just to hear his words of comfort.
"What's your suggestion," I asked innocently enough, looking at him through those trusting eyes of love.
"Asphalt--the whole yard in green asphalt."
I should have expected it.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
God's in the Writing
I've been struggling with a character in the novel I'm working on. He's young and grows marijuana for medicinal purposes on a small piece of land my protagonist (a 70 year old pickle entrepreneur) owns. It's gonna get them both in trouble but I didn't want it impossible for them to get out of--thus the medicinal use.
The problem I had was finding a condition or disease that wasn't entirely dibilitating or fatal and would allow Tommy to continue on to, hopefully, my second book as a main character, partnering in the pickle business.
I went to my sister-in-law, the nurse, and she came up with a few ideas. Nothing struck a chord with me though so I started a little search and surf on the web. "Chronic pain sufferer" kept coming up as someone who might consider marijuana as a means of relief. Then I got the recent issue of Woman's Day in the mail and started paging through it as I was eating lunch.
I turned one page, and a title jumped out at me: Living in Agony. It was all about a woman who suddenly became dibilitated with chronic pain that had no apparent cause and how she learned to live with it (without the use of marijuana). It can very easily apply to my character after he has to give up the marijuana because of the legal problems and the pain doesn't have to be so dibilitating (or fatal) that he can't show up in the second book.
God's in the writing. There's no denying it when the pieces--the answers--come together like that. Now if I could get Him to work on the contracts....
The problem I had was finding a condition or disease that wasn't entirely dibilitating or fatal and would allow Tommy to continue on to, hopefully, my second book as a main character, partnering in the pickle business.
I went to my sister-in-law, the nurse, and she came up with a few ideas. Nothing struck a chord with me though so I started a little search and surf on the web. "Chronic pain sufferer" kept coming up as someone who might consider marijuana as a means of relief. Then I got the recent issue of Woman's Day in the mail and started paging through it as I was eating lunch.
I turned one page, and a title jumped out at me: Living in Agony. It was all about a woman who suddenly became dibilitated with chronic pain that had no apparent cause and how she learned to live with it (without the use of marijuana). It can very easily apply to my character after he has to give up the marijuana because of the legal problems and the pain doesn't have to be so dibilitating (or fatal) that he can't show up in the second book.
God's in the writing. There's no denying it when the pieces--the answers--come together like that. Now if I could get Him to work on the contracts....
Monday, May 02, 2005
Shamrock Roots
About five years ago, my son bought me a shamrock. It was a birthday gift. I have a St. Pat's birthday. I've had shamrocks in the past but I've managed to kill them off within a year. This one is different though.
It has large triangular segments to each leaf and blooms a couple of times throughout the year with delicate white flowers. It sits in the dining area of my kitchen where it gets bright light--when the sun chooses to shine in Cleveland. I fertilize it once a year with some ferilizer I bought for the orchid I managed to kill (I do much better with cheap houseplants). I can always tell when it needs water because it droops down to the countertop. The trouble is I don't always know when to stop watering.
The plant has been drowned a couple of times and, while we've been away, has completely dried out. This last trip, I came home to find the leaves all curled and brown and laying over the sides of the ceramic pitcher it's planted in. When I pulled all the dead stuff off, all that was left were a couple of tiny new shoots poking up from the soil.
Sunday, as we ate breakfast, I glanced at the pitcher on the counter. To my amazement, there were three strong shoots with leaves beginning to open, rising abover the rim of the pitcher. The plant was resurrecting itself!
This is not the first time this plant has performed it's miracle of resurrection. I can't help but wonder where it gets its strength. Perhaps it has really strong roots--kind of like people who have been through the worst of times and find the strength to pick up and go on. People whose roots are deeply imbedded in their faith are very much like my shamrock.
It has large triangular segments to each leaf and blooms a couple of times throughout the year with delicate white flowers. It sits in the dining area of my kitchen where it gets bright light--when the sun chooses to shine in Cleveland. I fertilize it once a year with some ferilizer I bought for the orchid I managed to kill (I do much better with cheap houseplants). I can always tell when it needs water because it droops down to the countertop. The trouble is I don't always know when to stop watering.
The plant has been drowned a couple of times and, while we've been away, has completely dried out. This last trip, I came home to find the leaves all curled and brown and laying over the sides of the ceramic pitcher it's planted in. When I pulled all the dead stuff off, all that was left were a couple of tiny new shoots poking up from the soil.
Sunday, as we ate breakfast, I glanced at the pitcher on the counter. To my amazement, there were three strong shoots with leaves beginning to open, rising abover the rim of the pitcher. The plant was resurrecting itself!
This is not the first time this plant has performed it's miracle of resurrection. I can't help but wonder where it gets its strength. Perhaps it has really strong roots--kind of like people who have been through the worst of times and find the strength to pick up and go on. People whose roots are deeply imbedded in their faith are very much like my shamrock.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Teenaged Memories
Saturday morning is time for breakfast at our favorite spot--The Diner. It's a little New York style place with vinyl seated booths and music piped in from the 60s--my kind of music.
This morning they were playing "Put Your Head On My Shoulder," a tune that was popular a bit before I met my husband. It brought back memories of someone else. I remembered dancing to that song with him. We couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. He was my first kiss. The boyish face, the big grin, the eyes that crinkled when he was teasing--all belonged to a young teenager. I never saw the man that he became until a few years ago.
My brother shattered the teenage memory. We were at my nephew's graduation and my brother brought a middle-aged, graying man with a slight pounch over to meet me.
"Know who this is?" he asked. I stared at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses. There was no way I was going to guess.
"Here," the fellow said, "let me take these off." He removed the hat to expose more grayed hair. Then he removed the glasses. Still no sign of recognition.
"You don't remember, do you?" my brother egged me on. Little brothers are like that no matter how old they are.
The man before me suddenly broke into a grin and his eyes crinkled with that teasing look.
"Oh, my gosh, Tom!" I hugged him. But as I stepped back to look at him again, I wondered. What was he seeing? A middle-aged woman whose hair was lighter because she covers the gray, with a few more pounds that the skinny girl who needed meat on her bones and a face that sagged a bit from years of weather and, well....years.
This morning I remembered the boy. It was a nice memory. It also made me happy I chose my husband to grow old with.
This morning they were playing "Put Your Head On My Shoulder," a tune that was popular a bit before I met my husband. It brought back memories of someone else. I remembered dancing to that song with him. We couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. He was my first kiss. The boyish face, the big grin, the eyes that crinkled when he was teasing--all belonged to a young teenager. I never saw the man that he became until a few years ago.
My brother shattered the teenage memory. We were at my nephew's graduation and my brother brought a middle-aged, graying man with a slight pounch over to meet me.
"Know who this is?" he asked. I stared at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses. There was no way I was going to guess.
"Here," the fellow said, "let me take these off." He removed the hat to expose more grayed hair. Then he removed the glasses. Still no sign of recognition.
"You don't remember, do you?" my brother egged me on. Little brothers are like that no matter how old they are.
The man before me suddenly broke into a grin and his eyes crinkled with that teasing look.
"Oh, my gosh, Tom!" I hugged him. But as I stepped back to look at him again, I wondered. What was he seeing? A middle-aged woman whose hair was lighter because she covers the gray, with a few more pounds that the skinny girl who needed meat on her bones and a face that sagged a bit from years of weather and, well....years.
This morning I remembered the boy. It was a nice memory. It also made me happy I chose my husband to grow old with.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
The Mothers-in-law
Two of my friends are about to join the infamous and much aligned group called mothers-in-law. One's son is marrying the other's daughter. Knowing the two families, I have every confidence that it will be a great blending of two families.
Mothers-in-law are often greatly maligned and become the target of bad jokes, psychoanalysis, and movie plots. (This week, I believe, Jane Fonda becomes the Monster-in-law to Jay Lo at the cinema.) Perhaps some deserve it but I have a feeling most do not.
The announcement of the engagement of my friend's children, brought to mind two wonderful women we met on a cruise once. They called themselves "the mothers-in-law"--one's son had married the other's daughter. They were from England and could have been the ship's entertainment for an evening. They were hilarious. Their husbands didn't like to travel. So once a year, the two of them would leave their spouses to fend for themselves and go off together for an adventure somewhere else in the world.
They said they were great mothers-in-law because they wanted nothing more than their children to be happy together so that their travel adventures could continue.
But then, after more thought, they concluded that it didn't matter. Even if the marriage didn't work out, they'd stay together as mothers-in-law.
Mothers-in-law are often greatly maligned and become the target of bad jokes, psychoanalysis, and movie plots. (This week, I believe, Jane Fonda becomes the Monster-in-law to Jay Lo at the cinema.) Perhaps some deserve it but I have a feeling most do not.
The announcement of the engagement of my friend's children, brought to mind two wonderful women we met on a cruise once. They called themselves "the mothers-in-law"--one's son had married the other's daughter. They were from England and could have been the ship's entertainment for an evening. They were hilarious. Their husbands didn't like to travel. So once a year, the two of them would leave their spouses to fend for themselves and go off together for an adventure somewhere else in the world.
They said they were great mothers-in-law because they wanted nothing more than their children to be happy together so that their travel adventures could continue.
But then, after more thought, they concluded that it didn't matter. Even if the marriage didn't work out, they'd stay together as mothers-in-law.
Friday, April 15, 2005
The Pit of the Stomach
It sits on the counter in the kitchen. All it needs is postage and it will be on its way to an agent. It's lurking there just waiting for me to pick it up and lug it to the post office. It's dangerous. It contains hopes and dreams that could be dashed in the SASE that's enclosed. Am I ready to steel myself for that?
The old fears return to squelch the enthusiasm, the excitement, the exhileration of the new found story I have created. Is it good enough? No. Never. There is always more to do. I could reread and rewrite a hundred times and still find something I'm not satisfied with.
What is it I fear? I've been rejected before. Somehow this is different. I've grown more fond of this character who has brought me joy each day, caused me to laugh, and caused me to cry. I fear I might not have done her justice.
In the pit of my stomach I feel that gnawing that clutches my inner being and gives a yank each time I go to pick up the 9 X 12 brown envelope that is all addressed and ready to go. All it needs is postage. I'll try again.
The old fears return to squelch the enthusiasm, the excitement, the exhileration of the new found story I have created. Is it good enough? No. Never. There is always more to do. I could reread and rewrite a hundred times and still find something I'm not satisfied with.
What is it I fear? I've been rejected before. Somehow this is different. I've grown more fond of this character who has brought me joy each day, caused me to laugh, and caused me to cry. I fear I might not have done her justice.
In the pit of my stomach I feel that gnawing that clutches my inner being and gives a yank each time I go to pick up the 9 X 12 brown envelope that is all addressed and ready to go. All it needs is postage. I'll try again.
Friday, April 08, 2005
New Life
While I know I do a lot of complaining about winter--the snow, the cold, the gray skies--I realize that without winter to compare it with, spring would not be as significant as it is. This morning the sun is shining and the few warm days we've had have brought out the daffodils. The buds on the trees are ready to burst open with the new life within them. What a change it is from winter where everything looks dead.
We have friends who moved to Ohio from California. They were both born and raised in California. The first early spring in their new home was disappointing because, as she walked through the yard, Janette thought the bushes were dead. She was going to call the landscaper to have all the azaleas pulled out and the dogwood tree cut down. It took some time to convince her that they were just dormant and would blossom into glorious color in a few weeks. (I don't think she trusted us at first because we told her husband he had to oil his snow shovel before he used it.) In a few weeks they had a hedge of color in their back yard and a dogwood tree full of pure white blossoms.
Spring always reminds me of the new life we find in Christ. Someone can appear to be as dead in sin as one of those bushes but when Christ enters their life, His promise bursts forth into glorious bloom.
We have friends who moved to Ohio from California. They were both born and raised in California. The first early spring in their new home was disappointing because, as she walked through the yard, Janette thought the bushes were dead. She was going to call the landscaper to have all the azaleas pulled out and the dogwood tree cut down. It took some time to convince her that they were just dormant and would blossom into glorious color in a few weeks. (I don't think she trusted us at first because we told her husband he had to oil his snow shovel before he used it.) In a few weeks they had a hedge of color in their back yard and a dogwood tree full of pure white blossoms.
Spring always reminds me of the new life we find in Christ. Someone can appear to be as dead in sin as one of those bushes but when Christ enters their life, His promise bursts forth into glorious bloom.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
E.L. Doctorow
Last night I had the privilege of hearing E. L. Doctorow read from one of his latest works thanks to the generosity of a friend who is also a manager for our county library. His words are like eating rich choloclate cake for dessert. You want to savor each one and let them play in the imagination.
After answering a few questions. he ended his time with us by giving us his feelings about the use of the library. It went something like this:
A drivers license gives you the opportunity to explore your state and the surrounding area.
A passport gives you the opportunity to explore the world.
A library card gives you the opportunity to explore the universe.
While it seemed clever but not terribly deep at the time, after contemplating his statement, I came to realize that what he was emphasizing was the importance of words--the importance of books and their influence on the minds that read them. What a sense of responsibilty that should give writers when putting pen to paper.
After answering a few questions. he ended his time with us by giving us his feelings about the use of the library. It went something like this:
A drivers license gives you the opportunity to explore your state and the surrounding area.
A passport gives you the opportunity to explore the world.
A library card gives you the opportunity to explore the universe.
While it seemed clever but not terribly deep at the time, after contemplating his statement, I came to realize that what he was emphasizing was the importance of words--the importance of books and their influence on the minds that read them. What a sense of responsibilty that should give writers when putting pen to paper.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Daddy Hair
"I'm gonna be a daddy," our three year old grandson, Tyler, announced as he strolled into the restaurant to meet us for lunch.
I immediately looked to my daughter-in-law. Was he making an announcement? Were we going to add to the growing list of grandchildren? A grandmother is always looking for another.
"You can thank your son for that idea," Lori said. "Ron told him that when he got hair on his chest he would be a daddy. The other day day he noticed he had hair on his legs and he figured that was good enough--he could be a daddy."
"Well if we shaved the hair on his legs, does that mean he could be a mommy?" I asked. To her credit, Lori politely asked me not to plant that idea in his head.
I immediately looked to my daughter-in-law. Was he making an announcement? Were we going to add to the growing list of grandchildren? A grandmother is always looking for another.
"You can thank your son for that idea," Lori said. "Ron told him that when he got hair on his chest he would be a daddy. The other day day he noticed he had hair on his legs and he figured that was good enough--he could be a daddy."
"Well if we shaved the hair on his legs, does that mean he could be a mommy?" I asked. To her credit, Lori politely asked me not to plant that idea in his head.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Feathery Welcome
It's finally spring and the birds are building their nests. I watched a little one trying to stuff long strings of curly dried grasses into the bottle birdhouse on the side of our house. We have hung birdhouses through out the yard hoping to avoid a disaster from the past.
One year, we had a lovely half-basket of artificial flowers that I hung on the door. (I was trying to keep up with all the neighbors who always seem to decorate for every season. I've quit since then.) As the weather got warmer and the time for little birds to hatch arrived, we heard little peeps coming from the front of the house. We assumed the robin that always returned to the front evergreen had hatched another brood of little robins.
Prom night arrived. Our daughter looked absolutely lovely in a beautiful lacey cream dress. Nervously we awaited the arrival of her date. The doorbell announced that he was at the front door and I eagerly opened it to greet him. The motion of the door opening spilled a brood of baby birds onto the foyer floor. Until that moment they had obviously been enjoying their comfy nest in my basket of flowers.
My daughter watched in horror and her date stood bewildered as I scurried around trying to put the birds back in the nest. After the corsage pining and picture taking, everyone decided that using the side door would be best.
The birds were there until they were able to fly. Once they abandoned the nest I took it down. It was the last time I ever hung anything on the front door in the spring no matter how good the neighbors decorations looked.
One year, we had a lovely half-basket of artificial flowers that I hung on the door. (I was trying to keep up with all the neighbors who always seem to decorate for every season. I've quit since then.) As the weather got warmer and the time for little birds to hatch arrived, we heard little peeps coming from the front of the house. We assumed the robin that always returned to the front evergreen had hatched another brood of little robins.
Prom night arrived. Our daughter looked absolutely lovely in a beautiful lacey cream dress. Nervously we awaited the arrival of her date. The doorbell announced that he was at the front door and I eagerly opened it to greet him. The motion of the door opening spilled a brood of baby birds onto the foyer floor. Until that moment they had obviously been enjoying their comfy nest in my basket of flowers.
My daughter watched in horror and her date stood bewildered as I scurried around trying to put the birds back in the nest. After the corsage pining and picture taking, everyone decided that using the side door would be best.
The birds were there until they were able to fly. Once they abandoned the nest I took it down. It was the last time I ever hung anything on the front door in the spring no matter how good the neighbors decorations looked.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Big Table
When you have a big table in the dining room it's such a shame to let it sit half empty. When we discovered we would only be five (instead of 12) for Easter dinner, we made some phone calls. We found a couple of our friends who were going to be alone because their kids couldn't make it home. We asked them to join us. (They've done the same for us when our kids couldn't make it home.)
While I was setting the table for tomorrow, I also happened to remember a neighbor who is by himself. I thought he probably went home to his mother's but Bob called anyway. You know, those little promptings from the Lord need to be followed. It turned out he was alone and didn't hesitate to take us up on the invitation.
Our "family" dinner has grown to 9: Bob and I, two kids, a grandchild, two friends, a neighbor and Jesus. He's always invited.
While I was setting the table for tomorrow, I also happened to remember a neighbor who is by himself. I thought he probably went home to his mother's but Bob called anyway. You know, those little promptings from the Lord need to be followed. It turned out he was alone and didn't hesitate to take us up on the invitation.
Our "family" dinner has grown to 9: Bob and I, two kids, a grandchild, two friends, a neighbor and Jesus. He's always invited.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
A Postmortem Audience?
I've been at a writers conference for the past week. I was looking forward to sunny California but 4 out of 5 days it has rained. I think it affected my brain function. As I surveyed the list of workshops, my eyes caught one titled "Writing for the Postmortem Audience." I blinked twice and read it again but it stayed the same.
A postmortem audience? What is a postmortem audience? Is it one full of dead people? Is it an audience of coroners? Morticians? Forensic scientists? The questions bounced around in my head for the afternoon and the next day. Even though my mind was beginning to go into overload mode with all the information being crammed in, the question would still surface. What is a postmortem audience?
When the world of critiques, workshops, keynotes, and networking slowed a bit, I got out my notebook with the scheduled workshops list and looked again. Writing for the Postmortem Audience was right there. Or was it? The fog lifted a bit. I think the sun may have even peeked through for a moment. It wasn't "postmortem" it was "postmodern"!
Oh...
What's a postmodern audience?
A postmortem audience? What is a postmortem audience? Is it one full of dead people? Is it an audience of coroners? Morticians? Forensic scientists? The questions bounced around in my head for the afternoon and the next day. Even though my mind was beginning to go into overload mode with all the information being crammed in, the question would still surface. What is a postmortem audience?
When the world of critiques, workshops, keynotes, and networking slowed a bit, I got out my notebook with the scheduled workshops list and looked again. Writing for the Postmortem Audience was right there. Or was it? The fog lifted a bit. I think the sun may have even peeked through for a moment. It wasn't "postmortem" it was "postmodern"!
Oh...
What's a postmodern audience?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Here Come the Buzzards!
Forget the groundhogs. Here come the buzzards! While Pete and Chuck may warn us on February 2 that spring is another six weeks away, the buzzards of Hinckley, Ohio, promise us that spring is only a few days away.
Every March 15, the buzzards return to roost in Hinckley. It's a big deal--pancake breakfast, costumed buzzard watchers, lots of media coverage. The buzzards never fail to disappoint. Usually around 8 a.m. someone spots the big birds circling overhead and those of us still plagued by snow and cold give a huge sigh of relief.
Spring will come. The buzzards did.
Every March 15, the buzzards return to roost in Hinckley. It's a big deal--pancake breakfast, costumed buzzard watchers, lots of media coverage. The buzzards never fail to disappoint. Usually around 8 a.m. someone spots the big birds circling overhead and those of us still plagued by snow and cold give a huge sigh of relief.
Spring will come. The buzzards did.
Monday, March 14, 2005
A Groom's Surprise
Every Saturday morning that is free finds us at our favorite breakfast spot. It's kind of a retro place, New York-ish, and plays great 60s music. We are there so much, we know most of the staff by name and they know how we like our coffee and eggs.
Last Saturday, we sat in a booth behind a father and daughter who were discussing her wedding plans. Dad and Mom must have been divorced and the bride must have been on her own for a while because she was talking about what she was paying for as she described her plans. The talk moved to plans for the groom's house. She was redecorating--new carpet, drapes, etc. I'm sure there were a few things going out that he's going to miss.
Then they moved on to talking about the groom's dog. "Well," she said, "I figure that if I take him to the groomers once a month that should help with the dog hair and smell." I hope the groom isn't a big "love me, love my dog" guy. There's a big surprise awaiting him if he is.
She's young. She'll learn, I hope. Trouble is, nowadays too many newlyweds are unwilling to learn. Divorce isn't seen in the same light as generations ago. It is more an option for a new start in life--like moving on to a new job or a new house. Relationships need work as badly as a dog needs grooming. I hope they'll pay attention to the needs of their relationship at least once a month. Maybe that trip to PetSmart could be a reminder to "love smart" as well.
Last Saturday, we sat in a booth behind a father and daughter who were discussing her wedding plans. Dad and Mom must have been divorced and the bride must have been on her own for a while because she was talking about what she was paying for as she described her plans. The talk moved to plans for the groom's house. She was redecorating--new carpet, drapes, etc. I'm sure there were a few things going out that he's going to miss.
Then they moved on to talking about the groom's dog. "Well," she said, "I figure that if I take him to the groomers once a month that should help with the dog hair and smell." I hope the groom isn't a big "love me, love my dog" guy. There's a big surprise awaiting him if he is.
She's young. She'll learn, I hope. Trouble is, nowadays too many newlyweds are unwilling to learn. Divorce isn't seen in the same light as generations ago. It is more an option for a new start in life--like moving on to a new job or a new house. Relationships need work as badly as a dog needs grooming. I hope they'll pay attention to the needs of their relationship at least once a month. Maybe that trip to PetSmart could be a reminder to "love smart" as well.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Laughter--Truly the Best Medicine
Well, it is confirmed. Laughter truly is the best medicine. I knew that! Now we have real proof. According to the reports on the news, researchers have found that the arteries widen when we experience laughter thereby putting our blood supply to the heart and brain at a healthier level.
Now come the complications. Does this mean that the theater will charge more for a comedy than an action movie? Will comedians demand more money? Will they have to be licensed as health care givers? Will this open the doors to a private specialty practice? Will malpractice insurance be available should they fail to treat the patient with a sense of humor?
And, what does this do for all those tort lawyers? I can see the commercials now. "If you, or someone you love, saw Vin Diesel in The Pacifier, and it failed to make you laugh, your arteries could have been seriously damaged. Call us. We can help you recover financially."
Now, that's funny.
Now come the complications. Does this mean that the theater will charge more for a comedy than an action movie? Will comedians demand more money? Will they have to be licensed as health care givers? Will this open the doors to a private specialty practice? Will malpractice insurance be available should they fail to treat the patient with a sense of humor?
And, what does this do for all those tort lawyers? I can see the commercials now. "If you, or someone you love, saw Vin Diesel in The Pacifier, and it failed to make you laugh, your arteries could have been seriously damaged. Call us. We can help you recover financially."
Now, that's funny.
Monday, March 07, 2005
An Imagination is a Wonderful Thing
"It's gonna be cold," I grumped when my husband suggested we purchase our single game Indians baseball tickets at the ballpark.
The temperature was only in the upper 20's although the sun promised to warm it up to the mid 30's by afternoon.
"But you'll get to see the locker room and batting cages." He was referring to the open house the Indians organization was holding to stimulate interest in a team that is already showing progress.
We arrived almost an hour early to find people already gathering on the square between Gund Arena and the Jake. Bob got a wrist band...#23. He was so proud. We opted to stand in the open square in the sun as opposed to the shaded area in front of the ticket booths. We were assured our spot in line with our wristband. A cold breeze sent us retreating to the wall of the Gund where we were out of the wind index factors.
The sun's rays warmed the wall and toasted our faces. If you closed your eyes, and forgot the heaviness of the winter clothing, you could almost hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat.
Imaginations are wonderful things. They can get us through some of the awful realities of life--like facing another bout of snow. As we walked through the ballpark and viewed the snow covered field from the party suite, we listened to those auditioning to sing the national anthem. The smell of hotdogs and popcorn permeated the inside areas of the ballpark. All that was missing was hearing the popular cry, "The beer guy's here!"
I even got a souvenier. Sunday morning I awoke to find blushing red cheeks from my half hour in the sun. It's probably nothing compared to what I imagine will happen at the afternoon game we have in August...but then it's Cleveland. It could rain. I can always imagine it's snow and be thankful for the rain.
The temperature was only in the upper 20's although the sun promised to warm it up to the mid 30's by afternoon.
"But you'll get to see the locker room and batting cages." He was referring to the open house the Indians organization was holding to stimulate interest in a team that is already showing progress.
We arrived almost an hour early to find people already gathering on the square between Gund Arena and the Jake. Bob got a wrist band...#23. He was so proud. We opted to stand in the open square in the sun as opposed to the shaded area in front of the ticket booths. We were assured our spot in line with our wristband. A cold breeze sent us retreating to the wall of the Gund where we were out of the wind index factors.
The sun's rays warmed the wall and toasted our faces. If you closed your eyes, and forgot the heaviness of the winter clothing, you could almost hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat.
Imaginations are wonderful things. They can get us through some of the awful realities of life--like facing another bout of snow. As we walked through the ballpark and viewed the snow covered field from the party suite, we listened to those auditioning to sing the national anthem. The smell of hotdogs and popcorn permeated the inside areas of the ballpark. All that was missing was hearing the popular cry, "The beer guy's here!"
I even got a souvenier. Sunday morning I awoke to find blushing red cheeks from my half hour in the sun. It's probably nothing compared to what I imagine will happen at the afternoon game we have in August...but then it's Cleveland. It could rain. I can always imagine it's snow and be thankful for the rain.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
...For a Woman/Man Your Age
My husband's very faithful about getting his yearly checkup with the doctor. I'm not as good. After skipping a couple of years, I decided to bite the bullet and make the appointment. Part of the problem was that the doctor I was really beginning to feel comfortable with moved out of town. (Hope it wasn't because of me.)
I found another doctor much closer to home and covered under our insurance policy (gotta love those insurance agencies). The appointment went well. I gave blood at the lab and signed up for the mammogram and, at the suggestion of the doctor, a bone density test. The bone density is so that we will have a base line to judge whether or not my bones are thinning or I'm just shrinking from drying out in the hot sun (I wish--we have 12" of snow today).
When Bob comes home from the doctor's office, he's usually a little agitated because the doctor uses the phrase, "...for a man your age."
"What is that supposed to mean," he rants. "For a man your age. You just don't want to hear 'for a man your age'."
I generally humor him and soothe the bear in him with some chocolate chip cookies.
So, the other day, I finally get my report on my bone density test and what does it say? "You have normal bone density FOR A WOMAN YOUR AGE."
Where are those chocolate chip cookies?
I found another doctor much closer to home and covered under our insurance policy (gotta love those insurance agencies). The appointment went well. I gave blood at the lab and signed up for the mammogram and, at the suggestion of the doctor, a bone density test. The bone density is so that we will have a base line to judge whether or not my bones are thinning or I'm just shrinking from drying out in the hot sun (I wish--we have 12" of snow today).
When Bob comes home from the doctor's office, he's usually a little agitated because the doctor uses the phrase, "...for a man your age."
"What is that supposed to mean," he rants. "For a man your age. You just don't want to hear 'for a man your age'."
I generally humor him and soothe the bear in him with some chocolate chip cookies.
So, the other day, I finally get my report on my bone density test and what does it say? "You have normal bone density FOR A WOMAN YOUR AGE."
Where are those chocolate chip cookies?
Noisy Shoes
I have my noisy shoes on this morning. That's what my grandson, Tyler (age 3) calls them. They are my good shoes that I wear on Sunday for church. The heel is about 2 1/2" high and kind of thick. They do clomp as I walk, warning everyone of my approach.
I find the heels very helpful in warding off blind corner collisions. There are a couple of hallways in our church where, if you're not careful, and bustling with Sunday morning business, you could collide with someone rounding the corner. This isn't too bad physically if it's a visitor. They are usually wandering slowly down the hall, getting their bearings, and trying to decide if this is the place for them to be. Colliding with them would make an impact and maybe cause them to reconsider their safety within those walls. If you meet up with another busy bustling all-Sunday-business person however, there could be major damage done. The sound of the clomp warns them someone is coming and they need to slow down.
When I was teaching (many, many moons ago), I wore "noisy" shoes on those days I felt I needed a little more authority. There's nothing like the sound of a determined step to make kids straighten up in hurry. Of course if you want to catch them at something, better wear sneakers.
Finally, my noisy shoes help my husband's patience. When he hears the clomp of my shoes, he knows I'm almost ready to leave for wherever we are going and it's the signal to put down the remote.
These noisy shoes, alas, are needing replacement. The sound of the heels is telling me the metal is emerging from the protective caps on the heels. The clomp is changing to a click. I wouldn't want someone to think they were about to meet 5" stilettos.
I find the heels very helpful in warding off blind corner collisions. There are a couple of hallways in our church where, if you're not careful, and bustling with Sunday morning business, you could collide with someone rounding the corner. This isn't too bad physically if it's a visitor. They are usually wandering slowly down the hall, getting their bearings, and trying to decide if this is the place for them to be. Colliding with them would make an impact and maybe cause them to reconsider their safety within those walls. If you meet up with another busy bustling all-Sunday-business person however, there could be major damage done. The sound of the clomp warns them someone is coming and they need to slow down.
When I was teaching (many, many moons ago), I wore "noisy" shoes on those days I felt I needed a little more authority. There's nothing like the sound of a determined step to make kids straighten up in hurry. Of course if you want to catch them at something, better wear sneakers.
Finally, my noisy shoes help my husband's patience. When he hears the clomp of my shoes, he knows I'm almost ready to leave for wherever we are going and it's the signal to put down the remote.
These noisy shoes, alas, are needing replacement. The sound of the heels is telling me the metal is emerging from the protective caps on the heels. The clomp is changing to a click. I wouldn't want someone to think they were about to meet 5" stilettos.
Friday, February 25, 2005
American Idol
This morning in our writer's forum, I met a lady who has been married over 50 years, retired (not from being married), and four years ago began writing to publish. Just about the time I think I'm getting too old (57) to worry about this or any new venture anymore, I find another inspiring woman to spur me on.
Actually, I have one I can always look to--my mother-in-law. She's my "American Idol". At 60, she learned to golf. At 65, she took up snow skiing. At 76, we went SCUBA diving together (just a resort dive--she's not certified). At 77, she began learning how to use the computer. And, this past Christmas at 83, she went parasailing in the Bahamas--that one scared me though. She's been in excellent health. Takes good care of herself. But the thing that's inspiring is that she doesn't give up on life. She's ready to try new things (although I wish she'd try something a little less hazardous to her bones.)
Did I also mention she entertains a group from church frequently, cooks on Wednesday nights for the Church dinners, and visits the nursing home regularly to cheer up "the older folks"?
So, you see, it's never to late to get started with whatever you've been putting off--as long as God gives you the keys to start the engine and keeps putting fuel in the tank.
Actually, I have one I can always look to--my mother-in-law. She's my "American Idol". At 60, she learned to golf. At 65, she took up snow skiing. At 76, we went SCUBA diving together (just a resort dive--she's not certified). At 77, she began learning how to use the computer. And, this past Christmas at 83, she went parasailing in the Bahamas--that one scared me though. She's been in excellent health. Takes good care of herself. But the thing that's inspiring is that she doesn't give up on life. She's ready to try new things (although I wish she'd try something a little less hazardous to her bones.)
Did I also mention she entertains a group from church frequently, cooks on Wednesday nights for the Church dinners, and visits the nursing home regularly to cheer up "the older folks"?
So, you see, it's never to late to get started with whatever you've been putting off--as long as God gives you the keys to start the engine and keeps putting fuel in the tank.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Hazardous Mail
The airport is not the only place putting you through a game of 20 questions when you engage their services. Now the Post Office is playing the same game. I went to the P.O. to mail two proposals for critique at a writers conference today. The man behind the counter started off with "First class? Overnight? Express?"
"First class," I answered.
"Certified? Delivery confirmation? Insurance?"
"No, thanks."
"Anything breakable, liquid, or hazardous?"
I looked at him with a sly smile. "Only hazardous to my career if it doesn't get there."
"First class," I answered.
"Certified? Delivery confirmation? Insurance?"
"No, thanks."
"Anything breakable, liquid, or hazardous?"
I looked at him with a sly smile. "Only hazardous to my career if it doesn't get there."
Monday, February 21, 2005
Oh, NOW I get it!
It will be 40 years this June since I graduated from high school. Somewhere in my sophomore year (that would have been the first year in high school--before the middle school concept), the Phys Ed. teacher decided to have a unit on modern dance. To this day, I still do not understand what that had to do with my physical education. It should have taken place in a music class--one that I'd never take.
I don't want to appear to brag, but I was good in gym class. I played a good game of basketball, could hit well in softball, and would have loved to have gone on to Olympic training in gymnastics--I even made the cheerleading squad in junior high. I was too shy to make it in high school. And then she threw this modern dance unit at us. We had to pick out a piece of music and interpret it in some kind of phyiscal movements. Not all of us had dance lessons. I'd had them but that was when I was 4 or 5 years old. Obviously no one saw anything in me then to encourage my mother to continue with them.
There was a piece of music on one of my LPs that sounded like a busy person so I decided to imagine a secretary at work. I bustled around on an excercise mat, did a couple somersaults, squated as though I were sitting at a typerwriter, and, in general, felt like I had made a real fool of myself. I can't remember my grade. I didn't care what it was. I just wanted it over with.
This past week, we went to see Movin' Out, the musical. It is Billy Joel's music arranged into a story about coming of age during the 60s-80s. While the musicians sit above the stage in the background, there is a troupe of extremely talented and energetic dancers who, through dance only, portray the action. It didn't take but a minute for me to recognize that there before me, in much better looking costumes than yellow gym suits, was the modern dance unit from my past. There were a few elements of ballet thrown in, but other than that, the physical movements, the gymnastics, the portrayal of anger, grief, etc., through the movements on stage, were right out of that gym class.
So, 40+ years later, I finally get it. I wasn't so far off back then. I should go back and get take a look at that grade. I'm sure it should have been better than it was.
I don't want to appear to brag, but I was good in gym class. I played a good game of basketball, could hit well in softball, and would have loved to have gone on to Olympic training in gymnastics--I even made the cheerleading squad in junior high. I was too shy to make it in high school. And then she threw this modern dance unit at us. We had to pick out a piece of music and interpret it in some kind of phyiscal movements. Not all of us had dance lessons. I'd had them but that was when I was 4 or 5 years old. Obviously no one saw anything in me then to encourage my mother to continue with them.
There was a piece of music on one of my LPs that sounded like a busy person so I decided to imagine a secretary at work. I bustled around on an excercise mat, did a couple somersaults, squated as though I were sitting at a typerwriter, and, in general, felt like I had made a real fool of myself. I can't remember my grade. I didn't care what it was. I just wanted it over with.
This past week, we went to see Movin' Out, the musical. It is Billy Joel's music arranged into a story about coming of age during the 60s-80s. While the musicians sit above the stage in the background, there is a troupe of extremely talented and energetic dancers who, through dance only, portray the action. It didn't take but a minute for me to recognize that there before me, in much better looking costumes than yellow gym suits, was the modern dance unit from my past. There were a few elements of ballet thrown in, but other than that, the physical movements, the gymnastics, the portrayal of anger, grief, etc., through the movements on stage, were right out of that gym class.
So, 40+ years later, I finally get it. I wasn't so far off back then. I should go back and get take a look at that grade. I'm sure it should have been better than it was.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Behind Every Good Man...
I picked up the paper to do the crossword this morning. Problem was, my pen was out of ink and I didn't feel like foraging for another. I was forced to read the Arts & Life section. I found an interesting column about the late Arthur Miller. Most of us know him for being a playwright and especially for being married to Marilyn Monroe. But there was a Cleveland connection I didn't know about.
His first wife, Mary Grace Slattery, was from Lakewood. They met at University of Michigan (we'll forgive him that). They were married 16 years and had two children. She worked as a waitress while he did his writing. It was during this time that he wrote his most famous works and according to the columnist,Tom Feran, Miller got many of his ideas for those plays from Slattery's family background.
There is little written about her since everyone is more interested in his escapade with Marilyn. But while he was hooked up with Marilyn, he wrote very little of significance. It just goes to show you that those "trophy wives" might not be all they're expected to be at least in the area of creative endeavors.
His first wife, Mary Grace Slattery, was from Lakewood. They met at University of Michigan (we'll forgive him that). They were married 16 years and had two children. She worked as a waitress while he did his writing. It was during this time that he wrote his most famous works and according to the columnist,Tom Feran, Miller got many of his ideas for those plays from Slattery's family background.
There is little written about her since everyone is more interested in his escapade with Marilyn. But while he was hooked up with Marilyn, he wrote very little of significance. It just goes to show you that those "trophy wives" might not be all they're expected to be at least in the area of creative endeavors.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Heroes
We just spent the week visiting the Mouse in Orlando. There were 15 family members on the last leg of the trip aboard the Disney Cruise ship the Wonder. Our niece is one of the entertainment crew members and we were there to support, cajole, and generally let her know she's loved as well as enjoy our granddaughter's first trip to the World and the Wonder.
Throughout the World and the Wonder little girls of all ages are addressed as "princess" and most wear the costumes of Snow White, Cinderella, Belle, Sleepting Beauty, etc. They stand in line with their parents (or are carried if they don't walk yet) to garner a signature from the Disney characters. The Princess characters, however, are the main attraction. What little girl doesn't dream of being a princess?
All of this seems a little one sided to me. Where are the male heroes? The ones who rescued all those princesses? Why aren't we promoting them with costumes and signature books? Well upon examination, I realized that most little boys would not dress to look like Peter Pan, Prince Charming, or even Mr. Incredible (that would require tights). Moreover, their fathers would not let them dress that way.
Finally, in my search for heros and heroines, I found they wore costumes made of everyday stuff--jeans, shorts, T-shirts. They were the ones who took a vacation with the family and found themselves exhausted from giving their kids the best time they could in a world of fantasy and dreams. One father commented on the bus to the airport, "It was great. I'm tired. But it was worth it."
And it is.
We watched our child play with his child and become a child again. He exchanged memories with his brother of long-ago vacations as children. Who would have imagined that what we did in the moment to entertain and please them as children would have lasted as fond remembrances of shared experiences? It almost made me feel like a princess again as I walked next to Mr. Incredible (in jeans, not tights).
Throughout the World and the Wonder little girls of all ages are addressed as "princess" and most wear the costumes of Snow White, Cinderella, Belle, Sleepting Beauty, etc. They stand in line with their parents (or are carried if they don't walk yet) to garner a signature from the Disney characters. The Princess characters, however, are the main attraction. What little girl doesn't dream of being a princess?
All of this seems a little one sided to me. Where are the male heroes? The ones who rescued all those princesses? Why aren't we promoting them with costumes and signature books? Well upon examination, I realized that most little boys would not dress to look like Peter Pan, Prince Charming, or even Mr. Incredible (that would require tights). Moreover, their fathers would not let them dress that way.
Finally, in my search for heros and heroines, I found they wore costumes made of everyday stuff--jeans, shorts, T-shirts. They were the ones who took a vacation with the family and found themselves exhausted from giving their kids the best time they could in a world of fantasy and dreams. One father commented on the bus to the airport, "It was great. I'm tired. But it was worth it."
And it is.
We watched our child play with his child and become a child again. He exchanged memories with his brother of long-ago vacations as children. Who would have imagined that what we did in the moment to entertain and please them as children would have lasted as fond remembrances of shared experiences? It almost made me feel like a princess again as I walked next to Mr. Incredible (in jeans, not tights).
Sunday, February 06, 2005
SOS
I think SOS must have started it--all these letters that are the shorthand for our cyber messages. SOS is thought to stand for "Save Our Ship". It was preceded by CQD which was the British distress signal. CQ were the letters for a general call on a land call and the D meant distress. It was a universal code for all telegraphers.
In 1908, SOS was adopted as a distress signal. the three dots, three dashes, three dots were thought to be less likely misinterpreted. Then came the Titanic. The new signal was not generally recognized yet. The telegrapher on the Titanic began by using the CQD code and then remembered the SOS and sent it.
Our messaging is constantly changing. Everything seems to be known by letters. WIP is a work in progress. CU means see you later. Some of them are easier to catch on to than others. I like the one our youth group has adopted--BCNYA. The letters match our church name followed by youth association. But it's also a neat way for the kids to say "Be seein' ya!"
All that aside, it is hard to keep up with everything. So, I'm sending out an SOS to anyone who knows what LOL is in a message. It really bothers me. But I'm finally admitting my lack of IQ in solving the IM.
BCNYA!
In 1908, SOS was adopted as a distress signal. the three dots, three dashes, three dots were thought to be less likely misinterpreted. Then came the Titanic. The new signal was not generally recognized yet. The telegrapher on the Titanic began by using the CQD code and then remembered the SOS and sent it.
Our messaging is constantly changing. Everything seems to be known by letters. WIP is a work in progress. CU means see you later. Some of them are easier to catch on to than others. I like the one our youth group has adopted--BCNYA. The letters match our church name followed by youth association. But it's also a neat way for the kids to say "Be seein' ya!"
All that aside, it is hard to keep up with everything. So, I'm sending out an SOS to anyone who knows what LOL is in a message. It really bothers me. But I'm finally admitting my lack of IQ in solving the IM.
BCNYA!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Rock On!
This morning, the NBC Today show was warning parents about the kind of music their kid's might be listening to on the internet. It is truly disgusting what some "artists" are promoting in the name of art. While I don't appreciate the type of music they are playing, the musical notes are not the problem. The problem lies in the violence, sex, and obscenity they attach to the written scores with their words and videos.
My son is the GM for a Christian rock station in Miami, 91.7 FM The Call. I don't appreciate the type of music they play either. But the difference is in what the message is. While it boggles the mind to understand how the words are understood with all the noise that accompanies them, somehow the younger generation seems to "get it".
There was an interesting response to the station from one listener. He emailed the station and said the music "really rocked" and he liked listening to it but he couldn't understand why they were talking about God between all the good hip-hop. What an opportunity for God's message to sink in. Eventually, I think, he'll hear the words and maybe it will be a life changing moment.
Sad to think that so many others are listening to words that will change their lives in a different way with a message that encourages drugs, violence, and sex. To those critics of Christian rock I ask, what message would you rather the kids find on the internet or the airwaves? They love the music. Let's give them a message to love as well. Rock on!
(You can listen to The Call online: http://www.callfm.com )
My son is the GM for a Christian rock station in Miami, 91.7 FM The Call. I don't appreciate the type of music they play either. But the difference is in what the message is. While it boggles the mind to understand how the words are understood with all the noise that accompanies them, somehow the younger generation seems to "get it".
There was an interesting response to the station from one listener. He emailed the station and said the music "really rocked" and he liked listening to it but he couldn't understand why they were talking about God between all the good hip-hop. What an opportunity for God's message to sink in. Eventually, I think, he'll hear the words and maybe it will be a life changing moment.
Sad to think that so many others are listening to words that will change their lives in a different way with a message that encourages drugs, violence, and sex. To those critics of Christian rock I ask, what message would you rather the kids find on the internet or the airwaves? They love the music. Let's give them a message to love as well. Rock on!
(You can listen to The Call online: http://www.callfm.com )
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Groundhogs Rule
So, today is Groundhog Day--the midway point of winter. In a carnival atmosphere, Punxsutawney Pete will poke his little nose out, sniff the air, look for his shadow and decide if we will have an early spring. Following his lead will be Ohio's Buckeye Chuck. (Can Michigan Mike be far behind?)
It has always been difficult for me to understand why Pete or Chuck would run back into his hole for another 6 weeks of winter if he sees his shadow. A shadow would indicate the sun was shining. I should think that would be encouraging enough to want to be outdoors and catch a few rays. The sun shining around here in February is encouragement enough that spring will come...someday. It's very discouraging to hear that a groundhog might commit us to enduring another six weeks of hard winter.
I propose that if seeing his shadow is the reason we have to suffer the cold and snow of an extended winter, build a sunscreen over his hole. Offer him his favorite foods. Give him a hot tub. Whatever it takes! Keep that little guy out of his hole.
It has always been difficult for me to understand why Pete or Chuck would run back into his hole for another 6 weeks of winter if he sees his shadow. A shadow would indicate the sun was shining. I should think that would be encouraging enough to want to be outdoors and catch a few rays. The sun shining around here in February is encouragement enough that spring will come...someday. It's very discouraging to hear that a groundhog might commit us to enduring another six weeks of hard winter.
I propose that if seeing his shadow is the reason we have to suffer the cold and snow of an extended winter, build a sunscreen over his hole. Offer him his favorite foods. Give him a hot tub. Whatever it takes! Keep that little guy out of his hole.
Monday, January 31, 2005
The Late Mr. Robbins
Long before the do-not-call list, the privacy manager, the caller ID and the answering machine, I was forced to answer the telephone while making dinner. There was a rule in our home that dinner would be on the table at 6 p.m. and everyone needed to be there at 6 sharp or run the risk of missing dinner. I'm not sure if the rule was more for the kids or for my husband who would allow himself to get sidetracked with one last phone call at work and be late for dinner.
One night the hands of the clock began to slip farther away from the six o'clock hour. The kids were very quiet, relishing the fact that they were on time and Dad was late. (Did I mention this was all before car and cell phones, too?) He hadn't called from work to say he'd be late so I was slowly becoming a bit agitated but that was tempered by a bit of anxiety wondering if there had been an accident.
Then, the phonse rang.
"Mrs. Robbins?"
"Yes," I answered wondering to myself if this were the dreaded phone call from the police or the hospital.
"First of all," the caller continued, "I'd like to extend my condolences to the family of the late Mr. Robbins."
My heart began pumping harder. I grabbed my forehead and turned my back to the kids.
"I'm calling from the XYZ Monument company to see if we can be of help in choosing the perfect headstone for Mr. Robbins."
I laughed. It must have really confused my telemarketer. "Mr. Robbins is only late for dinner," I said, "But you might try back later."
One night the hands of the clock began to slip farther away from the six o'clock hour. The kids were very quiet, relishing the fact that they were on time and Dad was late. (Did I mention this was all before car and cell phones, too?) He hadn't called from work to say he'd be late so I was slowly becoming a bit agitated but that was tempered by a bit of anxiety wondering if there had been an accident.
Then, the phonse rang.
"Mrs. Robbins?"
"Yes," I answered wondering to myself if this were the dreaded phone call from the police or the hospital.
"First of all," the caller continued, "I'd like to extend my condolences to the family of the late Mr. Robbins."
My heart began pumping harder. I grabbed my forehead and turned my back to the kids.
"I'm calling from the XYZ Monument company to see if we can be of help in choosing the perfect headstone for Mr. Robbins."
I laughed. It must have really confused my telemarketer. "Mr. Robbins is only late for dinner," I said, "But you might try back later."
Friday, January 28, 2005
The Lone Sneaker
There it was in the middle of four lanes of traffic--the lone sneaker--sitting forlornly on the cold pavement waiting to tell its story. How does one sneaker find itself in the middle of a street separated from its mate?
- It was tossed out the window as a joke by a passing car full of teens
- It held on to the roof of the car where someone had rested it while they opened the door and then finally fell off exhausted, bouncing across the asphalt until finally coming to rest against the median strip (the mate fell off earlier)
- A dog, thinking it great fun to tease his master, ran off with it in his mouth only to become confused by the traffic and dropped his prize in the middle of the street
So many possibilities stream through the mind when you wonder how one lone sneaker can end up in the middle of the street. But wait--perhaps the sneaker chose to sit there and watch life fly by speculating on where all the cars are going.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Cyber Dependency
Whew! It has been almost two days without internet service. I didn't fully realize my dependencey until I began experiencing withdrawal pains. My entire morning routine changed.
Not only could I not check my email, I could not see my kids on line. We have instant messenger and even though they may not be online or may be posted as away, they are still there before me. I can tell when Ron gets to work. He pops onto my screen at about 8 a.m. It's kind of like mothering him again. I can smile and know that he made it to school, I mean work, on time.
Andy pops in and out during the day depending on his schedule but I can tell he's moving about and not sleeping in. (It's that mother thing again.) His wife Aya will pop onto the IM and I imagine that she is posting pictures of our precious, and at times precocious, granddaughter. I begin to look forward to that visit to her website to see what Kotomi's been up to.
Lori, Ron's wife, will occasionally greet me when she see me on IM in the morning. A lot depends on the little whirlwinds in her life and what her morning is like. If Danielle or Tyler are around, the IMing can get a little garbled as little hands try to help out.
Now, if I could just get Rob and Leah to cooperate and come on line...hmm maybe they're just hiding out.
I am so glad to be back. It can get lonely out there without "Cyber Space".
Not only could I not check my email, I could not see my kids on line. We have instant messenger and even though they may not be online or may be posted as away, they are still there before me. I can tell when Ron gets to work. He pops onto my screen at about 8 a.m. It's kind of like mothering him again. I can smile and know that he made it to school, I mean work, on time.
Andy pops in and out during the day depending on his schedule but I can tell he's moving about and not sleeping in. (It's that mother thing again.) His wife Aya will pop onto the IM and I imagine that she is posting pictures of our precious, and at times precocious, granddaughter. I begin to look forward to that visit to her website to see what Kotomi's been up to.
Lori, Ron's wife, will occasionally greet me when she see me on IM in the morning. A lot depends on the little whirlwinds in her life and what her morning is like. If Danielle or Tyler are around, the IMing can get a little garbled as little hands try to help out.
Now, if I could just get Rob and Leah to cooperate and come on line...hmm maybe they're just hiding out.
I am so glad to be back. It can get lonely out there without "Cyber Space".
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Beating "Depression" Day
Yesterday was supposed to be, according to psychologists and news media, the most depressing day of the year. It's a time when the holidays have passed, everything is put away and the bills are beginning to come in. Add to that the cold, wintry, gray weather and long dark nights of much of the country and the mix can be quite depressing.
I spent the day with some writer friends having a delicious hot bowl of French onion soup and a salad and great conversation. There is nothing better for defeating depression than having like-minded people with whom to share joys, fears, accomplishments, struggles, and encouragement. We call ourselves the "Barnabas Girls". (Barnabas was the great encourager in the New Testament.)
Now I am ready to face the next seven weeks of winter, unless of course the gray days continue and the groundhog doesn't see his shadow. Then there will only be seven weeks until spring. It's all in how you look at it. Thanks to the Barnabas Girls, it's not looking too bad right now.
I spent the day with some writer friends having a delicious hot bowl of French onion soup and a salad and great conversation. There is nothing better for defeating depression than having like-minded people with whom to share joys, fears, accomplishments, struggles, and encouragement. We call ourselves the "Barnabas Girls". (Barnabas was the great encourager in the New Testament.)
Now I am ready to face the next seven weeks of winter, unless of course the gray days continue and the groundhog doesn't see his shadow. Then there will only be seven weeks until spring. It's all in how you look at it. Thanks to the Barnabas Girls, it's not looking too bad right now.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Musical Sound Bites
There's a new trend in worship music today. It's moved away from the old hymns and into the realm of what seems like "musical sound bites". They are choruses made up of phrases that for the most part don't tell any story. They are meant to praise or invite God into your life. They don't say a lot about how or why. I'm sure they are meant to be simple but I've never found it easy to read the words on a projection screen and follow someone's voice instead of following musical notes. Even if you don't know how to read music, you would at least know when your voice is supposed to go up or down.
In today's hurried and media blitzed world we have learned to compartmentalize and extract only that which we think will influence. The sound bite is the tool of the spin doctor. We're told that this is how the new generation receives their information. We used to call something like that Cliffs Notes. The sound bite is even shorter. Can you imagine reducing Moby Dick to a couple of sound bites? Or how about Gone With The Wind? The Bible?
A friend of ours calls the new choruses the 7-11 songs--seven words repeated eleven times. Not too unlike the convenient store chain, we can pop into church and pick up just the needed items and be out in a jiffy rather than shopping through the larger grocery store and seeing what else might satisfy the hunger.
In today's hurried and media blitzed world we have learned to compartmentalize and extract only that which we think will influence. The sound bite is the tool of the spin doctor. We're told that this is how the new generation receives their information. We used to call something like that Cliffs Notes. The sound bite is even shorter. Can you imagine reducing Moby Dick to a couple of sound bites? Or how about Gone With The Wind? The Bible?
A friend of ours calls the new choruses the 7-11 songs--seven words repeated eleven times. Not too unlike the convenient store chain, we can pop into church and pick up just the needed items and be out in a jiffy rather than shopping through the larger grocery store and seeing what else might satisfy the hunger.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
DaVinci's Last Supper
This past June, I had the opportunity of seeing DaVinci's fresco, The Last Supper, in Milan. I purposely did not read Brown's DaVinci Code before going to Europe so that I might view the work with fresh eyes.
We arrived at our appointed time. (See my website www.karenrobbins.com/milan for more information). A few minutes and two special entrance chambers later, we were ushered into a dimly lit room that was a huge dining hall at one time. Against the back of the wall was the famous work. It has been touched up so many times it is difficult to say what is still the original. The basic work is still there however.
The astounding thing was how the perspective in the picture led your eye to Jesus who was in the center. After seeing so many churches and cathedrals with the emphasis on the saints they were named for, I found it refreshing to see a picture that centered on Jesus. The muted colors of the fresco were beautiful. I stood there just drinking in the history and the artistic talent that had created it.
The question arises, now that I have read the book by Brown, what/who is the artist creating his work for when he is crafting his piece? Paintings were usually commissioned and the artist made his money by painting for his patron. Is it the patron? Is it the beholder (I still believe the beauty is in the eye of the beholder)? Are we to interpret the work as we, the viewer, see it?
If that last question is the case, I did not see anything but a beautiful work of art featuring Jesus and his disciples at their last meeting before his crucifixion. There were no hidden V's. I did not notice any knives pointed the wrong direction, etc. What is found there is found by those who are trying to look beyond a piece of artwork.
Mr. Brown has done a wonderful job of putting together historical facts, suppositions, and theories and weaving them into a piece of fiction. Soon to follow, the movie moguls will weave that fiction into a screenplay and put it on the big screen. The interest will rise again. The discussions will ensue. And, hopefully, Mr. Brown will profit from the movie rights.
I can't help but wonder if DaVinci were able to know the hulabaloo his work has caused, if he wouldn't just chuckle and say, "It was only a painting, people." That's my theory.
[Check out the information at The DaVinci Code: The Biblical Response]
We arrived at our appointed time. (See my website www.karenrobbins.com/milan for more information). A few minutes and two special entrance chambers later, we were ushered into a dimly lit room that was a huge dining hall at one time. Against the back of the wall was the famous work. It has been touched up so many times it is difficult to say what is still the original. The basic work is still there however.
The astounding thing was how the perspective in the picture led your eye to Jesus who was in the center. After seeing so many churches and cathedrals with the emphasis on the saints they were named for, I found it refreshing to see a picture that centered on Jesus. The muted colors of the fresco were beautiful. I stood there just drinking in the history and the artistic talent that had created it.
The question arises, now that I have read the book by Brown, what/who is the artist creating his work for when he is crafting his piece? Paintings were usually commissioned and the artist made his money by painting for his patron. Is it the patron? Is it the beholder (I still believe the beauty is in the eye of the beholder)? Are we to interpret the work as we, the viewer, see it?
If that last question is the case, I did not see anything but a beautiful work of art featuring Jesus and his disciples at their last meeting before his crucifixion. There were no hidden V's. I did not notice any knives pointed the wrong direction, etc. What is found there is found by those who are trying to look beyond a piece of artwork.
Mr. Brown has done a wonderful job of putting together historical facts, suppositions, and theories and weaving them into a piece of fiction. Soon to follow, the movie moguls will weave that fiction into a screenplay and put it on the big screen. The interest will rise again. The discussions will ensue. And, hopefully, Mr. Brown will profit from the movie rights.
I can't help but wonder if DaVinci were able to know the hulabaloo his work has caused, if he wouldn't just chuckle and say, "It was only a painting, people." That's my theory.
[Check out the information at The DaVinci Code: The Biblical Response]
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Surviving Winter
The snow is falling slower today. The flakes are a little bigger and I can almost say it's pretty. Almost. You guessed it. I am not a winter-fun-in-the-cold-and-snow person.
The bears have a good way of passing the winter. Find a cozy cave, curl up, and go to sleep. When the first signs of spring begin to warm the earth again, you stretch, open your eyes, and come out into the warmth of the sun.
But maybe the birds do it better--at least the smart ones. They fly south for the winter. Warm breezes, plenty of berries, the sound of the surf, steel drum music...Oh! Excuse me, I was daydreaming.
Unfortunately I am neither bird nor bear. Time for another cup of hot chocolate and some garden catalogs to pour over. Please, Spring, don't be late!!
The bears have a good way of passing the winter. Find a cozy cave, curl up, and go to sleep. When the first signs of spring begin to warm the earth again, you stretch, open your eyes, and come out into the warmth of the sun.
But maybe the birds do it better--at least the smart ones. They fly south for the winter. Warm breezes, plenty of berries, the sound of the surf, steel drum music...Oh! Excuse me, I was daydreaming.
Unfortunately I am neither bird nor bear. Time for another cup of hot chocolate and some garden catalogs to pour over. Please, Spring, don't be late!!
Friday, January 14, 2005
Optimism
I have a cold. It's the third one this season. I kept thinking that somehow I was reinfecting myself with the same one but I learned the other day that there are around 200 different cold viruses. Once you get one, you are immune to that strain but not protected from the others. Optimistically, I only have 197 more to go to be "cold free".
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Tsunami
We were aboard the Queen Mary II when the news came of the great disaster in Southern Asia. The staff arranged for a short memorial the following Sunday at the beginning of the interdenominational service to remember those who had lost their lives and those who were struggling to put lives back together. Collection boxes were arranged near the Purser's office and at the doors leading into the theater where the service was held.
The service began with a 10 minute video of bits and pieces from the CNN news reports we had been receiving by satellite TV. It was quiet in the theater as people tried to absorb the immensity of the tragedy. We had a moment of silence then Commodore Warwick led the service that followed.
Near the end of the service was the Lord's prayer. As we began to recite, my mind began to review the pictures we had seen. "Thy will be done..." I trembled. "...On earth..." Was this God's will? Certainly the power of all that had happened was in His control. "...As it is in Heaven." I suddenly felt relieved. While there was certainly a great tragedy in the tsunami, there was also hope in a God and a Heaven. His power is great. His grace is greater.
The service began with a 10 minute video of bits and pieces from the CNN news reports we had been receiving by satellite TV. It was quiet in the theater as people tried to absorb the immensity of the tragedy. We had a moment of silence then Commodore Warwick led the service that followed.
Near the end of the service was the Lord's prayer. As we began to recite, my mind began to review the pictures we had seen. "Thy will be done..." I trembled. "...On earth..." Was this God's will? Certainly the power of all that had happened was in His control. "...As it is in Heaven." I suddenly felt relieved. While there was certainly a great tragedy in the tsunami, there was also hope in a God and a Heaven. His power is great. His grace is greater.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Writing On The Wall
We have just returned from a lovely vacation. It started with a weekend in Miami visiting our son and daughter-in-law. We had breakfast at their favorite place and while we waited for our order, I began looking at the plaques on the wall. Two caught my eye and I wrote the sayings down:
Good morning. This is God. I will be handling all your problems today. I will not need your help. So, have a good day. I love you.
And the second:
Shopping with your husband is like hunting with the game warden.
Both sayings can be appropriately applied to my life.
Good morning. This is God. I will be handling all your problems today. I will not need your help. So, have a good day. I love you.
And the second:
Shopping with your husband is like hunting with the game warden.
Both sayings can be appropriately applied to my life.
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