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."

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.

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".

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.

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.

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]

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!!

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".

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.

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.

Christmas Memories 4

John Grisham was not original in his idea of "skipping Christmas". A year or two before his book came out, we looked at our options for gift giving and feasting and found that most of it would be done before the week of the 25th. Our kids were all on their own, some with their own kids now, so we decided to try a warm Christmas vacation.

Bob found a wonderful ship, the Paul Gauguin, in French Polynesia. (Everyone always says "Tahiti" but we were constantly corrected. Tahiti is only one island in French Polynesia.) We arrived two days earlier and stayed at a hotel to give us some time to catch up on the time difference.

Our room was in a thatch roofed bungalow out over the water. Below us in the pristine water was a reef active with a variety of tropical marine life we could observe just by opening a few slats in the walls or stepping out onto the veranda.

Once settled, we donned our bathing suits, found two lounge chairs in the shade and settled in to read and enjoy the beautiful warm breezes that drifted across the water. There were few people around to disturb us and it wasn't long before we fell asleep. We hadn't counted on sleeping long, nor on the sun moving across the sky and changing the position of the protective shade. We awoke just shy of being cooked lobsters but refreshed and ready to explore.

We found a small dive operation with two divemasters who spoke French and little English. Thankfully the hand signals for diving are universal. The dive was not so remarkable but we were able to renew our skills and feel comfortable in the water again, ready to take on some serious diving from the ship's offerings.

The Paul Gauguin was a beautiful but small ship. It was full of families celebrating Christmas away from home. I wondered if I was going to regret our decision when Christmas day came.

Each morning, we found ourselves looking out at lush green tropical forest that covered the sides of volcanic mountains. We explored the islands, sometimes on a shore excursion and other times on our own. At Moorea we rented a crazy little car and drove around the island. Each turn in the road revealed a new breathtaking view. It was amazing how God could cram so much beauty into such a little place.

Christmas morning arrived. I had packed little Christmas stockings filled with hard candies to give to our room steward and our waiters in the dining room. I found our room steward in the hallway and handed her a stocking. Her face lit up and many "thank you"s poured out but the real excitement came when I handed her a second stocking and said she should give it to a friend. She was like a child in her excitement to find her friend--more excited to be able to give than to receive.

As we relaxed on a warm sandy beach under the shade of palm trees rustling in the breeze and watched Santa in red shorts and barefeet as he handed out his treats to the kids, I thought about the meaning of the day. It didn't matter so much where you were, what traditions you followed, or whether it snowed or not. What mattered was the spirit of giving that was realized in that first Christmas gift of a small baby to a world in need.

Christmas Memories 3

The first Christmas after my mother died was a particularly difficult one. In the tradition of her usual pre-Christmas activity, she had begun buying gifts for us sometime in late August. We had a new sailboat and she decided that we would all have to have jackets with our sailboat's name embroidered on them. She died in September.

I knew that gift was coming. Her best friend who had done the embroidery had called to tell me they were done. What should she do with them? "Mom would want us to have them," I told her and went and picked them up.

We invited Dad to go with us to our Christmas Eve service. Normally we would have joined the two of them and my brother and his family at their home after our service. I didn't want him sitting home alone waiting for us. Dad was never a church-goer. Not even for Christmas and Easter. Surprisingly, he agreed to go with us.

I stood between my dad and my husband as we began to sing the familiar Christmas hymns. I suddenly realized my father was singing! Not only was he singing (I only remembered him whistling--never singing) but he knew the melody and the words. He caught me staring at him.
"What?" he said like a teenager caught in the act. "I know these songs." He turned back to the hymnal and continued singing as if he did that every week.

Later there were the tears when we opened the presents and donned our jackets. "Silver Reflections" was embroidered across our backs. It is an appropriate name for our sailboat. It's gray and it's reflection looks silvery in the water. But the memories I have of my dad singing in the Christmas Eve service are "golden reflections".

Christmas Memories 2

That first Christmas with all five kids was very special. The twins were 12 and Andy was 9. Our newest additions, Cheryl, 6, and Don, 5, had arrived at our home permanently in October. The three older boys were still getting used to this "sister stuff". They knew how to relate to Don--he was a boy--but they gave Cheryl space, not ignoring her, just allowing her to do her thing until they could figure out what that "thing" was. I don't know that they ever have.

We had moved Christmas up a day to Saturday. That morning, Andy awoke early as usual (his record time was around 4:30 a.m.). He waited a decent amount of time, opening his stocking gifts while the rest slept, then began the process of getting the rest of the household up by waking Don. It didn't take long for the rest of us to be up and into the family room.

We have an orderly process of unwrapping gifts one at a time starting with the youngest. Don opened his and was immediately enthralled. Cheryl opened hers next and the enthusiasm and excitement has yet to be matched by anything I've ever seen. As they each played with their gift, I looked to the older boys to watch them scurry to the tree for theirs. To my amazement they sat in awe of Cheryl and Don, mesmerized by their expressions of joy over Santa's gifts to them.

I heard a sniffle and turned in the direction of the sound. Ron (one of the twins) wiped his nose on his sleeve. I chose not to correct his behavior. It was better left unnoticed at that age that he had been so touched emotionally. A moment later, composure regained, he observed, "Wow, this really is their first real Christmas."

Moments later, paper flew and boxes spilled their contents of goodies as the rest of the treasure was discovered under the tree. But that one moment in time when love became the focus of Christmas will always be treasured in my heart.

Christmas Memories

The first Christmas with Cheryl and Don in our home (see Williamsburg Christmas blog) was an exciting one. Cheryl and Don had been in 7 foster homes within 6 years and we were the third home they came to that year. Cheryl's anxiety level rose as Christmas neared and over and over we heard how Santa never came to see them.

Each Christmas they were returned to their biological home but it was social services that provided a truck and a doll sometime during the season. Cheryl recalled asking to hang stockings one year and being told "Santa doesn't come to this house." That stuck in a six year old's memory.

My reassurances that "Santa always comes to this house," seemed to go unheeded so I decided to enlist a friend who did Santa visits every year for the neighborhood. Christmas was on a Sunday that year so we decided to move our celebration to Saturday morning. We'd be able to attend church without a fuss from the kids and it fit in with our Santa plans as well.

Friday night, Santa rang our doorbell and Cheryl was so ecstatic she couldn't talk--really something for a "motor mouth." After opening the small gift he brought, he told Cheryl and Don, "I know where you are going to be now. This is your 'forever family'. You moved so much before I had trouble finding you. That won't happen again. But you better get to bed 'cause Santa can't work his magic if you're awake."

Of course my husband couldn't let Rich off the hook that easily so he quipped, "Hey, Santa. Who's going to clean up that mess the reindeer leave on the roof?"

Before Rich could give his come-back, Cheryl jumped up and down yelling, "I will! I will!" She didn't want any kinks in this Christmas.

Needless to say, the kids were in bed early--even the older guys--and Santa worked his magic that night.

Williamsburg Christmas 3

Sticking with the traditional, the colors I chose each year to decorate our home were always red and green. We had green and red stockings for each of our three boys thanks to my mother's new found interest in knitting Christmas stockings on her knitting machine. She was using the extra money she made selling them to pad the Christmas account she used for the grandkids.

When Cheryl and Don joined the family, it was time for two new stockings. Don still wasn't speaking well but nodded when Grandma pointed to green for his stocking. Cheryl, never one to lack decisiveness, blurted out her choice immediately. "Purple!"

"Mom," I pleaded, "you can't be serious. Not purple."

"Purple is what she wants. Purple is what she gets." It was spoken with the authority of a grandmother/mother.

For many years Cheryl's stocking was the centerpiece of our mantel hanging amidst all the greenery and fruit and, of course, the red and green stockings of the boys. I was writing an essay about our first Christmas one day and looking for a lesson in it all. It came as God's answers always do, quietly and with great impact.

Purple, Karen, is the color of royalty. Every year you hang that purple stocking, you celebrate the birth of a king.

A Williamsburg Christmas 2

My wonderful husband got into the Williamsburg Christmas decorating craze too. He used the pattern in the Colonial Williamsburg Decorates for Christmas by Libby Hodges Oliver to make a board that fit above the front door for me to cover in fruit and greens. The best way to describe it is to think of an oval cut in half lengthwise, then covered with nail brads every 2-3 inches. You wire the greens flat against the back, stick a pineapple on the nails in the middle and surround it with apples (and sometimes lemons). It looks beautiful when finished and was always a point of conversation when we had guests.

The problem with the beautiful display came during the season that our weather fluctuated between near spring temperatures and freezing wintry days. The fruit took a beating from all the temperature changes. On the night of our Sunday School Christmas party it was a little warmer and as I began to greet guests, I noticed they were wiping something from their heads as they entered. It wasn't raining or snowing, I thought curiously. Then about the fourth set of guests to arriver were closer friends who were willing to admit that they were getting "juiced" waiting for me to answer the door.

A Williamsburg Christmas

Last night I spoke to a group of Home Economics teachers about creating Williamsburg Christmas decorations with fresh greens, fruit, and dried materials. As I demonstrated, I recounted some of my experiences with my own Williamsburg decorations from years past.

The year we adopted our two youngest children who were five and six at the time, I made my usual arrangement of fresh greens and fruit on the dining room table. The greens formed a gentle S shape radiating from a grouping of candles in the center. Along the greens I had placed apples, pears, oranges, pinecones, and mixed nuts. Halfway through the Christmas season, I would replace the fruit with fresh and use the old in a fruit salad. (We always ate healthy during the Christmas season to keep my decorations looking fresh.)

One night we were expecting guests for dinner. As I began to set the table. I noticed something different about the fruit in my arrangement. I blinked. Sure enough, someone had taken a bite out of each piece and placed it back on the table again. There was no time to replace the fruit so I just turned it over and hoped my guests wouldn't examine it later.

I was pretty sure I knew who the culprits were although there's no telling if my other three boys might have done it to be funny. Whoever did it created a wonderful Christmas memory that makes me smile to this day. Actually, I remember smiling a lot that evening every time I thought about the little teeth marks hidden in the underside of the fruit before me.

Butch Davis Resigns As Browns Coach

Four years ago, we happened to be on a cruise with the coaching staff of the Florida State football team. The last day of the cruise we entered the dining room and were seated at a table with a very nice couple that we didn't immediately recognize. After the third or fourth person walked up and thanked the man sitting across from us, we realized we were eating breakfast with Bobby Bowden and his wife. What a wonderful unpretentious couple. We quipped about OSU football and mentioned that the Browns were getting a new coach, Butch Davis, from Miami.

Bobby Bowden emphasized how lucky we were. "He's a really good guy," he said.

Our first two seasons with Davis looked promising culminating in a playoff game in the second season. Then things slid downhill. We hoped this would be the year.

In May, we were returning from our son's graduation at U of M in Florida. A man got on the plane with his son and sat a couple rows in front of us in coach. He looked a lot like Butch Davis and I pointed him out to my husband. We concluded it was a "look alike". Surely the coach of the Browns would be flying first class. As we exited the plane in Cleveland we heard several people wish him well in the coming season and then realized that indeed it had been Coach Davis and his son flying with us.

Unfortunately all the well-wishers were disappointed as our season hopes disappeared with an injured playmaker and a quarterback that did more complaining than performing. Still, the blame came to rest on Coach Davis. Today, he resigned.

Davis cites all the controversy taking a toll on the team and his family as the reason for resigning now. I'm sure a job prospect in Florida is part of that too. I remember Bobby Bowden's words, "He's a good guy." He is. He has conducted himself with humility, grace, and tact in an atmosphere of fan-aticism that would just as soon chew him up and spit him out. It's sad that nice guys sometimes finish last. I hope Butch Davis and his family will find the next job more satisfying and fulfilling, one that will challenge and strengthen the "good guy" within him.

Buckeye Tradition

I went to school in the Woody Hayes days at OSU. I know that's dating myself. It's okay. I've learned to live with growing older; after all, what's the alternative? The Michigan game at the end of the season always sent the campus into a frenzy. It still does. As a matter of fact it usually sends our household into a frenzy. This weekend was no different.

Flag flying and Brutus standing proudly in the front yard, our neighbors have come to accept that we're a little, well, you know...nutty. Last year we used Brutus for Halloween decoration and dressed as OSU fans requesting our "beggars" give the OH-IO cheer before receiving their candy. It's great fun, that rivalry with "that school up north". We have some friends that graduated from Michigan. We forgive them.

No OSU coach has survived the Michigan games quite as well as Tressel has though. No matter this year was not a stand out, everyone agrees, he won the important game today.

I especially appreciate Tressel's emphasis on the traditions of a college campus. The skull session (the band's pre-pregame show) is required attendance for the team. The crowd shows their appreciation and support before they head out to suit up for the game.

After the games there is the gathering of the team members with the band and those still left in the stands to sing the alma mater. Perhaps not all appreciate the gesture but as they look back to those college days it will ring in their memories. And someday they will return as we do and feel the thrill of those youthful days when the stress of higher education was put aside on Saturday as the band played, the crowd cheered and the alma mater was sung. "Time and change will surely show how firm thy friendship...O-HI-O."

The Last Cheerio

I'm taking a break from cleaning and straightening our house to write this today. Two little whirlwinds spent the weekend with us--our grandchildren. Time is precious with little ones so I don't worry about what the house looks like while they are here and I try to plan meals ahead that won't take much time.

Tyler is three going on 21. He's become a backseat driver already. "Holy cow, Grandpa! I told you to turn left." "Grandpa, don't go too fast in Mommy's van." "Be careful of those semis, Grandpa, they're dangerous." Makes my backseat driving look tame.

Danielle, who is 15 months, doesn't talk much yet but she has learned to flirt. It gets her the attention she wants and melts hearts along the way. It was her first overnight at our house and she adapted quickly. I think Mom had more separation anxiety than she did.

The last time we had a visit from a grandchild was a few weeks ago when Kotomi (1 year old) visited with her parents. We played and baby sat while Mom and Dad took in a movie. She snacked on Cheerios and imbibed milk and, just as efficiently, spread the toys all over the floor. When they left, my helpful husband tidied the family room while I finished the dishes and all too quickly the house returned to its childless state. As we sat watching TV in a house that suddenly felt all too quiet, I glanced down at the rug that sits under the coffee table and noticed one lone Cheerio that Bob had missed. I reached down and picked it up, placed it in his hand, smiled and said, "Missed one." He held it for a while between thumb and forefinger and reminisced happily about our time spent with our granddaughter.

When I finish today, I will be sure to leave one Cheerio on the rug--one Cheerio for Bob to find so we can sit and reminisce and anticipate the next visit.