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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

...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?

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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).

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!

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 )

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.

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".