My Roots

Mom and I went for a drive today. At first we were just going to go fifteen minutes away to a neighboring little town where I wanted to turn in an application for substitute teaching and then come right back. However, it was so pleasant out that we decided to go further through a rural area that she wanted to see, then loop around through Pendleton for lunch before heading home. The mountain range was a hazy blue that nearly matched the sky and the harvested fields on the foothills around us were a clipped gold interspersed with brown, fallow fields that were a rich hue from the recent rain.

Too often I take this country for granted. People either love it or hate it and for almost the same reasons. It is as colorless and dead-looking in the winter as it is vibrant and alive in the spring. One nearby mountain range or another can make the weather change quickly and the road conditions a bit of an adventure to navigate whether from frozen fog, blowing topsoil, or snow. Streams and rivers cut into the soil and basalt rockbeds, swelling in the spring and almost petering out by summer’s end; luring fishermen, swimmers, and rafters.

Towns are much farther than a stone’s throw apart and many are only held together by narrow, twisting roads that are vulnerable to the upheaval of the land and small county budgets. It is a rough country, carved by glaciers and rivers into occasional plateaus and valleys lined by rim-rocked hills. Although humans try to tame it with precariously plowed hilltop fields, much is still covered with boulders, sagebrush, wild grasses, and scrub pine.

It is a big country, where one can truly be alone to the point of isolation and come to fully realize his or her insignificance compared to the immensity of Earth. Many find it lonely to the point of desolation. I, however, love standing alone on these rough hilltops, feeling the timelessness of their existence, the simultaneous strength and vulnerability of the rock beneath and beside me and feeling a kinship with the creatures that struggle to do more than just survive amongst them.

Is it age, wisdom, or my new glasses that gives me such a sentimental viewpoint today? Perhaps, knock on wood, if we’d had car trouble during our morning excursion, my environmental opinion wouldn’t be quite so rosy and thoughtful! Such is life in the far, far, West.

Vive bene.

Why?

This blog comes with a “read at your own risk” warning; “contents may be boring or arguable.” Yet, I cannot shake the need to put it down on cyber paper. The stanzas, below, were written by an unknown author and were part of an email forward that has probably bounced all over the country, but recently became the opening to Father M’s homily. It struck a chord with me and I want to repeat it here rather than toss it away as I do most forwards, usually before I even open them. For me, this one bears thinking about, at least for a moment, because it touches on attitude. And, let’s face it, our attitudes have a lot to do with how we perceive the world and how we choose to react.

Life hurts. It’s hard and painful and unfair and wonderful all in the same breath. And as we live out each day trying to overcome hurdles and make some sense of the turmoil, we turn either gratefully, hopefully, or angrily to whomever we feel might be responsible; in my case, God. How many prayers have I started with, “What are you THINKING!?” Needless to say, those are the rather one-sided conversations that omit the formality of beginning with the Sign of the Cross and can probably be heard across heaven because of the shouting level of my mental voice. Some people give up on a Creator who can allow bad things to happen; who does not seem to love us enough to stop famine, death, and disease. Others, like me, just struggle to keep trusting that there is a just reason beyond our limited, human understanding why one friend dies of the same cancer that another friend survived, or why any four-year-old is allowed to die of Leukemia.

My life has been easy compared to many others, but, so far, in my darkest moments I have been able to choose faith as my reaction. Anything else seems to lead to bitterness and I don’t want that for myself so I choose to do the best that I can and trust that God does love us enough to take care of the rest. I may not have a choice in everything that happens in this life, but I can choose my attitude towards it and my reaction. That being said, as far as where I am in my journey on this earth, I must also add that I see some truth dancing through the following words:

God Said No.

I asked God to take away my habit.
God said, No. It is not for me to take away, but for you to give it up.

I asked God to make my handicapped child whole.
God said, No. His spirit is whole, his body is only temporary.

I asked God to grant me patience.
God said, No. Patience is a byproduct of tribulations; it isn’t granted, it is learned.

I asked God to give me happiness.
God said, No. I give you blessings; happiness is up to you.

I asked God to spare me pain.
God said, No. Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares and brings you closer to me.

I asked God to make my spirit grow.
God said, No. You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you fruitful.

I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life.
God said, No. I will give you life, so that you may enjoy all things.

I asked God to help me LOVE others, as much as He loves me.
God said, Ahhhh, finally you have the idea!

Heaven's Tears

Spattering drips
of promise.
Gathering,
wet
drops in
downward
motion.
Cool, fragrant air.
Misted windows.
Dripping downspouts.
Wet,
mirroring
pools
graced by
ripples.
Liquid
nourishment for all.
Rain.

At My Leisure

Today culminated about three weeks of self-prescribed “taking care of myself time.” After committing to the not-so-terrible, but less-than-fun physical exam, tetanus shot, blood test, mammogram, eye exam, and vision field test during this time, I gleefully celebrated my birthday today by going in for a deep-tissue body massage. It was only the second one I have ever had in my life.

Our company left early this morning, bound for their northern home, and Don stayed home with Mom so I could escape, carefree, for a few hours. I went to town early enough to grab a shrimp lunch at DQ, buy some oil paints at Pontarola’s, browse through Macy’s, and do a quick hit and run at the scrapbook store before heading to my appointment. Two hours later I was laying between soft covers in the dimly lit room, inhaling eucalyptus fumes and melting under the slow, purposeful, circular pressure of the masseuse’s warm, oiled fingers against my forehead, temples, and jaw. All I could think was why had I waited eight months to experience this again?

After I floated home, stopping only to rent three movies (one of which was free because it was my birthday), I napped on the sofa while Don barbecued dinner. (Okay, okay, okay...and I also stopped for a small BR Raspberry Cheese Louise milkshake! Geez.) Orange cake and homemade ice cream topped the good meal and then happy birthday phone calls from our kids finished a perfect day!

All day I thought about all that I am thankful for, but realized there is too much to enumerate here. Suffice it to say, it all comes down to the love, forgiveness, friendship, hope, and joy that have been shared with me by those touching my life. Thank you.

Fortunate Fortune

Sister and her husband landed on our doorstep yesterday for a couple nights before heading on home from their trek across the nation. Today we braved the 90 degree “cold spell” (considering the triple digits we’ve been adjusting to) long enough to go into town for a sweet and sour chicken, pork fried rice, and chow mein lunch.

It was good to get Mom out of the house for awhile. I must remember, though, to take a pillow for her to sit on. Her four feet, nine inches put her barely above chin-level to restaurant booth tables. Mom's fortune read: Rarely do great beauty and virtue dwell together as they do in you. It's true.

Put Your Feet Up

I have been indulging this summer in what has become a decadent pasttime for me: reading purely for pleasure. After all the research reading of my college courses, (yes, I was one of those nauseating people who actually READ the texts), I feel like I almost have to relearn how to read for fun. Before my 4-year endeavor, I was hooked on Brother Cadfael mysteries and before that on Hamish McBeth mysteries but, alas, I have finished both series and am now casting around for a similar substitute. So, despite the overwhelming urge to cast furtive glances over my shoulder in an effort to sidestep the reading police, I have been haunting the aisles of book stores and my local library to sample authors the way people in tasting circles sample wines. To date I have indulged in light mysteries by Katherine Hall Page, Luanne Rice, Lilian Jackson Braun, Sharon Duncan, and my favorite so far, Emilie Richards. I have also read some children's books and reread the Harry Potter series, marveling once again at JK Rowlings' amazing ability to weave subtle, portentious bits of information and clues into tales of great imagination that capture life's eternal unrest between good and evil.

This luxurious use of my time reminds me of my childhood; long summer afternoons spent sprawled out in a comfortable chair, reading Nancy Drew mysteries and any horse story on which I could lay my hands. I have decided, in a new effort toward positive thinking, that I will consider this use of my time as relaxing rather than as lazy. I am not having a lazy summer, I am having a relaxing one. How about you? What are you doing for yourself that feeds your soul and calms your spirit?

Lazy Sunday Afternoon Treat

Remember the Reeses Peanutbutter Bars we used to make and eat right out of the freezer? Beth G. gave Jen the recipe when she babysat her boys. Well, I got hungry for them, but invented a lazier method. Instead of pressing the ingredients into a pan and spreading melted chocolate chips on top, I mixed my carob chips in with everything else and rolled them up into 1-inch balls. Yum! Much easier to store and eat. Wanna make some? They really do taste like Reeses Peanutbutter Cups...and the peanutbutter must have at least a little redeeming value.

With a wooden spoon, mix 1 pound powdered sugar with 28 ounces of the thickest, cheapest peanutbutter you can find. It takes a lot of arm muscle, but stay with it until it is all mixed in. Add 2 cups or 1 large package of your favorite chocolate chips, then mix and roll into 1-inch balls. Keep covered and refridgerated so they don't get too dried out or sticky.

Treasures

I ran across this picture the other day. I believe it was taken with Betty’s camera and Jeremy must have been the photographer (how fortuitous, eh?) Dated June of 1997, I remember it being taken, although it seems like a century ago.

We had barbecued in our backyard and eaten outside on the picnic tables. I believe we might have been celebrating Father's Day, but mostly we were just enjoying having Don's folks visit us after returning from their winter in Arizona. As usual during family gatherings, we took turns taking the photos, making sure everyone’s camera had its turn immortalizing the moment. Many times Dad and I have wished we owned Kodak stock because of our tendancy to memorialize everything!

Although we all automatically assembled and posed until the last click, we often would have loved to forego the inevitable ritual. Now, however, I am really thankful to have these frozen memories to stumble upon.

My first, knee-jerk reaction is usually to think of how things have changed since the picture was taken. Kids have grown and moved out into lives of their own, Don’s folks have both died, and our hair is a little bit whiter. This time, however, I can’t take my eyes off of Betty. I don’t remember why she was laughing while the rest of us seem to be patiently waiting for her to get back into the shot, but look at how she is leaning back, fully enjoying her mirth. So different from the way I last saw her after Alzheimers had stolen her joy.

This is the Betty I want to remember. The real Betty, my friend. If we hadn’t taken those few precious seconds to pull out our cameras, I might have forgotten this ordinary moment that is such a treasure to me now.

Care For Dessert?

Here's the last of Don's birthday cobbler topped with some homemade raspberry ice cream. M-m-m-m-m.

Not Just a Hair Cut

Self perception is an interesting thing. Today I got a haircut and a perm that were both way overdue. I put them off for various reasons, but now the deed is done and I feel like a new woman. Really, the only thing wrong with my hair before was that the bangs were too long and annoying. The fact that my locks were lank and straight was not actually contradictory to modern styles, but it nevertheless made me feel old and unkempt. Somewhere along the line, I have come to associate curls with me being at my best. This is not necessarily true, but not necessarily false, either.

When I was growing up, my mom always complimented me on being tall and lithe (I really was lithe once, in ancient times!). I didn’t care at the time and just rolled my eyes in response, but the words still managed to sink in enough that it was quite a shock in my home economics class when I was rudely awakened to the fact by my laughing classmates and teacher that I was not actually tall. It comes down to perspective. From Mom’s four foot, eleven inch viewpoint, I was, indeed, “tall” at five foot four, but my five foot, seven inch girlfriends had a different perspective.

My self perception changes daily and even hourly in certain situations. I can see myself as tall and lithe one moment and short, dumpy and old the next; as brilliant and creative one day and as a lazy space cadet the next. The sad thing is when I sometimes let a negative mental image affect my actions as well as my thinking. I have seen the same thing happen with kids in the classroom and with Mom as she deals with age issues. Half of my work as a tutor and teacher is to help students stretch their self perceptions to include the viewpoint of their strengths. It’s a little tougher with Mom as she sees herself losing ground, but we try to help her focus on what she can do rather than what she can’t. It is a good lesson to me to become more aware of how my self perceptions are affecting who I am, how I make choices, what I do, and how I feel. Does the real me have curly hair or straight hair, and does it matter?

Up, Up, and Away

88 degrees... 92 degrees... 96 degrees... It is a good day to hibernate indoors. I'm glad my little town has lots of trees because, as hot as it has been this last week, the larger towns on either side of us are even hotter.

Although I would rather be too hot than too cold, it does make life interesting in our little household. When the nights do not cool off and leave a little bank of cool air in our house the next morning, we start our day at a disadvantage. By mid-morning, rather than mid-afternoon, I am turning on area fans, guzzling decaffinated iced tea, and finding low-energy activities to keep myself busy. Add to the mix my random hot flashes and I am thankful when the air conditioner finally kicks on.

However, this mixture of high temperatures and air conditioning is volatile to a household combination of both middle-agers and seniors. Tempers begin to flare in small ways as Mom leaves the living room and re-enters with a sweatshirt over her long-sleeved shirt, the hood over her head drawn in a tight pucker around her 94-year-old-face-that-doesn't-look-a-day-over-70. *sigh* I try to ignore the gesture. After all, we don't turn the air conditioner on until the inside temperature is over 80 and she can always go back to her room and turn up her electric heater. Okay, I don't really want her to be quarantined to her room, but is the hood really necessary? We live with furnace settings of 78 degrees in the winter, can't she grant us a little grace in the opposite direction during the summer?

"The air conditioning isn't always this cold, is it?" she asks.

Silence. How do I answer that? What kind of a question is that? AC is what it is.

*sigh* "I'll turn it down."

Happy Birthday

3rd Grade

We are celebrating Don's birthday today, on perhaps one of the hottest days of the year for our area. He is taking half a day off so that he can properly relax and I have already prepared from scratch two of the most important elements of his birthday dinner: marionberry cobbler and raspberry ice cream. And, since the raspberries came from a neighbor, I have saved some of the ice cream to share with her. So, here's to a nice afternoon and evening. Put your feet up, lay back and enjoy getting another year closer to retirement.

Enough is Enough, Isn't It?

But, when is it? Really. When is enough enough? More specifically, when do I stop wanting more?

For instance, no matter how long my vacation is, when I see it coming to a close I get that same gut-twisting, wistful feeling that adding just one more day would be better, would make the end of it easier to take. Yet, one more day only begets the wish for another. For me, this same weakness is apparent in the purchasing of shoes and art supplies, especially with a sale. Why is “just enough” not enough for me? Just enough seems to mean that I could easily run out and must horde what I have, whereas, “more than enough” means I’m good for awhile and can afford to enjoy my wealth. Just enough shrimp on my plate to fill me up without overfilling me leaves me wondering if I shouldn’t be able to have a few more to make sure. Make sure of what? That I won’t have room for ice cream later? That I increase the size of my girth beyond bursting? What am I thinking?

Yesterday I ordered a new pair of glasses after my eye exam. Instead of just replacing the lens on my old glasses, I decided to also get new frames so that I could have a fall-back pair. I was also afraid that the old ones would soon start falling apart; all legitimate concerns stemming from issues I had dealt with before, though admittedly still a splurge. I went in just wanting a basic pair of bifocal lenses, but was bombarded with quite a few options: ones that were made in a more technologically accurate way, ones that were thinner and lighter weight, ones that had night vision coatings, and ones that were transition lenses that darken in the sun. Of course, each option had its own price tag so I humbly mumbled my no thanks and left feeling somewhat bereft for what I didn’t have rather than thankful for what I did. Just enough didn’t seem to be enough any more.

I have to argue that perhaps wanting more isn’t always bad. Wanting more good health, more love, more companionship, more education, more ways to serve seem like positive motivations. Wanting more pushed me into going back to college, into staying home when my kids were little, and into caregiving; things that are huge positives in my life. Wanting to learn more made me a better student and wanting a real relationship with God made me a better Christian because I made better choices. However, even in such admirable desires, I fear there lurks the possibility of going too far, wanting too much or for the wrong reasons, never being satisfied. For instance, wanting more love is fine until I go too far to get it or until I pin more importance on the need for others to love me rather than on my own self-approval. Wanting to be a good student must be balanced against the ravages of stress. Wanting more good health can motivate me to make some very positive changes in my life, but could I take also it too far?

I think wanting more must be part of the human condition. Isn’t that what we see in the story of Adam and Eve? If this is good, then a little bit more would be better. Too many times this concept has certainly filled my closets, doubled my waist-size, and diverted my spirit from one of thanksgiving to one of disgruntlement. So I am going to double my efforts once again to take a small page out of St. Francis’ book on simplicity and focus on being happy with just enough. And, although more could be said, this is enough.

Simple Pleasures

When I got to the city, Danielle helped me work out the kinks from sitting in the car for four hours by introducing me to Wii. I held my own at bowling, but it took me forever to swing the bat at the right time in baseball and the Dancing With the Stars judges did not care much for my dance moves. I think I kept holding the controls sideways or something. Surely it couldn't have been any lack of coordination on my part! Anyway, the games were addicting and, I have to say, I was impressed with how the technology functions and how Wii gets you up off the couch and moving.

After giving Sarah a head start, we went over to her new (in a hip, antique sense) apartment in the Pearl District. She cooked for us while we visited with her cats and soaked up the ambiance she has created.

Apple showed us around, emphasizing all Sarah's painting and decorating projects, such as these dining room chairs.

Then we lazed around and visited with MaiMai (mymy). Check out K-Kids Family Fun for more details.

After crying with Harry Potter over Dumbldore, we headed to a park near Jennifer's house to eat a picnic lunch and listen to a concert. It was amazingly relaxing and brought me back to why summer is my favorite season.

None of what we did was complicated or expensive, but I probably would not have done any of it on my own. It is so easy to guilt or reason or pooh-pooh my way out of doing even simple things that bring me pleasure, reconnect me with people I care about, and put me in touch with the gentler side of the world. Lets see if I can make this happen at home now.

I Can TOO Be Spontaneous!

It started out like any old Saturday morning. Don had made us breakfast and then I scooted outside to pull some weeds before the temperature soared up to “unbearable.” He came out and trimmed some tree and bush branches for me and then we took a load of debris to the dump. After getting back, I raced him to the shower, but he pulled a fake and went back out to mow the lawn. (What a dedicated soul.) That’s when the fateful phone call came: an invitation to join my daughters at the latest Harry Potter movie, The Half-Blood Prince. The fact that the viewing was to take place some 300 miles away was a minor detail that my support system here at home graciously overlooked. Mom and Don promised to get along without me and encouraged me to take my time and enjoy the break, although Mom said she wouldn’t go across the street for Harry Potter and thought a nice John Wayne western would have made much more sense. Actually, there was very little of any of the plan that made sense, but I managed NOT to tell her that HP was also playing just 20 miles away from us at our local theater and that the real draw was just getting away from our routine and spending a nice little hiatus with my kids in a different setting, but she probably already understood that. Moms always do.

I've Been Pumped, Pierced, and Squeezed

Since there is a lull in Mom's appointments, school is out, and Mom's yard is back in shape, I have decided that the rest of July is "Take Care of Myself" time. Wednesday I went in for an annual physical, although there wasn't too much about it that was actually "physical." I had car trouble on the way over, but was, luckily, able to turn around and limp the three miles home with enough time to still get there in the Land Cruiser. The doctor and nurse had to take my blood pressure twice to get an accurate reading, but it was all good in the end. I soon came out of the clinic with a tetnus shot, a stamp of overall health approval, 4 vials less of blood, and an appointment for a mammogram, which I took care of yesterday. I feel blessed to have the insurance to be able to do these things for myself and am aggravated that I so often put them off too long, taking my health for granted.

Now, let's kabitz over that mammogram idea for a second. This computer age has made it a quicker process since we don't have to wait for film to develop any more before getting dressed and leaving; I don't think I was in there over 15 minutes. And they finally got rid of that ridiculous gown that we never really "wore" and replaced it with a cape. Now, if they could just get beyond the whole "balance on your tiptoes with a platform corner jammed in your armpit while a sensitive appendage is smashed flatter than is comfortably possible - and don't move!" thing. But...it IS worth it, and a small price to pay.

So. Since I can't move my left arm without screaming (tetnus shot) and other body parts are complaining from an over-zealous exercise routine the other day, and I nearly got heat stroke from trying to run all Mom's errands when I was out "taking care of myself," I am treating myself to a leisurely day inside. If anyone needs me, I'll be on the sofa with an ice tea in my hand, watching a movie. Maybe then I'll be ready to face that eye appointment next week.

Badge of Honor

When I was going through pictures for my children's scrapbooks, my eye caught sight of Mom's hands. There was such a difference in the way they were then compared to how they are now, that it caused me to pause. She complains about her hands often because they have lost their strength and arthritis has twisted them until they can no longer grip very well, pick up small things, or hold the tasteful jewelry that used to adorn them. And then, there is the pain.

Here Mom is holding our youngest in 1986. I had thought of her then as being in her late 50s because she was so active, but now I realize that she was 73! Below, are her hands as they look now, at 95.

As sad as it is to see what havoc can be wrought by a condition such as arthritis and as hard as it is for me to think of going down this same path myself, it occurs to me that there is something more important to remember. Mom used her hands well. She gardened to share beauty, sewed to clothe family and the less fortunate, cooked to nourish us, held, hugged, and cared for babies to give love, shook hands and held hands to create peace, and wrote in order to learn and to send her thoughts to those far away. She used her hands to read to and teach children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, to bandage and heal the wounds of children and animals, to stroke pets, to bring comfort, to hold rosary beads, receive communion, profess the Sign of the Cross, and to fold in quiet prayer.

Pumm Pumm Pa-Pum Pum...

And the annual games come to another close. The weather was on the warm side, but pleasant nevertheless. I took the time this year to walk around and take some thoughtful pictures. After 18 years, we tend to take Caledonian for granted, but someday I will miss the colors, sounds, community, and identity that they offer and not just think of it as work. I don't know if it is because a corner of my heritage is celtic or if it just my eclectic personality, but I am definitely pulled toward the whining and droning sounds of a well-played bagpipe. Used in ancient times to rally the troops and intimidate the enemy, I've often thought that they must have worked well. I think they also must have lured the enemy closer. I certainly can't resist, and don't want to ever escape the swelling of emotion that washes over me when Amazing Grace is piped.

Hoot Mon

This morning began with a parade. Our little community runs on an early timetable so we had to get Mom up by 7:00 to give her enough time to be ready by 8:40 so that we could get her a place to sit along Main Street by 9:00. I should have gotten her up at 6:30, but she has been sleeping in some mornings and I hated to wake her up. She was also vague last night about whether she really wanted to go, but now I'm sorry I didn't encourage her more and take over the decision-making. At 8:45 she told us that she wasn't going to make it and I could tell the "hurrying" (which is a contradiction in terms) was starting to make her nervous so we walked on down without her.

It was a good parade, with much of the usual small town entries. (Do all parades feature the community's fire truck and ambulance?) There were plenty of princesses and horses.

I love how the horses always know that they are in a parade and step along with incredible interest and pride.

Know this person? Check out why she was riding a horse in the parade...
Yay, Deb! She deserves the recognition for all her years helping at the fair.

Our hometown high school pipe band just returned from a trip to NYC and Washington DC.

This pipe band is the Boise Highlanders.

Now it's time to wander down to the park for some serious Scottish culture.

Is That Bagpipes I Hear?

It is poster time again as my little community gears up for another annual Caledonian Games weekend. This week I did a "quick and dirty" job of throwing together six big posters and a better job of some letter-sized computer ones. Last night and today we set up the souvenir booths, information displays, and hauled decorations down to the Ceidlih (kay-lee). When that was done, I ran home to quickly make camping passes and a list of camping rules on the computer. Just before I printed out the passes the electricity flicked off and then back on. Any experienced computer user knows to periodically save what they are working on for just such a surprise, but do you think I had done that? *sigh*

Me (head bowed, hands covering my face): "I cannot believe that just happened."
Mom (struggling unsuccessfully to balance her checkbook): "Huh? Did you do that?"

And, as I reopen Corel Draw, I wonder to myself if I am, indeed, living all alone in this crazy bubble?