The Repertory: Words Matter

Simple Math: One With God

2012-01-28T20:16:00.000-05:00

I was lying in bed this morning, not able to fall back asleep even though it was still dark outside. For no obvious reason, I started thinking about adding the numbers 1 through 10 and figuring out what the answer was.
At first I tried to add 1+2+3+4, etc. and gave up as hopeless. I couldn't remember where I left off to add the next number.

Then I remembered my high school remedial math class and a short cut they offered to figure it out.

1 2 3 4 5

9 8 7 6 10

10 10 10 10 15 = 55

Cool huh? Then my mind started wandering towards numerology and I was thinking, hmmmm...

5 + 5 = 10 and using the 10 and bringing it to its lowest single digit number, figured 1 + 0 = 1. The number one is seen as the God figure, the beginning, the creation.

No big revelation but my mind continued to wander... In the astrology and numerlogy classes I took eons ago, my teacher explained that man is a five-figured symbol, a head, two arms and two legs, like a star. Five is the number of challenge and sacrifice, which is, I suppose, the reason that we are put on this earth.

So, Who's presence was announced by the greatest and brightest star of all? Jesus. Could He also be a 5, the one who would be the most challenged and have to make the greatest sacrifice?

And what happens when we allow Him in our lives and follow Him. Do our energies vibrate and become a 10 and hence, one with God? Didn't He say in John 14:20, "In that day you will know that I am in My Father, and you in Me, and I in you..."

July 4, 2011 - Garden Party

2011-07-04T14:44:00.000-04:00

My garden is flourishing!

The first tomato.

Four different kinds of mint.

Later comer to the garden party, my cherry tomatoes.

June 7, 2011

2011-06-07T14:05:00.002-04:00

Growing ginger from a knob of ginger I purchassed at our local grocer's.

May 30, 2011

2011-06-07T14:03:00.002-04:00

My sweetie made me a pyramid so I could plant herbs in a raised bed. I love it!

Friday, May 13, 2011

2011-05-13T20:17:00.000-04:00

A lawn full violets gone wild and dandelions! I love them!!

Thanksgiving Day - November 25, 2010

2010-11-25T11:05:00.000-05:00

Mitter says she's thankful to have a warm and safe place to sleep and good food to eat. Happy Thanksgiving to all!

November Morning - November 23, 2010

2010-11-23T08:08:00.001-05:00

A November morning as seen from my kitchen window.

September 26, 2010 - Unintimidated

2010-09-26T10:47:00.000-04:00

Mitty says she's not the least bit afraid of hard work. As a matter of fact, she's so unintimidated by it she can lay right beside it and fall asleep.

September 13, 2010 - Hail Storm!

2010-09-26T10:44:00.000-04:00

Hail storm, an unusual weather event here, hit us unexpectedly, lasting only a couple of minutes. The sound of the hail pelting my poor old red Jeepy had us staring agape. Fortunately no visible damage resulted, though the last of my summer flowers were bedraggled.

Liz & Jerrad's Wedding, Cape Neddick, Maine - September 5, 2010

2010-09-07T19:59:00.000-04:00

A picture perfect day!

Exchanging promises under God's great blue canopy.

Even threats of Hurricane Earl could not stop this beautiful wedding.

To have and to hold from this day forward....

August 21, 2010 - Cornish (New Hampshire) Fair

2010-09-07T19:49:00.000-04:00

Don't you just love a country fair!

Antique tractors and tractor pulls.

Oxen pulls, horse pulls, chain saw cutting, log rolling, pole climbing.

4H shows, wool spinning, pig races.

Ferris wheels, cotton candy, farm fresh ice cream (which believe it or not I don't like because it always tastes the way the barn smells to me!), barbecued chicken and seeing old schoolmates. What a day!

For the past 60+ years my little home town has held an annual fair just before the start of the new school year. It was the last hurrah, the last long days of summer vacations, that we as children celebrated before having to settle back into the routine of school and homework.

July 31, 2020 - My Mother's Bowl

2010-07-31T11:12:00.000-04:00

End-of-life preparations are being made for my mother. She is in a residential rehab facility now, still strong of will and spirit, but unable physically to take care of herself. It's a little scary to see her like this as it was she who held the family together with her fierce pride and determination. We just didn't know it then.

My brother Grant and his daughters cleaned out her apartment for the last time, trying to decide what goes to Goodwill, what to keep, what to pass on. What to sell. I suppose it will be like that for all of us one of these days, but I don't want to think about that, yet.

This bowl was given to my mother by her aunt, shortly after she married my father and immigrated to this country, so it's well over 50 years old, older than I, smiles. It has ridges like corduroy and a rice paddle. She used it to make Japanese pickles, the occasional sushi, but mostly it was safely tucked away on some high shelf where no harm could come to it; it was one of the few pieces of "home" that she owned.

Mother was surprised that I remembered the bowl, even more surprised that it was something that I wanted. The bowl has many meanings; it is a symbol of life, service, submissiveness and selflessness, but for both of us, it also means home.

July 18, 2010 - Barnstead NH Homecoming Day

2010-07-18T20:15:00.000-04:00

We went to visit Earl's sister, Susan, and her significant other, Lloyd this past weekend, to see Lloyd participate in the Barnstead, NH Homecoming Day celebration. Barnstead NH is a small New England town of less than 4,000 residents. They celebrated their Homecoming Day with a parade.

The Shriners Marching Drum Corps. Our friend Lloyd volunteered to be a "puller" on this hot and humid July day.

The mini Corvettes are associated with the Shriners. These cars are no longer being made.

From mini-Corvettes to monster trucks, grins.

And antique vintage rides and service vehicles old and new.

The new replaces the old.

A green fire truck? Yes! You can't see it clearly in the photo, but behind the driver's side door, there's wording that says, "It's not easy being green."

There is kind of a sad pride in me as I see these young boys dressed as historical patriot soldiers. So much had been given and sacrificed so that we may be where we are today, celebrating Homecoming Day.

And today, so much is still being given and sacrified by our young men and women so that we may have continue to enjoy Coming Home for all our days.

June 13, 2010

2010-06-13T15:43:00.000-04:00

Mitter loves to sit in our plastic bath tub "ice bucket".

June 9, 2010

2010-06-10T08:29:00.000-04:00

Earl is 62 years old today. Lots of folks get dressed up and go to a fancy restaurant and order an expensive and elegant meal. However, as part of our tradition, we celebrate his special day with The Tacky Birthday Celebration.

The tradition started about ten years ago, when we were first dating. I used to work second shift, Earl worked first. I took the day off from work to put together a very inexpensive dinner, complete with melamine dinner ware, plastic wine glasses, and cheap wine and perfect weather. It was supposed to be a joke.

What I didn't count on was the local farmers fertilizing their fields...the stink of fresh cow manure wafted down from the hills behind us and settled in the valley where our house sits. And if that wasn't enough, huge truckloads of the stuff was being driven past the house. No amount of citronella candles could mask the odor. Earl couldn't stop laughing and declared it the best birthday celebration ever.

Nowadays, we just bring the party inside but the tradition lives on.

June 8, 2010

2010-06-10T08:08:00.000-04:00

A flower bed in Cornish, New Hampshire. I just love gardeners with a quirky sense of humor.

June 7, 2010

2010-06-10T08:05:00.000-04:00

We visited our favorite ice cream barn.

Cat door!

Earl enjoying his first ice cream cone of the season, Cookie Dough.

May 31, 2010

2010-06-10T07:50:00.000-04:00

The smoke from the wildfires fires in Quebec drifted southward to us, casting a heavy gray pall.

May 1, 2010 - Seashore Trolley Museum, Kennebunkport, Maine

2010-05-03T19:58:00.000-04:00

Left to right, Jacob, Bryce, Grampa Earl, Aiden. Grandpa Earl and Aiden are the two true train brains.

Aiden holds onto the strap that standing passengers used when there were no seats available. Erin, his beautiful Mom, holds Aiden. Grandpa Earl looks on.

Bryce wants to be a strap hanger, too!

Bryce and Jacob are determined to manage the steps by themselves!

A little help from their Mom's beloved, Wayne, is appreciated.

Jacob takes his trolley ride seriously.

Bryce is caught up in the moment.

Aiden has miles to go before he sleeps....

Forget-me-nots thriving and blossoming in old railroad ties.

I wonder what lies ahead and if these two parallel lines meet at some distant point.

April 24, 2010 - Lone Flowering Tree in a Sunny Dale

2010-04-24T19:43:00.000-04:00

When I look out my kitchen window to the field across the street, I can see sunlight shine upon a lone white flowering tree.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010 - Coming Home from the Office

2010-04-22T05:07:00.000-04:00

I had to go into the office today for a meeting. Since it's a 1 hour drive each way for me, it was decided that in order not to have nonproductive commuting time, that I would go in for the whole day. My workday is 5:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. so I had to get up extra early in order to be there for 5:30. Yawn. This is the side entrance where I come in and out at the world class hospital where I work. To the right, but not seen, is a helicopter landing pad, then the Emergency Department. To the far left is the Cancer Center. Beyond these doors lies multiple specialties and services, with over 5,000 employees in multiple specialties providing some of the best care and services available for patients who come to us from around the globe. There are multiple sites for our facility; this is just the main campus.

As I cross the bridge from the main campus to the parking lot, there's a little brook. The land is quite marshy and woody; and often there are deer along the pathway.

This bridge joins one of the employee parking lots to the main campus. It's a pretty walk in the afternoon, a little scary at 5:30 a.m. when there is limited light and dark woods all around. Ordinarily I'd take the parking lot bus, but it doesn't run so early in the morning. Let's just say I didn't dawdle going in, but I had time to look back and enjoy the view as I left.

April 12, 2010 - #2 - Daffodils

2010-04-11T17:11:00.000-04:00

I know this is supposed to be a daily journal, but I couldn't resist posting a picture of my some of my daffodils that are in vibrant bloom. Spring flowers are among my favorite; I cannot resist their bright colors after a dreary and gray winter.

April 12, 2010 - Sugar Saver

2010-04-11T17:07:00.000-04:00

Well, after a stint of being ill, I think I'm finally gathering my wherewithalls and am back. My thinking is still a bit cloudy and muddled, but at least I am no longer talking in Latin (Don't ask. When the high fevers come, I think I can speak Latin...I don't know why. All the cats now have Latin names ~ totally made up of course. I think Earl is now Sweetie-Pi-Ceasarius, or something like that, grins.) Anyway, as part of my recovery, I've decided to reorganize the pantry. We have a Odd Lots store where any manner of odds and ends are sold for (usually) deeply discounted prices, including these nifty snap on containers. I bought half a dozen and now have my pastas, flours, and sugars all neatly stored in airtight containers. And now I get to use my sugar savers that I've had for ages. I just love it!

April 2, 2010 ~ Calling in Sick

2010-04-03T11:15:00.000-04:00

Well, I have been having a couple days of 103+ fevers, intermittent uncontrollable chills, multiple joint pain, and some mild fever-induced delirium and finally decided that aspirin wasn't going to take care of it, nor was my chi energy strong enough to overcome the infection that I was apparently warding off (I'm very big into chi energy) and decided to succumb to the ministrations of modern medicine. Just as well, four hours later, two IV bags of fluid, another of ciprofloxacin (which I see in Wikipedia is not the first choice for a diagnosed UTI) and a lovely parting gift of a paper bracelet with my name on it, and a prescription and I am on the road to recovery.

March 30, 2010 ~ Birthday Bounty

2010-03-30T10:25:00.000-04:00

I woke up and went downstairs and there on the old oak table was athis wonderful birthday bounty. I don't think I have ever seen so many presents for just me and only because it's my birthday.

But, and there's always a "but" isn't there? The card is made out to "Blanche!" Who's Blanche you're asking. Well Blanche is my alter ego (altar ego????) It's one of those private jokes that Ole Sweetie-Pi and I share.

We have a couple of favorite restaurants we go to here in town, perhaps going out once a month or so and we are "regulars." Well, one evening we went out, and the hostess looked at Earl and said, "Didn't I just see here you here today for lunch and you like us so much you're back for dinner?"

There's no way Earl was there for lunch, and he was flabbergasted and speechless. I gave him one of my wicked smirks, and quipped, "So that's where you were this afternoon....out with your other girlfriend! And you told me you were just going to take a nap. I think I can see the whole picture now!"

Poor Earl. The poor hostess, who was mortified. I laughed uncontrollably. I put them both out of their pain and assured them both that it was not likely that Earl was there earlier as he had been with me all day, and this was my only visit that day.

However, as Earl is not just a Sweetie-Pi but is also a Cutie-Pi (both names which cause him to squirm) and because I know that ladies sometimes do make eyes at him (although he swears he only has eyes for me, grins, right right....tell that to the woman in the too tight sweater and too short skirt.... he's diplomatic but not blind...), I gave him a made-up other woman, and for no reason other than we like the name, we call her Blanche.

He says, I'm all the women he's ever known. He also says his mother warned him that there were women like me, and thank God, now he has one of his own.

March 28, 2010 ~ Open Door Policy

2010-03-28T13:26:00.000-04:00

In this household, it is understood that an open cabinet door is an open invitation to investigation.

March 21, 2010 ~ The Family Meets Liz's Fiancee

2010-03-22T04:53:00.000-04:00

Liz, front row left, introduced us to her fiancee Jarred. We all met at a restaurant called The Common Man in Concord and had a nice long chat with Jarred, who is just such a darling. In the back row, left to right, me, Ole Sweetie-Pi Earl, (Earl's sister) Susan, and (Susan's SO), Lloyd.

Jarred received the seal of approval from Liz's Dad, grins. Best wishes to one of the sweetest couples I know!

March 10, 2010

2010-03-11T18:40:00.000-05:00

Earl goes once a week for acupuncture to help relieve pain. The needles are so fine that he cannot feel them at all at any time. Not shown at the needles that are in both knees and on the outside edge of his right ear. I spared his dignity and didn't photograph his earlier session when needles were inserted into his derriere, grins.

March 7, 2010

2010-03-07T16:52:00.000-05:00

Thank you for all your powerful prayers. Mom seems to be doing very well indeed, bright and alert and optimistic. She is shown here with her two granddaughters, Laura on the left, and Hilliary on the right.

She said she had a dream last night that she was dieing. The devil came and tried to take her away, promising her mountains of money and diamonds. She turned him away, saying that she would not go! Mom raised her fist in triumph and says, "I won. He did not take me! I wouldn't let him."

Then she said to me, "He says he is afraid of Kathi, that she is too strong and that he will not go near her. He said that when he hears her voice he runs away because she is so strong."

I assured my mother that he had better run fast and far away! We have prayer and Our Good and Gracious Lord on our side!

February 27, 2010

2010-02-28T14:16:00.000-05:00

Chalkboard sign at a local pub, The Salt Hill Pub. Read that first line very carefully... I wonder. Is that a misspelling in the first line or do they really mean it?

February 26, 2010

2010-02-28T14:12:00.000-05:00

I suppose every couple has "their" private joke. Mine and Earl's is a family of rubber duckies. There's a long story that goes with it, but the outcome is that from time to time, one or more of the rubber duckies is hidden for the other to find in the most unlikely places, such as this coffee basket. A second was in with the mugs, and a third was in the microwave. The remainder of the family sat on their shelf, wondering where everyone else went to.

February 24, 2010

2010-02-28T14:07:00.000-05:00

A heavy snowfall covers our boulder boundary marker, a flowering tree of unknown-to-me species, and my meditation bell in a blue-white morning.

February 21, 2010

2010-02-21T15:58:00.000-05:00

A phone call and a guarded prognosis for our Mom.

February 20, 2010

2010-02-20T18:01:00.000-05:00

Earl spotted this opossum in our back yard this morning, drinking the water that we pump up from our wet cellar and eating the snow. I can't tell you the last time I saw one of these; I didn't know they were this far north.

February 15, 2010

2010-02-15T18:05:00.000-05:00

Maggie takes time enough to stop and smell the Valentine's flowers.

February 9, 2010

2010-02-09T20:05:00.000-05:00

Maggie sits on the back of the couch, looking out the window, watching us as we leave.

February 6, 2010

2010-02-08T14:52:00.000-05:00

One of our favorite activities is to visit local antique shops to see what treasures we can discover. This Saturday, we found this pair of seafoam green Fiestaware cups and saucers. Here they are all washed up and ready to be dried and tucked away safely. I just love them.

mocha me: Texas Fudge Cake

2010-02-07T14:28:00.000-05:00

mocha me: Texas Fudge Cake

February 5, 2010

2010-02-07T11:41:00.000-05:00

Meet Molly (Molly-Molly-Liscious!). She's just about a year old, now I think. Earl is definitely her favorite. It's he that she wants to cuddle up with and makes the big eyes for. As for me, well, I'm just here to open and close doors for her, and give her breakfast. Other than that, I'm persona non grata.

January 31, 2010

2010-01-31T06:03:00.000-05:00

Mitzie's right rear paw. I just love the tufts of fluffy fur and little pink padded feet.

January 30, 2010

2010-01-30T21:28:00.000-05:00

Maggie (Magpie, Magnificent, and in moments of angst, Maggot!) is camouflaging herself on the stair tread in anticipation of springing on an unsuspecting passerby.

January 29, 2010

2010-01-30T06:48:00.000-05:00

Moonbeams and city lights pierce the inky night.

January 28, 2010

2010-01-30T06:46:00.000-05:00

The flag on my porch, unfurled in the blowing, bitter snow, standing strong and beautiful.

January 26, 2010

2010-01-26T19:09:00.000-05:00

In Indian symbology, the crow is quite the charmer and entrepreneur, linked to abundance and prosperity. They can also symbolize renewal and transformation.

January 25, 2010

2010-01-25T19:01:00.000-05:00

Because of the heavy rainfall, the snow on the hill behind us has become a river, emptying into our cellar and filling it. Earl, soaked to the skin, stands in the downpour and rushing water, working with a shovel and a hoe, creating trenchwork to redirect the rushing flow of water. The water is still coming into the cellar but at least now the sump pump can handle it and we can relight the water heater. Fortunately the furnace pilot was spared.

January 20, 2010

2010-01-20T18:06:00.000-05:00

I had to go into the office this morning to attend a mandatory meeting. Because I'm skittish about driving on snow and ice-covered roads, my Ole Sweetie-Pi took me in. Shortly after we entered Interstate 91N in Vermont, traffic was at a standstill, and we sat in bumper to bumper traffic for over an hour, without moving an inch. There were multiple vehicles off the road on both sides of the interstate.

Hobias and Buster Crabbe are taking a sympathy nap to calm their nerves because we were so stressed by the day's driving.

January 19, 2010

2010-01-19T09:57:00.000-05:00

Looking through a snow-mist morning.

January 18, 2010

2010-01-18T19:02:00.000-05:00

Hobias and Buster Crabbe wait patiently, giving me one of their most plaintive, big-eyed appeals for treats.

January 17, 2010

2010-01-17T10:29:00.000-05:00

Ladybug (actually I think this is a pseudo ladybug, something to do with the spots) on my windowsill. Doesn't she know she's supposed to be hibernating with the rest of her friends.

January 16, 2010

2010-01-17T10:27:00.000-05:00

Hobias, the hobo cat. He wandered into our life a couple of years ago, flea-bitten, bedraggled and emaciated. One ear is torn and the cornea of one of his eyes is scarred. We took him in, fed him, took him to the veterinarian's and got him patched up. Now he's our big lovebug. Nothing as expensive as a free cat.

Mitzie

2010-01-14T14:09:00.000-05:00

Mitzie, (aka Mitter, Fluffy, Itty Bitty Mitty Kitty) helps me work. She acts as a paperweight and an extra pair of hands (paws!) as I type. She is my constant companion as I work.

January 13, 2010

2010-01-13T19:11:00.000-05:00

Winter skies. Sunrise at 7:03 a.m. this morning. Do you know something? I never noticed all the branches and utility wires in front of the view, all I saw was the beauty of the sunrise.

January 12, 2010

2010-01-12T18:23:00.000-05:00

Looking through a screened window to the swirling frost patterns on the storm window. What does this look like to you?

January 11, 2010

2010-01-11T05:00:00.000-05:00

The city lights that I can see from my window at 4:40 a.m.

I am puttering about in my little computer room~home workplace, and as I look out the second story window of my home into out this clear, cold, breaking, winter morning, these are the lights I can see.

January 10, 2010

2010-01-10T13:46:00.000-05:00

In scooting around, looking at the blogs of my fellow bloggers, I see that a number are participating in a 365 day project where the blogger takes a photo a day and posts it on their blog. The photo can be of anything that catches their eye; the idea is just to photograph something everyday. I'm not joining the group (I am a commitment phobe) but I do like the premise of the idea. So, from here, in The Repertory, I will do my version. My beautiful, sweet, and cherished friend, Trish of Schemmelhos has kept a photo journal for as long as I've known her, and really, it is she who has been my inspiration for this new direction.

I don't know what will be posted here, or how often. I have chosen, and live, to the best of my ability, a reclusive life. I became burnt out on the social scene (not that I was ever truly social to begin with, but I was more active in the world) and have limited "real life" contact. I think what I'm saying is that my posts may seen banal and uninteresting, but they will be from the viewpoint of one who has chosen to build the proverbial moat about her home to make it a sanctuary from all the hubbub and craziness that lies beyond its boundaries.

The darnedest things catch my eye. This morning it was the sausage links all lined up in the pan.

Try to hold back your excitement.

I do have five cats. You can bet there will be pictures of them in the future. I read that people like animal pictures and in a picture with people and animals, it's the animals that captivate the viewer's eye.

Just thought I'd toss that in the ring here so that you'll come back and look again. And perhaps be captivated.

Grins.

The Old Branch

2009-12-13T20:00:00.000-05:00

It's been quite a while since I was here last. I didn't realize how much time had passed since my last post. I keep meaning to come by, share a few thoughts, but the thoughts I've had have been too private to put on the web.

In the meantime, I recalled a conversation my youngest brother Grant and I had some time ago. "Do you realize we are now the Old Branch?" he said. What did he mean by that, I asked. "Well, you know. The family tree, how it branches off. Do you I can't think of anyone who's alive of Granddad's brothers and sisters? I'm not sure about Grammy's sisters. And even in Mom and Dad's generation, there are only a few left." We started naming names of those we knew who were still alive or known dead, but we do not know all the names as the extended family is very large and widespread. "That makes us the Old Branch of the family tree," he said. "We're now the ones the kids turn to for answers and we're supposed to know them. I can remember when Mom and Dad in their forties and Grammy in her fifties, and I still thought they knew everything."

Me, too, I thought that, I said.

"But I'm at the age they're at and I don't feel I know as much as they did at the same age," he pressed.

I thought for a moment. "They knew different things because times were different, simpler in many ways. They knew what they needed to know for the times they were in. We'll need to know things based on the times were in."

"How do we find the answers? How do people know how to do things?" He was clearly worried. "The girls (his daughters) are going to be looking to me for answers, and I'm afraid I won't know them."

"Nobody knows everything, and when you run into a situation you don't know, you find someone who has experience or knowledge, then you'll know, too," I reassured him.

It was probably about the time when we were trying to figure out how to resolve the conflict of providing for our mother's health care needs and balance her needs to live independently. Gone are the days when it was common and expected the elderly would live with their children. Now it's either senior housing or nursing homes. Times change.

She lives three hours away from us, a long drive in the summer, a harrowing drive in the winter, and never a convenient drive in the best of circumstances. We leave the relative slow and safe two-lane highways of our New Hampshire country roads for the four- and six-lane highways of the Massachusetts cities to the south of us. We wanted her to live closer to us so that we could keep an eye on her and follow her medical care to ensure the best possible care for her.

Neither my brother nor I were prepared for the incredible volume of paperwork that the two states required to be completed. On the surface, it should have been so easy. Pack her up, move her to a nursing home here. Transfer her Medicare and Medicaide insurance information. But it wasn't to be so. A folder was created.

Compounding the frustration was the piecemeal sharing of information. A representative would say a form was required to be filled out. My brother filled it out, turned it in. But you don't have power of attorney, they said. So he took time off to become an authorized POA, seeing a lawyer, getting documents signed, going to Massachusetts, filing paperwork. Now you need to do the form over. So he did. He did, turned it in. Aaaah, but another form was needed. Why wasn't this given during the last visit? A shrug, no excuse, perhaps a misunderstanding, but the new form still needed to be filled out if we wanted to proceed. This happened multiple times, always followed by a shrug and no apology. Was there no one who knew the entire process, who could give and tell us everything that was needed in one meeting, to explain the entire process, to expedite the processing, who wasn't on vacation or out sick! Our mother is 80-something, time is valuable. A shrug. Everyone is doing the best they can....now if you could just complete this and return it, someone will review it.

Eventually, New Hampshire made it so difficult to move our mother here that we had to resign ourselves to leaving her in Massachusetts, on her own, in the care of home health care aids and visiting nurses. We do not have the social programs that support the elderly here (or children, really, in my opinion). Some of this is based on the socio-economic base or our state's residents and some of it is "cultural." What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, and pull yourself up by your bootstraps thinking. Daniel Webster, a famous Patriot and statesman, said that God makes mountains but New Hampshire makes men, or something like that. There's not a whole lot of sentimentality.

I marvel at all the changes that have taken place since the time of my grandparents birth. A hundred years of change, the automobile, indoor plumbing (my grandmother's house only ever had an outhouse!), man walking on the moon, computers, fax machines, color TV (do they even make black and white anymore like when I was a kid?!), digital cameras.

My Ole Sweetie-Pi, Earl, has a different viewpoint. He says we are rapidly becoming the generation that is being left behind. He doesn't see the Old Branch as having the answers, not the way our parents did. He sees us as asking more questions, leaning more and more on our children for answers. Technology has divided us, he says, and the gap will grow wider, as technology advances and we don't keep up.

I'm not a fatalist but I am a realist. I told a sweet, lovely lady (who is in her early retirement years) that I blog for a hobby. Her eyes glazed over, she nodded and smiled, and I realized she didn't know what I was talking about. Does make me wonder what she thinks I'm doing, though.

Giving and Receiving

2009-10-25T14:26:00.001-04:00

Karen and I saw side by side, desks abutting, at our job. She is petite, reed thin, blond, a charmer, a natural salesperson. I am her near opposite. Short, round, dark, aloof. She is also one of the most intelligent women I know. I mean, she could take her checkbook and at a glance could balance it in her head. Me, I need a calculator, pencil with eraser, and loads of uninterrupted time. And then only after some struggle could I make the numbers balance.

Unfortunately, she was involved in a serious head-on collision in her car and she and her sister were seriously injured, Karen suffering some brain damage. She lost part of her memory (not knowing her family), her ability to do balance her checkbook just by looking at it, and the ability to tell if she were hungry, couldn't remember how to grocery shop or dial a phone. She had to set her the alarm on her watch to remind her it was time to eat. Before that she was literally starving to death because she didn't know she was hungry. It was only after serious weight loss and fainting that the doctors realized she lost her sense of hunger.

What she was left with, however, was the ability to see auras. I suppose that sounds very "new age" and reeks of women in long flowing gowns, draped in clunky semi-precious and precious jewels that represented their chakras, reading tarot cards, and casting spells. Karen was not like that and she took umbrage at being compared to pseudo psychics. She showed up to work every day in her business suit, wearing closed toe pumps, flesh toned hose, and blouses that were buttoned up to her neck. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a neat, low, pony tail, and her gaze was direct and her smile, when given, was sincere. The only difference was that she could look at you and see fogs of colors swirling around you and the colors had meaning. She could look into your heart and know your character.

Colors had positive and negative aspects and it was only if you had situational knowledge that you could know the color's significance. Without even being aware, we speak intuitively of color's meanings. For example, green was a nurturer or a healer; it could also mean someone who was "green with envy;" red meant passion or anger as in "seeing red" ; blue was peace but it could also mean depression, "feeling blue." And black had only one meaning, evil, a soul devoid of any light.

She could see if a person had guardian angels or spirits about them. She could see into the future. She saw past lives, but because it went against every religious precept she was taught, she reviled the idea of past and future lives and refused to lift the curtain to see what was there. She would become physically ill if images appeared in her mind.

"It's a burden to know so much about people," she emphasized to me. "I don't want to know how shallow and mean people are or how they are not living up to their potential if they only had the courage to follow their dreams. God must cry every day. There is nothing I can do with this knowledge. It is too painful and too awful to bear. I don't want it. I want the doorway that gives me this ability to close and never open again. I don't care what else I have to forget as long as I don't have to have this anymore." She gave me a woeful look. "Your angels, or spirits, or whatever you want to call them, talk to you all the time and are frustrated that you don't listen."

"I don't know how to listen, and I'm not sure I want to learn to hear what they're saying. Don't want a chorus of angels telling me what a screw up I am. I think that's why God made my mother," I quipped.

Karen, undeterred, pressed her point. "Wait, you need to know something important. You have an angel over your shoulder who wants you to know something."

"I don't want to know that I'm going to Hell. I'd rather wait and let that be a surprise."

"One of your other angels is laughing. He says he's the one who shares your weird sense of humor." Karen looked beyond me, nodded and smiled at nothing. (I know because I turned to see what she was looking at.) Nothing there that I could see anyway.

"OK, I'll listen and if it's something I like, then I'll think you're right. If it's something I don't like, I'll think you're making it up."

"It's a lesson you need to learn."

I felt my resistance rising.

"Don't shut me out," Karen admonished. "You need to hear this. Do you believe that God blesses us?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you think He's like Santa Claus and makes personal visits to everyone's house?"

"Well....sort of. I don't think He wears a red suit or has a long white beard, though I could be wrong about the beard. I think He says "let there be light" and the lights come on. I think He answers prayers. Don't tell me He has a prayer committee."

Karen smiled. "Your angels are laughing again. They want me to hurry up and get to the point. Okay. Sometimes God uses people to bless others. Do you know what I mean by that?"

"Baptism? Confession?"

"Quit being a smart-mouth." Karen crossed her legs and faced me straight on, looking grim and proper. "No, let's say you needed $5,000 and you won $5,000 in the lottery. Would you say that you were blessed and would you accept it?"

"Of course! Are you telling me I'm winning $5,000?"

She ignored the question. "Let's say you needed $5,000 and your mother offered you $5,000 and you knew that it was important to her to give it to you would you accept it?"

"Probably not. I know how hard she would've worked to save it, all the sacrifices she made to be able to offer it. She's worked hard her entire life; her life has been difficult at best. I want her to enjoy her money and to do something that's important to her. No way could I take her money. I'd find another way."

Karen nodded in understanding. "You would turn it down, knowing full well how much she wanted to give it to you and how important it was to her that you accept it?"

"Absolutely. No way could I accept that kind of money from my mother."

Did it occur to you that God might be using your mother as His envoy or courier to bless you? And now you have turned away His blessing and gift? Also did it ever occur to you that when someone tries to do something nice for you, it may not be about you but it may be that they have to be a blessing to others so that they can be blessed in return. By turning them down you are postponing a blessing that they might need."

"I can't possibly accept every gift that someone tries to give me. I don't have the means to return the favor. It's much easier for me to thank someone for their kindness and not have that feeling of obligation."

"You're not supposed to accept every gift that comes your way. Not every so-called gift is from God. You have to have your eyes open to see the difference." Karen shifted in her seat. "Your angel is saying that when it's right you need to learn and develop a sense of gratitude and graciousness." Karen looked hazily past me again. "Not everyone expects something in return you know." Sometimes people just want the good feeling that comes with being kind or generous or knowing that they've somehow helped a friend, or maybe they are repaying a debt by helping you. But by refusing them you are not allowing them to advance spiritually. Also you're telling God that His blessings aren't good enough for you."

"Maybe," I said as noncommittally as I could.

Karen smiled. "And then sometimes you have to gift in return because you are supposed to provide the greater good. It's confusing. That's all I know."

That conversation took place years ago, and it's one I've long remembered and thought on. I've since switched jobs a half dozen times perhaps, meeting new people, making new friends. At my current job I have a friend named Sharon. Sharon is a Gardener. We are talking a couple acres (or more!) of gorgeous flowering plants that she tends with a loving eye. Flowers of all kinds everywhere blooming everywhere.

She came to work one day, and said, "I have too many flowers. They are crowding each other out. I'm digging them up to thin them out. Do you want them? If you don't take them, I'm throwing them away." She is very direct and succinct like that.

Well, if she's throwing them away.... "Oh, I'd love them! I've been wanting flowers for the house since I bought it. I buy one or two plants a year, but my flower "garden" seems to be confined to window boxes."

"Bring your Jeep. We'll fill it up."

Silly me, I thought she was exaggerating, but I should have known better. By the time she stuffed my Jeep full of plants, (roses, phlox, iris, heather, bee balm, clematis, lamb's ear, to name a few) there was barely room for me to sit in the front seat. I couldn't see out of any of the side windows and I was being stuck in the back of my head with rose stems. My car smelled earthy and flowery and heavenly.

For the longest time I had envisioned flowers growing in my yard, and now, Sharon has blessed me with her kindness and generosity. She says I did her a favor by accepting the plants.

Worth My Time?

2009-10-04T10:30:00.000-04:00

I used to be a commissioned insurance sales person. It was a job I was coerced into; I didn't like it; I was extremely resentful because of unfortunate circumstances that forced me to be there. I showed up every day but I was determined to punish and exact some satisfaction of revenge on my employer by failing to meet sales goals and deftly, and oh so cleverly, turning away clients. In the end I was the one who suffered my few commissioned sales and a miserly paycheck and a miserable future.

However, while I was so cleverly cutting off the branch on which I was standing, I discovered I had a knack for listening to people and drawing them out. The more I listened, the more people wanted to talk. In a job where potential and established clients were supposed to be hustled in and out as if we were in a 20-items or less checkout line, my clients lingered and shared some of their most intimate and amazing thoughts. That lady there? She was molested by her uncle when she was seven. That widow? Loved her husband but glad he's gone because now she's free to do as she has always wanted to be. That teenager? Hates his stepdad and his mother for marrying him and is driving angry, building up points on his license. And the elderly gentleman and his beautiful wife, still happily married after 45 years, holding hands, reinforcing my hope that love does endure and that marriage is tender bond.

My employer disapproved of the length of time I expended, as time was money; criticism and subsequent training flowed. It was made abundantly clear that my time was to be spent in making them money, and as it turns out in making me money too, though I was too stubborn to admit it, too late in seeing that I was hurting myself financially and personally, and too stubborn to relieve us all of my anger and seek employment elsewhere.

One afternoon, a young man, in his mid-30's, of Indian culture judging from his liquid black eyes, brown skin and musical accent, came into the office, seeking auto insurance on a newly acquired vehicle. It had been a slow day for me, perhaps I had had only one client earlier and no one scheduled for the rest of the day. My time was his, and I was grateful for the distraction and for the opportunity to look busy. He handed me the paperwork to register and title his vehicles, I scanned it, noting that the buyer's name and signatures were omitted.

At first he seemed pleasant enough, and the transaction was one I had done hundreds of times and I could virtually complete in my sleep. I asked him for his name, which he promptly provided, picked up my pen to fill in the missing information on the forms. "No, wait!" he interrupted. "I want this to be in my wife's name."

"Okay," I readily agreed (giving the customer what he wants is paramount to making a sale). "But your wife will have to sign the forms."

"She doesn't know I bought the car but I want her to have it." He leaned over the desk, his upper body touching the desk top as he gave me a pleading look.

"The laws are pretty strict, I'm sorry. I can't put a vehicle in your wife's name without her written signatures. We just can't go about registering and titling vehicles in another person's name. Imagine the possible disastrous consequences."

He was not mollified. "If something happens to me, I want her to have the vehicle," he persisted.

"If something happens to you, this vehicle will become part of your estate, and if there are no children, will go to your wife. It's a bit of a hullabaloo, but from personal experience, it does eventually work out. I must caution you that your best advice is from a lawyer. Or you can ask your wife to come in and we can put everything in her name then, or we can put the paperwork in both names and then you can take it to your wife and she can also sign."

"Things are so different in this country," he said. "I am from India." His voice was trailed off. "I miss my country. I married my wife who is American, and we came here to live. She told me that there was so much opportunity here, but I cannot find one job. In my country, I was an accountant, like your CPAs. My degrees are not accepted here. I have applied many many times." Two hours slipped by as he spoke of his beloved country and family and of his difficulties in adapting to American life.

"Do you know H&R Block? I see that they are always advertising for people to do tax returns. I don't know anything about them, other than they're a huge outfit. I know people without accounting degrees who work for them. Certainly with your knowledge and their training, you could find a position there. Perhaps you could eventually consult or open your own office. Perhaps the answer is not necessarily to work for another but to work for yourself?"

He body straightened and his eyes brightened. "Yes, I will check out H&R Block." He stared thoughtfully at the papers in my hand. "We will put the vehicle in my name."

In a course of ten minutes I had completed and applied the appropriate stamps and he went on his way.

The office manager, a woman with a booming voice, swung her hips, like flashing caution signals, down the aisle to my desk. "Took you long enough. How much money did you make?"

"He ended up buying minimal insurance; he's unemployed." I squirmed beneath her glare but nevertheless felt a slight perverse delight at her annoyance with me.

"Then he wasn't worth your time. We don't want minimum insurance clients."

I don't remember how much time had passed, two, three, four months, but he showed up at my desk again, registration plates in hands. "I want to cancel the auto insurance," he said as he handed the bug-and-mud encrusted plates to me. "I am going back to India." He did not sit this time, poised as if rushed.

"Oh, how lovely!" I said.

He shrugged in resignation. "Yes, I shall see my family, but my wife will not return with me. We have decided to divorce. I do not like it here and she does not like it there. There is no other way."

"Oh, I am sorry that it didn't work out for you. You have had many difficult decisions. I hope that this one will bring you happiness."

"Yes, many difficult decisions." His eyes were so dark that I could not discern the pupil; his gaze was soft and liquid. "May I tell you something?" I nodded, not taking my eyes from his. "Do you remember when I came here the first time, and I wanted to put the vehicle in my wife's name?"

"Yes, and we put everything in your name."

"I wanted everything in my wife's name because I wanted her to have the car and everything else that was mine. I had planned to register the car in her name and then go home and commit suicide. I did not want any problems for her. I was so discouraged, no friends, no family, no job. But after talking with you, you gave me so much hope, that I changed my mind. And now I go home. I could have taken the plates to the Registry myself, but I wanted to see you and to thank you."

He extended a hand and we shook hands, clasping each other's hand longer than is socially acceptable for a polite handshake. I wished him well and he left.

As soon as he was out of earshot and eyesight the bosomy office manager was at my desk again. She stared fixedly at the registration plates. "Turning in his plates and cancelling his insurance! I warned you that we don't want minimum insurance clients. He just wasn't worth your time."

A Perfect Moment

2009-09-13T13:29:00.000-04:00

Mao, my sweet and beautiful Colombian friend, was curious about relationships between men and women. He was intrigued with the rituals and rites of romance and courtship. He startled me one day by asking how does a man propose to a woman, does the man really get down on bended knee. I said not always, though my husband did when he asked me.

Mao reflected on that. "When a man offers a woman a ring, she usually says yes. Even if she doesn't want the man; she wants to flash around the diamond ring."

"Not me. I said no."

Mao's black eyes flashed. "You are supposed to say, yes, Kah-thee! It is bad manners to say no. It takes a lot of courage for the man to propose."

"Perhaps, but I never, ever wanted to be married."

Mao gave me his brightest smile, eyes sparkling. "But you married him."

I signed. "Yes, he wore me down until I said yes."

"That's how it should be." He grunted in final approval.

I smiled at his Latin machismo. Perhaps in his culture that was the way. This little old Yankee girl had different ideas.

"I read somewhere that in everyone's life there is one perfect romantic moment. What was your most romantic moment? Was it with your husband?"

I thought back. How much do I share? "My husband was an intellectual, Mao, a good man in many, many ways. He didn't have a sense of humor and he really wasn't romantic, but I knew I was loved. He just showed it in different ways. But there was a time after that, when I was in college..." I drifted off, embarrassed. "After my Daniel died, I decided to go back to college and pursue a degree in English. I was taking a poetry class and as part of our grade, the class had to present original poetry to the entire college. There was a man there, a classmate, who presented his poems after mine, and they were all love poems. I didn't know it at the time, but they were written for me."

"Why aren't you with him! That is very romantic! That took a lot of courage to stand up there in front of everyone!! Kah-thee!! Women love a man to do that for them!"

"You're right. When I finally understood his poetry was meant for me and not just a homework assignment to pass the course, I was extremely flattered. And it truly was one of the finest moments of my life. But I had to turn him away and tell him he could only be my friend. I had to." I could feel Mao sizzle in disapproval and disappointment. "He was married. He had children. We're still friends. That is enough."

Mao slumped a little, saddened by my story of unrequited love, and I gave him a quick hug and a laugh and forgot about the conversation. Days later when I went to pick him up for work (we commuted to work together and I drove), Mao called me from the second-story porch of his apartment. "Kah-tee!" he yelled down. "I need you to come and stand under the porch." I was running a little late and felt impatient that he was delaying me even longer, but I did as I was bid. "Wait, stand right there!" he instructed as I was about to step onto the first floor porch deck. I need to be able to see you!." He disappeared for a moment, and gave me a beatific smile. "I have something I want to give you!" He held a long-stem yellow rose in his hand. "I want to give you a romantic moment! I am going to toss this rose down to you and I want you to catch it?"

"Does it have thorns?" I teased.

"Kah-thee, this is the perfect romantic moment, like in the movies. I am doing this for you," he gently chided. "You do not ask about thorns in the perfect romantic moment! It is not right!"
The rose fell from his hand and sashayed through the air, dipping and twirling, until I caught it over my head.

I clasped the rose and brought it to my nose and sniffed its delicate fragrance. "Mao, this is beautiful! Thank you! I shall remember this forever!"

"I wanted to be the one to give you the perfect moment!" he said triumphantly.

I smiled. How fortunate and blessed I am. Love, even misguided, is a gift. Two perfect romantic moments that could make the world stop: love poems that filled my heart, spoken in a filled auditorium, by a married man, and a yellow rose tossed from a second story porch by a man who shared my love of men.

Love Endures All Things

2009-08-15T07:27:00.000-04:00

My oldest brother, Mike, was speaking of our grandmother, our father's mother. Mary Birdena Hussey was her birth name, though most everyone in the family called her Dena. There were some who called her Mary, her coworkers. doctor, bank teller, the meter reader and such, but to me and my two brothers, she was Grammy, and Grammy was her most cherished name of all.

"I just came back from the nursing home," he said. "She looks like she's doing okay, getting thinner, and she cries and begs to come home. She worked and sacrificed her entire life for the family and now all she remembers is her own name, and she says it over and over. She doesn't know who I am but she knows I'm someone who can take her back home. I feel so guilty about leaving her there when she's done so much for us. I hate Alzheimer's!" he hissed vehemently.

I felt his pain subside as I waited quietly for him to go on. I understood too well about why she said her name over and over; it was one of my secret guilts that I didn't tell him.

Grammy and I were outside in her yard, enjoying a beautiful New England summer day. She took my hand as she often did and held it and then brought it to her lips and she kissed the palm of my hand. "I think I'm losing my mind," she said.

"Grammy, I don't think you're losing your mind," I assured her, panic seizing me like no other panic I had ever experienced. "Tell me, what's your name?" I threw an arm around her and hugged her until she squealed with delight. She loved being loved. I loved loving her. The fear of losing her was incomprehensible.

She laughed, "Mary Birdena."

"See, you're okay. People who are losing their mind can't remember their name. As long as you know your name, you're just fine." Her large hazel eyes peered deeply into my dark brown ones, to see if I were telling her the truth, and she seemed satisfied.

"It's just that I seem so forgetful lately...but okay. I'll know I'm fine as long as I remember my name..."

"Grant and I were talking about Gram," Mike continued, " and what we remember most about her. You know how there's usually one thing that you remember the most about a person?"

I hadn't thought to define Grammy's essence and spirit with a single memory and I was a little irked by the thought that someone could be summed up so succinctly; but it was a curious statement. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he said, "when I think of Grammy, I think of her as always offering me an apple. Every time I went to her house, she always offered me an apple. I'd say I didn't want it, but she'd make me take it. Grant says she was always giving him canned peaches. Remember how she always had canned peaches and pears and fruit cocktail under the sink cabinet?" Yes, I could clearly see her badly yellowed, white enameled sink, two cabinets, one each side, one for pots and pans on one side and canned goods in the other. She kept creamed corn in there for me when she made chicken fricassee for Sunday dinners. "What do you remember?"

"Those creme-filled vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate sugar wafer cookies, I suppose." That was not what I remembered the most about her, but it's what I said. "She always kept a secret stash of them in her white dish cabinet." She also kept a stash of rainbow colored gross grained ribbons for my long hair that she loved. The baby books she kept of me had dozens of pictures of the back of my head because she loved my long dark hair.

"Gram always loved you best. How come she never loved me and Grant as much as you?"

It's too complicated, really, to understand and explain family dynamics between siblings, I thought. I said, "I suppose because it's easier to relate to another female, because I'm the one who spent the most time with her, because Dad loves you best and because Mom loves Grant best, because Grammy always wanted a daughter and had a jackass for a son. She loves all of us, just differently. She and I just had more in common, that's all."

Mike thought on it for a moment, and said "Trade you Dad for Gram. She can teach me how to cook and you can learn to drive a dump truck."

"No deal," I said.

It was a six-hour ride one way to the nursing home to visit my grandmother in Vermont. Connie, my boyfriend, was keen that we should see her as often as we could while we could and we'd make the trip once a month or so. The residents would crowd around us, vieing for scraps of our attention, asking if we knew where their children were, asking us to come back.

I would trim Grammy's nails (she was always particular that her nails should be short) and comb her hair "extra pretty." Her eyes would light up, and she'd smile broadly as I assured her that she was the most beautiful Grammy in the whole entire world.

As we would get ready to leave, she would always beg me to "take her home" and promise "I'll be good, please take me with you," and the guilt at not being able to take care of her, to take care of her as I imagined she would have done for me, would be so overwhelming and suffocating that I would leave a sobbing, wretched mess.

The Alzheimer's progressed rather quickly once she was diagnosed. When she first went to the nursing home, it was just to provide her with assistance for her daily activities as she could not cook for herself or attend to her financial needs. As time went by, the bright light faded from her eyes and she lost the ability to speak but a few words. I could see her trying to remember how to speak, her lips twitching, but only indiscernible sound coming out.

At the end, we went to see her to ensure her care. I still filed her nails and made her "extra pretty" and told her she was the most beautiful Grammy in the world. She seemed happy for the attention, patting my hair, and eagerly accepting my kisses, holding my hand in her frail one as we walked the nursing home hallways. My brother Mike stopped going "because she doesn't recognize me anymore." I tried to tell him that Grant and I didn't go and visit Grammy because I thought she would recognize us, we went because I still recognized and loved her.

Do we know when it's the last time we shall see a person on this earth? I think some might and that this knowledge is a gift that is the greatest on this earth. A blessing from God to his children. Was it in October? Perhaps. I remember autumn in it's magnificent orange, red and golden splendor. Vermont fields once green, now beige and flaxen, a warm shining sun, but not the hot sun of July. A breeze with the faintest hint of coolness. The languidness of summer fading.

As Connie and I entered the nursing home, I saw Grammy sitting at the piano that was in their recreation area. In her mind she was playing a tune that only she could hear. Her knobby fingers ran up and down the keys, her eyes were closed. (The nursing home had unplugged the piano long ago as she played the same chords incessantly, to the annoyance of everyone in earshot; they couldn't get rid of the piano, but they certainly stopped the sound). As if she knew we were there, she opened her eyes and looked straight at me and stood straight up in unrestrained delight. She scurried as quickly as she could to me, arms open, lips pursed in an anticipated kiss.

I scooped her up, lifted her lightly off her feet, in a mad hug, being careful not to break her fragile body. I set her back down, and the life and the light was back in her eyes. Her lips twitched and little grunts came out. She reached up, cupped my face in her deeply wrinkled and heavily veined hands, and poured herself into my eyes. "Love," she croaked. I immediately started to sob uncontrollably. She patted my hair, as she had so often done when I was little. "Pretty," she barely mumbled. I was holding onto her for dear life, my heart bearing the greatest pain I ever knew. I could hear Connie crying behind me, blowing his nose. Grammy squirmed away from me, reached into her skirt pocket, searching for some little treasure.

She put her clutched fist into my open hand; I looked to see what she had give me. And there it lay, a little cellophane packet of graham crackers, crumbled and crushed. She closed my fingers around it and once again peered endlessly into my eyes.

Honor Among Thieves

2009-08-01T16:33:00.000-04:00

Keith looked across the chasm of our adjoining desks, leaned across his desk into my workspace, and blurted in a whisper, "I've spent time in prison." He threw himself back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave me his five-front-teeth-only smile and his deep brown shone in a perverse humor intended to shock me.

It worked. I tried to repress my knee jerk surprise, but I knew my eyes were wide and my face frozen in a stupid look with my mouth gaped open. Finally, I was able to utter, "Oooooohh..." I had long before surmised that Keith was likely a recovering drug user, someone who had lost his way and was struggling to get back He had a saunter and a chip on his shoulder; he was quick to anger, and just as quick to laugh. He had his own set of ideas about right and wrong. He could look you straight in the eye until you looked away first. He was emaciated looking, smoked too much, could be crude in speech and manner when it struck him to be so, could be gentle and kind if one were gentle and kind with him. He was a drifter, had been homeless. He was a loner in a room full of people. He sat at his desk with his headset on, listening to talk radio, occasionally blurting out answers to quiz questions and political opinion polls.

He was my work mentor. I was in a job that was a poor fit. Map making required someone with strong analytical and spatial skills, measuring and recording roads, time and distance using instruments and published resources. To me, time and distance is measured by feeling and intuition. A road is a journey. My heart is my instrument that guides me. An odd friendship and respect bloomed, Keith was spatial and I was, according to him, spacey.

Keith roared with unrestrained delight, and disapproving faces turned to see who was laughing in this grim place called The Workplace. He stared them all down one of his F* You looks until everyone turned back to their work. I secretly admired that and wish I knew how to do it, too.

"Sooooo, why were you a guest of the state?"

"For starting up my own church."

"You're a minister?" I was dumbstruck. I never would have taken him for a man of the cloth.

"No, that was part of the problem." Keith was clearly enjoying dragging out the story, his smile wider and his eyes glittering. "I ain't no altar boy."

"So, I'm beginning to see. How could you ever end up in jail for ministering a church?"

"Well, I seemed to have "ministered" to myself with the church's money."

"Keith! How could you ever conceive of doing such a thing? That's just not right!"

He pulled out the front of his tee shirt and buried his laugh into his chest at my naivete. " Seems like others agree with you. I can't believe people got so mad about it when you consider how pretty stupid and trusting they are. I only gave them what they wanted. They wanted answers and I gave them answers. I don't see anything wrong with that. They wanted to believe in what I said and they wanted to give me money to say it. So I let them. It was simple. I used to drive a white Cadillac in those days."

"You are a very bad man!" I decreed, disgusted with him. He smiled sadly at me and I gave him an apologetic smile in return.

Changing the subject, he said, "Know how I got this job?"

"I am afraid to ask."

"Remember on the job application they asked if you spoke any foreign languages?" I nodded my head. I had written "some Spanish" on mine. "I don't speak no foreign languages, figured they wouldn't hire anyone like me, so to be a wise guy I wrote "Ebonics. Do you know what Ebonics is?"

"Yes, it's commonly called "black" English."

Now it was Keith's turn to be surprised. "Not too many white people know that word. Well, the human resources person didn't know, and when she saw it, she was impressed that I could speak "Ebonics." She went on and on about I was the only person she ever met who could speak such a little known language."

I didn't mean to, but I started to laugh. "You correct her?"

"I needed this job. My two dogs and I were living in my car. We needed to eat. That HR lady and me were both bluffing each other. She tried to show off by letting me know she knew that Ebonics was some dead language like Latin and she needed someone who could speak another language. We both got what we wanted."

I begrudgingly acknowledged his point. "Giving up on the church founding business?"

A huge grin. "I never did look good in a white robe. Miss that white Caddy though...."

"Keith!" I admonished. I looked at my watch, it was the dinner hour. "Look, I'm starving. Want to go to lunch?"

The invitation surprised us both and for once Keith was the one who was dumbstruck. "That is very nice. You are the only one here who has ever asked me to lunch in the whole year I've been here. " I started to say something but he cut me off. "But I cannot go with you. You are a nice lady and I would damage your reputation if you were friends with someone like me. I am a bad man, but you have been kind. Go find some nice friends." Keith put his head set on and shut me out.

At the same time my regular lunch pals came over to gather me up and go to lunch. As we were headed towards the cafeteria, one of them leaned over and whispered, "Be careful of that one. He's no good, hasn't got a decent bone in his body."

A Lesson in Humility

2009-07-14T19:47:00.001-04:00

When I was dating my boyfriend, Connie (Conrad), I would often make the two-hour drive to Connecticut from my home in Massachusetts, and oftentimes we'd do something a little extra special to make the most of the limited time we had to share.

So, one evening we decided to dine at the Groton Inn, a very nice establishment where beautiful banquets are held, as well as a fine restaurant. We decided to take Connie's best friend, Gerry, as a treat for him. Gerry was kind of an odd little person, no real friends except for Connie, and now me by my relationship with Connie.

Connie wore a nice navy blue suit, I wrote a voluminous tea length dress (black with the tiniest roses), and Gerry wore his cleanest best jeans and his standard flannel shirt. We all complimented each other on how nice we looked and we went off to dinner.

Dinner went well. I managed not to drop anything out of my mouth, knock over any wine glasses, or walk up the inside of my dress as I sat or rose from my chair. All in all a successful dining experience. When it came time to leave, I leaned over and whispered to Connie, "I have to run to the ladies' room."

He blushed (personal matters always embarrassed him)"Gerry and I will wait for you in the main lobby. I don't want to lurk outside in the hallway at the ladies' room door." His blush only deepened but his robin's egg blue eyes were laughing.

I walked past a large banquet hall, laughter streaming out, filling the corridor. I peeked in and saw a beautiful bride and her handsome groom. The huge room was packed with friends and family.

I went to the ladies' room; miraculously I was the only one there. I have this weird thing about using the ladies. I do not dilly dally in there. I do not primp or prance, check my teeth or redo my hair. I might reapply my lipstick. My sole purpose is to do what I have to, wash my hands, and leave. In and out. Plus I knew Connie and Gerry were waiting for me and I didn't want to keep them waiting any longer than necessary. I think a long absence would be embarrassing for all of us. Is that in the bathroom etiquette book somewhere?

I step back into the hallway, and it was empty, the guests either at their banquets or the restaurant. I walked past the wedding and they were still laughing and the band was playing. I walked past the restaurant and waiters were scurrying about from one table to the next.

I stepped smartly along, and behind me I heard a voice call out, "Excuse me, excuse me." I do not turn my head to see if the person is talking to me. The only person I know is waiting ahead of me, not behind me. "Excuse me, excuse me," the voice said again, only louder, more urgent. I walk past another banquet hall filled with guests.

I inwardly debated.

There is something about me that attracts the oddest people. Usually people I've never met before just see me out and are harmless. They want to reveal their entire life story to me(as when I am standing in a grocery store line) want my opinion on an item they are buying. However, there have been times when people have not been entirely harmless and it is because of them that I do not acknowledge strangers.

Yet there was a quality of urgency in the voice and that convinced me to turn. A middle-aged woman, half running towards me, repeated, "Excuse me," as if those were the only words she knew. She stopped in front of me to catch her breath. I waited patiently for her next words. "Your skirt is tucked up into your underwear."

Wrong Number?

2009-07-11T20:09:00.000-04:00

One evening while I was reading in bed, I heard the downstairs phone ring and the answering machine pick up the call. I arose from bed and stood at the top of the stairs to listen if the caller would leave a message and to hear if it were a telemarketer, political pollster, or friend.

At first the voice was garbled and I thought it was a drunken party-goer who was pranking my phone and I turned away to return to bed. I don't know exactly what it was that caught my ear, but I realized that the person was not a drunk but a person in deep trouble whispering a plea for help.

I have poor depth perception and it is very hard for me to run down stairs without fear of falling. I have to take one step at a time with both feet being on the same step before stepping down again. It is slow and awkward and frustrating. The bile of fear rose in my throat as the panic and pain in the voice on the phone was becoming more and more evident.

I'm sure it was only seconds that passed, but it seemed like hours. "Don't hang up," I prayed aloud. My four cats, sensing my alarm, were now weaving in and out between my legs, tripping me up, always a quarter step in front of where I wanted to be, stalling me like in some horrible dream. I tapped their behinds with my foot, clapped my hands in a flurry, shouted at them to hurry them along, but they were oblivious to my angst.

I could clearly hear the voice now, TWO voices. A woman sobbing, begging, "Don't hit my face anymore...don't hit my face anymore....I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." And a man whose rage chilled me so deeply that I was frozen in place. "I will hit you as many times as I want! I will hit your face! I will kill you if I want!" More cries, more sobbing.

I grabbed for the phone. Too late! The caller disconnected!

I paced my kitchen furiously. I dialed *69 to ring back the caller, but their phone number did not accept the reverse dialing. I played back the sickening message that was now record on my answering machine, and the numbness and shock of what I heard overtook me and my thoughts were paralyzed, my mind was blank as if I could not remember how to think.

Caller ID, caller ID, I have caller ID. I scrolled through my directory and found the number. The caller was someone who lives two hours away in Nashua; how did she ever dial my number? Random dialing in a panic hope for help? Dialing her local police and she misdialed and reached me? It didn't matter, because it was now my responsibility to respond to her cries for help.

Telephone book, where in the name of God is my telephone directory? I need to call the police in in Nashua, I decided. They can send someone out immediately. I cannot find my telephone directory, the cats are even more crazed with my anxiety and I am yelling at them.

I dial "O" for operator but that does not work anymore here. When did that change? I wonder in my fury. I dialed the national number for information: area code, 555-1212, and finally after the tenth ring an annoyed automated answering service dryly intones, "City and state, please." Frustration is building. This is an emergency for God's sake!! I provide the requested information. No listing for that city and state, would I spell the name of the city. I spell the name. I can barely speak, my jaw and throat are tight with fear and frustration. "Name of person you are calling," the automated voice says. I give the name of the police department. "No such person by that name," says the voice. "Please hold for an operator to assist you."

I want to throw the phone through the window and drive aimlessly in that city two hours away to find that woman who is being beaten. The operator finally comes onto the line. In a single breath I explain, "This is an emergency, I need the police department."

"Please hold while I get that number for you," the operator says. A click, and another automated voice comes on and gives me the emergency police number for the Nashua Police Department. "Would you like that number repeated?" the hollow voice asks. Yes, yes, yes, as I write the number down and want to make sure I have it correct. "For an additional fee of 55 cents your call can be automatically dialed. Would you like the call to be automatically dialed for an additional fee of 55 cents?" Yes, yes, yes!!! I want to cry and scream. Everything is moving too slowly. I am moving too slowly.

The phone rings at the Nashua Police Department and a female dispatcher answered on the second ring. "Nashua Police Department. What is the nature of your call, please?"

In a breathless rush, I identify myself and give her my residential address. "A woman is being beaten and she is crying for help. I think she misdialed -- she reached my number -- she is crying and asking for help. You need to send someone out to her right away. She could be dead by now!"

"I'm sorry. We can't help you. You must call the police department in your own city and they will contact us and then we can send someone out there."

"WHAT?!" I scream. "Are you kidding? Did you not hear what I just said? A woman is being beaten in YOUR city and you want me to call MY local police department? You are not going to send help that she needs NOW?!"

"It's procedure. The police department in the jurisdiction of the...." I don't know what she was going to say after that as I slammed down the phone in helpless rage.

Phone book, phone book' I just find the phone. I did not want to dial 911 as I didn't want the police sent to my house; I needed police sent to that other poor woman's house. Found it! How to look up the police department. My mind was going blank again; I was forgetting how to think clearly. I know how to use a phone book, so why can't I find what I'm looking for. I cup my head in my hands as if to clear the cobwebs.

My orange cat, Buster, jumps onto the counter where I am trying to read the fine print in the book and paces across the pages in front of me. I unceremoniously swipe him off the counter and he sits sulking and glowering at me from the floor. He leaps onto the pages again, and this time when I brusquely push him off he tears the pages with his claws as he dug in to hold on.

There are two telephone numbers listed for our local police department. One is for the detectives unit. I dial the number, ring, ring, ring. An answering machine saying that they are available during the work hours of blah, blah, blah. I cannot believe this night. Our police department keeps banker's hours? Crime doesn't happen in our little city after five p.m.? No one is available?

I am lost and incredulous; I am cold and numb; but I still feel fury as never before. Everything is moving in slow motion again. I find the second number for our police department, dial, and a woman answers, "Dispatch."

Relief surged through me. Once again I identify myself and I tell her all that happened. I play the recorded message into the receiver so she can hear it, I tell her I have caller ID and that I have the number of the caller. She patiently takes this all down, says they will do a reverse phone number look up, and assures me that they will follow up.

I went back upstairs to bed but could not sleep. I sit up with all the lights on, my knees up to my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs, hugging myself to myself. The woman's voice reverberates in my head, and I hear it over and over. I fell asleep with the lights on and awoke after midnight when Earl came home from work, listened to the message, and came into the bedroom, white-faced, asking if I were okay.

Late the next afternoon, I called my local police department and asked if they knew anything further about my mysterious caller. They could only confirm that they called Nashua but did not have any further information; I would have to follow up with them if I wanted further information.

So, this time I dialed them directly, saving 55 cents to have the phone company automatically dial the number for me, and spoke to the female dispatcher. "Sorry, we can't give out any information. I can tell you that we did receive a call from the police department in your city about a phone message belonging to someone to the address at the phone number that was provided. That's all that I can tell you."

"You can't tell me if you actually sent someone or if you simply took a message? You can't tell me if the City of Nashua responded to a cry for help from one of its own citizens? You can't tell me if that poor woman were dead or alive if you even went there? Did you hear the recording that she left on my answering machine?"

"It's an issue of privacy..."

"PRIVACY! That woman called me. Never mind. I have the number and I have the name. I know how to do reverse look up as well as you do. (I provided the name and address of the caller.) I'll call myself. Thanks a lot. I'm sure that woman is thanking you as well!"

"Wait! Just wait a second." The dispatcher weighed her words. "Look, I'll tell you this much. We did send out a car and we went to the door. We asked if everything was okay. The person who answered the door said everything was fine. We asked to see the woman of the house, and she also confirmed everything was fine. We've done all we can."

I was stunned. "She said she was fine? Was this some horrible telephone prank after all?"

I could feel the dispatcher's shrug. "No, I think it was real enough. But when the police show up at the door, the woman backs down. It happens all the time. She's afraid of her husband or boyfriend going to jail and they'll be alone. They just want this beating to stop and they hope that having the police showing up at the door will scare the beater into stopping permanently. We see this a hundred times a week here, at least. Alcohol, drugs, crime, poverty, certain ethnic groups that think it's okay to beat up their women all play a role...every night we get these calls. After a while it's just hard to care as much as you should care, but we keep trying because sometimes what we do makes a difference in someone's life. You have done far more than most people ever would have thought of doing."

I thanked the dispatcher for her thoughtful and honest answer and hung up the phone. I replayed the message one last time, and hit "erase."

I wish it felt as if I had done enough.

Signs, Omens, and Answers to Prayers

2009-06-28T10:42:00.000-04:00

I read some while back that there is no such thing as coincidence, that it's all part of a Greater Plan. This is mostly true, I think, but sometimes we trip simply because we didn't pick up our feet. Sometimes we trip up because we are meant to be delayed.

I'm going to share a story with you that causes me deep embarrassment and one that I have not shared with anyone. I mean, really, it's a tale we hear all the time, shake our heads at in disbelief, and swear to ourselves that it could never happen to us because we would never be that foolish. Oh, really?

I used to date someone named Conrad (Connie); we dated for about 10 years or so before we went our separate ways. In the beginning, I was totally taken by him, his blue eyes, his winning smile, and his absolute adoration of me. Everyone who meant him described him as charming. His companionship was intoxicating and we had fun. As much as I loved my husband, Daniel, he lacked a sense of humor, his intellect being devoted to loftier pursuits, such as art, God, writing, not necessarily in that order. We could discuss world politics and play a serious game of chess. We would not particularly sit and watch a sitcom together and laugh out loud.

Anyway, that's a different story. Connie was fun and attentive and he liked to explore and imagine. He chased rainbows and I chased them with him because I believed he was capable of doing anything he set his mind to. We dreamed together.

He always wanted to be his own boss, he had considerable insurance agency experience and he decided to buy an insurance agency. It seemed like a natural course and one that would be successful. He called and asked he could borrow money from me. I said no. The first time.

His mother and his best friend mortgaged their homes for him and he asked me again. I could see how seriously he believed in himself and his ability, and my faith in him was no less than his in himself. So, I agreed to take a second mortgage out on my house.

There were roadblocks along the way, but isn't there always when one is doing a big financial transaction like this? I dismissed them as each roadblock was overcome.

The night before we were to go to the bank to pass papers, Connie realized he had left the house deed in Connecticut where he lived. I was living in Massachusetts, and now it was a three hour drive to go and retrieve the deed. He called his house and fortunately his nephew was there and agreed to meet us halfway, in Rhode Island.

We get to the lawyer's office. Their fax is down and they don't know when it will be fixed, and there is paperwork that needs to be faxed between their office and a bank in New York. We decide to wait. The fax comes back on line.

My name is misspelled throughout all the documents. It's that "i" before "e" thing that throws people off with my last name. Corrections were made.

The entire conversation was directed towards Connie, even though the mortgage was in my name! The loan officer referred to Connie as Mr. Seafood (his last name had a similar sound, but it's definitely not Seafood. She must've been hungry as it was nearing lunchtime by now.)

Then the percentage rate of the mortgage is incorrect. More corrections, more delays. I am now panicked at this transaction but it is too late to back out. Finally we (I!!) receive the check but we cannot find anyone locally to cash it because I don't have enough money in savings to clear it, and he needed the money in two days to close the sale on the insurance agency.

So off we go to New York where the bank is located. The first bank will not cash their own check. We go to two of their satellite branches until we find one that will cash it.

I'm not going to tell you the rest of this, you can surmise the rest and you'll probably be right.

I share my story only because I want to impress that those roadblocks were there for a reason. I was not supposed to remortgage my house. It was not my responsibility to make Connie's dreams come true regardless of how deeply I cared for him and how much I believed in his ability. What Connie thought were challenges to be overcome were, in fact, detour signs. .

Then again, if Edison quit after his 9999th try at inventing a long-lasting light bulb, and didn't try that 10,000th time, I'd be writing this in the dark today.

Now you understand my dilemma.

On a different note, I posted before about the loss of my Bengal kitty, Longfellow. Even now, I sit here and struggle with tears, causing my other cats to weave in and out between my legs, head butting my forehead, and wiggling under my hands so I can stroke them. Inexplicably, the other day I found a leaf under my chair where I sit at my computer and I had the distinct sensation of a strong silky body rubbing up against the calf of my leg, only no kitty was there. The sadness does not seem to leave me. In my own silent prayer, I have asked for an answer to what happens to animals that we shared love with.

Quite by accident, I happened upon a website that referenced Luke 3:6 and Luke 12:16. The author of the post said the scriptures were in reference to animals. Now I personally think that the "all flesh" referred to in Luke 3:6 means mankind (and there are interpretations that translate it to mean "mankind") but I did find solace in Luke 12:16 where two sparrows are sold for five pennies but God remembers them.

I'm not going to be pig-headed this time and ask for a billboard with my name on it, declaring that this is the divine answer to my question. I believe that God remembers because He said so.

Now if I could just figure out the answers to the other questions I have on my mind. Perhaps the answer is, if it doesn't flow easily, I shouldn't be doing it?

The Abundant Pantry

2009-06-17T20:12:00.000-04:00

I live in a tiny Victorian, built in the 1870's. It's a sweet little house and I loved it as soon as I saw it. Actually, the proper term is a poor man's Victorian, meaning it has some of the features of those lavish older homes with elaborate scrolled woodwork and porches and brightly painted.

My home is not elaborate at all. There is a front porch, four rooms, a bathroom, a room where I work on my computer, and a pantry. The pantry is larger than my computer room. The pantry is larger than my back deck. I love my pantry. I store all my staples out there, as well as pots and pans and appliances that are too large or too plentiful to fit inside the cabinets of my eat-in kitchen.

Earl, my Ole Sweetie-Pi, was in the pantry, looking for a can of tomato soup. I keep them more or less neatly stacked on one particular shelf, with like flavors stacked together so that I can tell at a glance what I have on hand. "Do you know you're almost out of tomato soup?" he yells to me as I stand at the island, stirring up a batch of cookies.

"No, I'll put it on the grocery list."

"Do you know you have two jars of mayonnaise out here?"

"Yes," I said, continuing to stir.

"We have a case of stewed tomatoes and a case of diced tomatoes. Look at all the different flours you have, and 20 pounds of sugar! Are we expecting a shortage?"

"It could happen," I said, stopping to sample the batter.

"Why do you need four different kinds of fruit juice?" he pressed.

"Why do you need 100 model train engines and a storage unit full of freight cars?"

Silence. "All I'm saying is that you have a lot of duplicates out here." He came out of the pantry with two soups, a minestrone and a tomato garden. He likes to combine soups to create his own recipe. "Who are the cookies for?"

"Work. It's nice to have a little treat."

My orange tabby, Buster, came by and rubbed around my legs, which is his way of softening me up for treats from the table, the counter, or wherever food and I might be.

Earl dourly studies him. "You're always making treats for work. Buster's getting fat."

Buster was a throw-away cat that we picked out for free from our local veterinarian's. "Buster was abandoned and probably forced to garbage picked before he came here; he knows what it's like to be thin and hungry. He much prefers being fat and happy." I look into those pleading green eyes, weaken, and give him a gob of cookie dough. It is gobbled in a nanosecond. "I know how he feels."

Earl took a pot down from the pot rack that is over my head and poured his two-ingredient secret recipe into it and lighted the stove.

"Do you know what cornstarch pudding is?" I asked him. He shook his head no. I am not surprised. Our backgrounds are very different. He grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, doted upon by a household of women, pampered, indulged. His youth was spent squandering dreams. I am not much better for him, I fear. I indulge him, too; it's part of what I want for myself so I give it to others.

"So what is it?" he says. His back is turned away from he as he twirls the spoon in crazy circles.

"It's an old fashioned pudding, made with cornstarch. Not very flavorful if I recall correctly. I can still remember Mother standing at the wood stove, stirring cornstarch pudding in an old dented aluminum soup pot."

"So it's dessert."

"I think it's intended to be dessert; for us that would be our entire meal. A bowl of it. Three times a day."

He stopped stirring to turn and look at me. "You're kidding. I thought your father worked."

"He worked and then he drank all his money; he earned it and he could spend it however he wanted. He liked to show off to his buddies at the bar just what a great guy he was and spent all his money on them, trying to buy their approval and friendship. Mother would take the loose change from his pants pocket, buy a box of cornstarch and a gallon of milk, and that was what we had to live on." I shook my head at the irony. "He used to be proud, and actually brag, that Mother lived on a dime."

Earl tried to absorb the image and the feelings. "Must have been tough."

"Oh, I don't know. Remember how you told me you didn't know you were rich? Well, I didn't know we were poor. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to be hungry all the time. I don't know when I first discovered that people actually ate whole meals. Probably from going to visit my grandmother. She'd go all out with biscuits, chicken fricassee, mashed potatoes, cake, whatever I wanted. And I promised myself that when I grew up, I would not ever be hungry again, and if I had it in my power, I would not let others be hungry either. I always want to have food to share." Buster yowled plaintively at me. I gave him a small gob of cookie dough (I am concerned about overfeeding him). I'll share my food, even if it's just with a fat orange cat.

A Ride Uptown

2009-06-06T10:31:00.000-04:00

My youngest brother, Grant, is very attached to our mother and he extends great kindnesses, far more than I do. Our relationship with her is individual and distinctly different, resulting in our different views on her as a mother. Irregardless, the one thing he and I agree on is our mother's lack of a social filter, that quality that prohibits you from saying outrageous (even if they are true) observations.

Some of her forthrightness is attributable to having an English-speaking family and a society of friends who were rough in nature and language. There was certainly little elegance or eloquence in manner or speech, and when you mix that someone who elicits only the bare bones of a foreign language, you're up against some pretty stark and startling conversation.

Everyone who knows her has been on the receiving end of one of her truths. We've learned to laugh it off, but when we introduce someone new to her, (say a new boyfriend or girlfriend) we always start with a warning, "Brace yourself, don't be hurt, don't be angry. She's going to say whatever is on her heart, whether you want to hear it or not. She doesn't mean to be hurtful..."

Mother is 81 years old, lives independently in a senior housing community. She's irascible and strong-willed. When she needs something done she will just casually toss out, "I need to have the air conditioner put in and go to the bank." Long silence. "It would be nice to have the air conditioner put in; I suppose I could ask one of the old men here to do it for me but they're not so good anymore. Can't count on them; they don't move too hot. I'll just sit in this hot apartment until one of them can come." Long silence while she waits for the guilt to seep in.

And my dear brother, with his friend, Paula, volunteered to drive the 150 miles to put in her air conditioner and take her to the bank. There are a number of two story brick buildings in her complex and after driving around a bit, my brother was able to find a parking space close to her building; the plan was they'd help her get her outside with her walker, go and get the car, and come back around to get her, take her uptown to do her chores, go back home.

Grant dropped Paula off at my mother's building while he parked the car. As he was walking up the sidewalk, an elderly lady approached him. "Are you the one going uptown?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly. He did not know this woman.

"You're here to see your mother?" He nodded. "She said you'd take me uptown. I need to go to the grocery store."

Grant, irked at being a chauffeur, but not wanting to embarrass Mother by refusing her friend a promised ride, helped the old woman into the front seat of his car, explained he'd be right back. The old woman shuffled in and sat comfortably while he went to escort Mother to the sidewalk and bring the car around. He rolled the windows down so she wouldn't suffocate in the car as she waited.

The old lady was still in the front seat, politely waiting. Paula and Grant helped my mother into the back seat. She is round as a strawberry barrel and weighs about as much. She is stiff with arthritis, but is determined to go. She grunts heavily as she sits, all smiles and gushing with delight at the thought of a car ride. Paula took the seat beside her. My mother, oblivious to the fourth person in the car, said "I want to go to the bank. Do you know how to get there?" Grant assured her that he did and the four of them set off.

It's a short ride made interminable by my mother who focused her entire attention on Paula, filling the silence with chatter about the "old people" known only by her who lived in her complex. As Grant later told the story, Mother continued roughshod over any interjections the old woman offered, not unusual as my mother will be heard, waving away any interruptions to her stories. Mother thought she was conversing with Paula the entire time. As they neared the shopping mall, the old woman said, "I want to go to the grocery store." Grant pulled into the Shaw's parking lot.

Mother in the backseat said, "Why are you here? I told you I wanted to go to the bank!" She was thoroughly miffed at his memory lapse. "The bank is not here!"

"I know, Mom," Grant says patiently. "Your friend wants to go to the grocery store. I thought I'd drop her off here, we'd go to the bank, and swing back and get her."

And that was the first moment Mother saw the old woman. She stared in amazement at the back of the woman's head until the old woman turned around. A staring contest ensured, broken by my mother. "Who the hell are you?" Mother fiercely inquired.

"I live in the same complex as you; I need to go to the grocery store."

Grant, alarmed, "You don't know this woman? She said she was a friend of yours."

"No, I don't know this old woman! She's just some crazy old bat getting in your car. She's an old fool!" (Pronounced Old Foo by my mother, the worst insult imaginable.) "What are you doing letting that Old Foo in your car? Why do you want to take her to the grocery store when I need to get to the bank!"

Quick glances were exchanged between Grant and Paula as their panic deepened. Now what? "We still have plenty of time to get to the bank." Looking at the now so-named Old Foo, "Look, we can't just leave you here. I'll take Mother to the bank and we'll come back and take you home, okay?"

It all worked out, of course. Mother was able to get to the bank on time, the old woman who wandered haplessly into their lives was delivered to her front doorstep. As Grant related the story to me in agonizing detail, I laughed and laughed. I laughed until I cried. It could only happen to him.

Several weeks later, I was uptown, coming out the RiteAid, of one of our little city's drugstores, a scruffy man, smelling of old cigarettes and sweat looked me up and down. He was leaning against the building, leg bent at the knee, foot pressed against the wall. I pretended not to see him. "Hey!" he yelled at me. I stopped, weighed the fight or flight response in me. "You going uptown? I need a ride."

I thought of Grant, smirked on the inside of myself. "No. Sorry. Going in the complete opposite direction."

Do Pets Have Souls?

2009-05-31T07:18:00.001-04:00

These are three of the five fur babies that we had. The one with his back to us is Longfellow, the black and white is Molly (Molli-licious!) and my orange tabby, Buster Crabbe.

It's Longfellow, my silky as ribbon, sweet-natured, form-fitting, Bengal, I wanted to post about; he was struck and killed by a passing motorist this past week.

This question has been asked many times before, and brilliant theologians who studied The Word and quote Scripture will unequivocally say no, only humans have souls.

But still I wonder. Our other cats bring in the occasional mouse or snake (EEKS!!). This past autumn I watched Longfellow sort through a pile of autumn leaves. He found one the one that he wanted and brought it into the house and presented his precious prize to me. And this winter he found a child's lost blue mitten and sat on the deck railing, holding the mitten in his mouth, amber eyes peering into the kitchen window,willing me to turn around and see him, waiting patiently to be let in. At night, he was my snuggle kitty. He would curl into a tight silken ball in the crook of my neck, singing his lullaby in deep contentment, velvet nose in my ear, body vibrating with his song, until we both fell asleep.

The last time I saw him, he was was leaping through one of my straggly flower beds, chasing a yellow butterfly, oblivious to the world around him, only knowing that the butterfly might be the finest treasure yet.

Suffer the Children; Send Them to Me

2009-05-24T19:38:00.000-04:00

Let me begin with a bit of a brag.

My youngest niece just graduated from college this past weekend with a double major, nutrition and communication. She worked full time and went to college full time the five years she attended school. She is the first student in four years from her college to be accepted in an dietary internship at a prestigious Boston hospital. Her long-term goal is to be a food writer! She confided to me that I inspired her when I used to let her help me in the kitchen and didn't get angry when she made a mess; instead we cleaned up and made it fun. Can you believe that? That has to be one of the top ten compliments I have ever received.

Earlier this year, my oldest niece received her masters in pharmaceutical research. While she was an undergraduate she won first place in a national science contest and later went on to win third place internationally. She was the first in the history of our family to acquire a four-year degree, but to obtain a Masters is downright unknown. Currently she's working on finding a cure for Alzheimer's disease.

These young women did not achieve such excellence by accident. They had a tremendous amount of love and encouragement and support from their both parents, even when their mom and dad were no longer married to each other. When the days seemed endless and their goals unattainable, my brother would say, "Look how far you've come and achieved so far! When you were in high school, did you ever envision you'd come as far as you have? You can do this! Concentrate on today and do well today, tomorrow will take care of itself. Get help if you need it and don't be embarrassed to ask for it. Don't feel bad about asking for help; feel good that you know that you need it and you get it."

I am so terribly proud of them. When they were still in high school, I asked them individually if they had a boyfriend. My oldest niece, Hilli (BeanBag) was clearly put out by the question. "Aunt Kathi," she sniffed with all the confidence and arrogance of a fully informed teenager, "there will be no time for boys. I will have my education and my career first and then there will be time for boys. Boys are a distraction; they keep you from achieving your goals!"

Laura, on the other hand, half-heartedly gave me the same statement; perhaps it was wisdom their parents had instilled in her and her sister and she was still attempting to adopt it as her own. I heard the pause. She leaned deep into me, peering seriously into my eyes, and said, "Aunt Kathi, can we talk about boys?"

****************

I have a former coworker whose daughter, Vicki, was dating a man who had sole custody of his young three children from a previous relationship. The children were beautiful, well mannered, and adoring of their dad and Vicki. They were the kind of little ones who would be welcomed anywhere. As time progressed and it seemed apparent that their adult relationship was leading toward commitment, I was happy for all as they looked like a loving family unit. Then one day my coworker, in describing the children, referred to them as 'pseudo grandchildren.' Then she went on to say how her daughter was looking forward to having her own children and being a 'real' mom. And she was looking forward to being a 'real' grandmother.

I could not contain the reverberation that shook within me. "I think your daughter has 'real' children to love and she is a 'real' mother to them."

My coworker scowled defensively. "It's just different to have your own, ones that you bore. They're yours. If you had children, you'd know what I mean."

Possession and ownership. Objects d' art. Mine, mine, mine. Yours. Mine.

Thank you, God, that I don't have children, for now I can love them all equally, without prejudice.

****************

A couple of weeks ago, my Sweetie-Pi and I were sitting at our kitchen table, eating a simple lunch. Earl looked past me and stared out the front window. "Somebody's sitting on our retaining wall," he said. "Probably just a hiker who needed to stop for a quick rest." We munched quietly and I forgot about the person on the retaining wall. "The person's still out there," he said.

I put my sandwich down. "I'll go see if they need help. If not, I'll scare them away. For all we know they could be plotting to steal our irises that we have planted," I teased. I found my shoes and walked down the grassy knoll that is our lawn. An ash-blonde head slightly turned to the sound of my footsteps, and I was surprised to see the profile of a young girl, around ten I guessed. "Hi, are you okay?"

A rapid nod of the head dissolved to a a slow shake. "No, not really," she mumbled into her chest.

"Are you hurt?" Alarm set in and I wished I had brought my cell phone so I could've called for an ambulance or the police.

"No." She looked up at me, golden eyes filled with an uncertainty beyond her years, and then back down at her bare dangling feet. She hugged herself against the cool spring air, goose pimples dotting her arms.

Silence as I thought about what to say next. "Are you running away from home?"

A noncommittal shrug. A tentative nod. "Sort of."

"Oh, I see. Well, that's a pretty big decision. Things must be pretty tough at home. Would you like me to sit with you for a while so you can talk about it?"

"If you want to." Her voice was whispery soft, the invitation hidden in her despair.

"I do." I came around and sat beside her and for the first time had a good look at her and she studied me out of the corner of her eye. She had a spray of freckles across the top of her cheekbones. Her long hair blew into her face, hiding her expression from me.

"So, do you want to tell me why you've decided to run away from home?"

"Because my mother yells at me. She's always yelling at me and I'm afraid of her."

My heart seized at the word 'afraid.' "Did she hurt you?"

Shrug. "No, she just yells all the time and swears at me and calls me names, hurts my feelings."

I could feel my jaw tighten and the words choking in my throat. "Well...I don't think it's right that a person gets yelled at or sworn or called names. That doesn't seem like the right thing to do. It would certainly hurt my feelings if someone treated me like that, too."

More silence as each weighed what to say. "She's not my real mother. She's my foster mother." She turned away from me, ashamed. "I can't live with my real mother right now." She slunk further into her humiliation. "I was on the trampoline and my foster brother bounced me off and I fell off and hit the ground. And then she came out and started yelling and swearing."

I asked this brave little girl what her name was, and she told me, Lena. "Lena, I have to be honest here; I'm at a loss for words. I never had my own children, so I don't know what to say, but I can speak from some life experience." I plucked a cream colored daffodil with a coral center from my border and gave it to her.

"Life is not fair. In just the little time I've spent with you, I can tell that you are good and bright and smart, and yet you are given a difficult life." Lena nodded. "I'm sure that your mother wishes that she could be with you and that you could be with her." More nods. "From the sounds of it, your mother made some poor decisions and choices that are keeping you apart." Unspilled tears and thin lips.

"I'm sorry that has happened, Lena, and I'm sorry that your difficult life is part of the consequence of someone else's actions. One of the things we have to learn as we are growing up is that life is full of choices. Do you go left or do you go right, do you pay attention in school, do you say no to the pressures of your friends who may be offering something that could hurt you or your future. Lena, some choices are hard and will require you to be very strong and sometimes if means you may be alone. What I have learned is that there are all kinds of prisons, Lena. There are ones that the courts put us in because we didn't obey the laws, and the ones that we put ourselves in, maybe because of our attitude and maybe because of our poor decisions. Right now you have a hard life, and being a "kid" (we both chuckled at that) means that your life is not really your own now and that you are largely dependent on the goodwill of others. But you do have a job and that job is to be the best kid possible, to get a good education, obey the law. Eventually, you will find a freedom that you never knew existed. Does that make sense to you?" Nod.

"The other thing I've learned as I've gotten older is that what we learn as children and the experiences we have make up part of who we are as adults. You have learned that you don't like yelling and swearing, right?"

"I hate it! When I am around little kids, I never swear and yell at them!! I never get mad at them. I want to hug them! When I grow up I want to work with kids."

"See, you have already learned something that will make you as wonderful an adult as you are as a young person now."

I was missing the mark, and I knew it. She did come to my retaining wall to hear this. "Lena, sometimes people yell at us because they were afraid for us, and that is how they express their fear, through anger. Anger may be the only emotion they are comfortable showing. Maybe she was never shown how not to be appear angry when she's really just concerned for you. Have you tried telling your foster mother that you are sorry for scaring her and upsetting her and that next time you'll be more careful?"

Lena smiled brightly as the idea grew in her mind. "No, I never have! I didn't even think of it!"

"Hmmmm. Well maybe it would be a good thing to say to her and see how it goes?" I smiled in self-admonishment. Forty-five minutes later I finally hit upon what she needed to hear from me. I talked too much; listened too little.

"Yes, I will do that!"

I noticed the goose pimples had multiplied on her arms. "Want a jacket?" She nodded yes. As it happened I had a zip-up, sweat shirt type jacket from my thinner years that I had just washed and was going to give away. It had been on a hook, hanging in front of a window in the back set of the car. When I handed it to Lena, it was still hot from sitting in the sun. She slipped it on, wrapped it tightly around her to absorbing all its warm. "You don't have to bring it back. It's yours."

"Thank you. This is nice!"

"All set to go home?"

"Yes, I am going home now." She picked up the daffodil that was bent from being twirled in her hands and looked down the street in the direction of her home with her "not real" mother. She set off; her bare feet crunched and swished the sand that had remained on the shoulders from last year's winter, the too cool spring breeze blowing the hair back from her face, her eyes ahead, full of resolve, not turning to wave good-bye. I watched until I could neither see nor hear her anymore.

Journey well, little Lena. Go build some mountains.

Perfect Clarity

2009-05-10T13:49:00.000-04:00

In putting these stories on the Internet I realize that I am also sharing with the unknown multitudes whose life experiences and learning are vastly different than mine, but that's okay. I hope that those who may come here will find something valuable that they can take with them.

So now the difficult part for me. I am keenly aware that my spiritual experiences that I share may sound fictional and dramatic. I can not tell you why they happened to me, I only know that they did. I know that I do not have them the same way anymore. I think it was the absolute childlike faith, the unquestioning belief, that made them possible.

My grandmother was devout. She read the Bible every day; she prayed every night. She didn't eat meat on Fridays; never went to church with her head uncovered. Many of the books that she gave me and read to me were children's Bible stories. She talked to me of God and Angels and Heaven. She was the one who taught me the prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep...."

When I was old enough, I was allowed to stay overnight and some weekends with my grandparents. On warm summer days Gram and I would lie on a blanket on the grassy knoll at the back of her tiny two-room house. Grasshoppers and crickets would leap on us; bees buzzed about the Indian paint brushes, wild daisies and brown-eyed Susans. We would look up at the blue sky and white fluffy clouds and see if we could see Heaven beyond the clouds, because that's where Heaven is. At home my mother was silent with her own sadness; my father bellowed his anger at everything. My grandmother was the only one who talked to me.

One summer day, a neighbor of my parents, Mrs. McLaughlin dropped by invited my mother and us kids to join her and her children at a local beach. My mother cannot swim but she craved the companionship of other women and to leave a forlorn house. She eagerly accepted, packing up a quick picnic and me and my younger brother.

I remember my mother wearing a two piece polka dot swimming suit. It looked like the package of Wonder Bread, white with yellow, red and blue polka dots. I loved it. I thought she looked beautiful in it, and she looked so happy talking with Mrs. McLaughlin, thoroughly engaged in her conversation.

I wandered away, at first only wading in the cool water. I wiggled and dug my toes in the cold wet sand. I could see other children and adults swimming. I could see my mother, face turned away from me, head thrown back in laughter.

I waded deeper. The water was soft, beckoning, inviting me to chase it. A ribbon of water rippled past me and I could not resist and I followed. Water rushed into my ears, filling my head with its roaring. I opened my mouth but I could not scream. I looked up through the water, and the sun and sky waved and danced, but could not claw to the top. The light dazzled and fragmented all around me. Bubbles burst. I looked through the water and saw myself floating and struggling for the surface. I was wearing a blue bathing suit.

How could this be, I wondered? How could I see myself struggling to find the surface? I looked towards the beach where my mother sat, hugging her knees to her. The air was crystal clear and pure, the day shone brighter than it ever had, I did not need air to breath, but I was alive and had knowledge of my surroundings and the people there. My visual perception was so sharp it almost hurt to look; I could see my mother. I could hear her words. It was as if I were standing beside her only I was midair, floating, looking down and out, unafraid, curious. Perfect clarify of vision and hearing but not understanding.

A shout. I saw Mrs. McLaughlin spring into the water. Blackness. I was on the beach. Mrs. McLaughlin gave me mouth-to-mouth until I was awake, dazed, but still not afraid.

I cannot remember my mother's exact words to Mrs McLaughlin, but she laughed and thanked her for jumping in to get me. She seemed untroubled by the incident, more disturbed by the commotion I caused, and returned to her conversation.

I went back to the water's edge and waded some more. The water warm and inviting, but this time I did not listen to its lulling song.

Mrs. McLaughlin never invited us again to join her at the beach.

*********

Many years later, my husband of barely ten years, lay in bed, paralyzed from the neck down from a freak accident in the home. Tubes were running everywhere, machines were tracking all his impulses. He was dying. We were both fighting it.

Dr. Choi patted my shoulder. "Mrs. Shields, your husband is brain dead. It's only the machines that give the illusion of life. If I turn them off, he will stop breathing." In demonstration, he turned them off, the chest rises and falls stopped; I gasped in horror and abject denial, and the machines were turned back on. "You must think about removing the machines."

I could not think! I would not think. Only days ago we clung to ever fading hope, we held hands, and I made every promise to God that I could think of. "Take me," I begged in prayer.

Daniel awoke, saw me, smiled. "You are my favorite wife, " he mouthed over the respirator tubes. I was is third wife.

"You're my favorite husband," I quipped, having been only married to him.

He smiled wearily; blue eyes flickered, lids heavy with the effects of drugs. "I want you to know that life with you was never boring. Even being mad at you was never boring."

"Me, too. I was never bored either."

"I want you to get married again."

"No," I said too firmly. "I will not marry again after you."

He looked sad. "Was it that bad? Being married to me?" A long gasp of air.

I clutched his hand in panic. "No, I only wanted to be married once in this life, and I married you. There will not be any others."

He closed his eyes, as if in thought. "I hope you change your mind. You should not be alone."

Alone I made the decision to turn off the respirators. Alone I accepted the responsibility for never seeing him breath again. Alone the hope was extinguished.

My mother went with me that last night. The doctors felt I should have someone with me as I sat and waited and watched and held to desperate, desperate hope. My mother was silent with me, speaking only to the medical staff as they drifted in and out, She reported my emotional status, "She's doing fine." "She's holding up." Then more silence as she sat.

I recalled that moment on the beach when I was a mere child filled with faith. I knew what awaited him: perfect clarity, vision, understanding where the skies were bluer and the sun shone brighter and the clouds were whiter; he would float, like a feather in the breeze, the quadriplegia only a memory.

I knew all these things, and I still wished he were with me.

I have a distinct recollection of being only thought, no form. I wonder if this is what the new age folks mean when they say we are a perfect thought in Divine Mind.

Flying

2009-05-06T19:06:00.001-04:00

When I was around five years old, my sainted grandmother gave me a Golden Book that was about Icarus, the god who tried to fly to the sun with waxed wings. Being a kind of know-it-all, he didn't listen about flying too close to the sun and he subsequently crashed to earth.

I became obsessed with that story. (Can a five-year-old be obsessed?) I thought about flying. I just had to. I would fly with waxed wings, just not too close to the sun. It was so simple. Why wasn't everyone flying? All I needed were some waxed wings. Hmmm... I studied the drawings in the book. And suddenly I had a plan.

My father was in the process of building a stick home and I had hung around him and watched with rapt interest. When he feeling generous, he'd let me pound nails into bits of scrap wood. If I pestered him enough he'd give the occasional approving nod and I'd happily go about pounding more nails.

With the model of Icarus's wings in my mind, I dragged out sawhorses, hammer, and nails. Using leftover wooden slats I nailed together two triangular frames. I stood back to survey my progress. The ends were cross-hatched; the triangles misshapen. I wrinkled my nose in distaste, then decided: irrelevant detail. What really mattered was the lace and wax.

My mother had an old rags bag, and in the bottom of it I remembered there were old lace curtains. Mother was napping on the couch and I stealthily crept past her into her bedroom. The bag was thrown carelessly in a corner and I opened it. I plowed through her fabric odds and ends and found the curtains, held them up. Perfect!

Next the wax. I climbed a chair and got into the top cabinet to retrieve a box of paraffin wax she used to make jellies. I found her big jelly pot, put it on the burner, turned the gas on low so that the wax could slowly melt, (just as I had seen her do) and then stuffed the curtains into the pot to saturate them. Everything was going just as I imagined. Mother still soundly napped.

I took the hot pot of wax and curtains outside. The wax burned my fingers and I had to blow on them to cool them, but I didn't care. I was so close. Carefully, I stretched and nailed the curtains onto the wooden frames. I stood back and surveyed my wings. The curtains were too long and too wide for the frame, hanging sloppily over the sides. Now that wouldn't do.

Once again, I had to sneak past my sleeping mother. Her sewing and button box, an old cookie tin, was on the floor beside her. I pried the cover off with my short fat fingers, and found her pinking scissors. Ha! I took them outside and hacked away at the offending lace overhang. Better, but not perfect. A shrug. What really mattered was the middle part of the frame, where the lace was taut, stiffened with wax, ready for flight. The scissors, no longer needed, were left on the sawhorses, their blades open.

I carried one wing under each armpit, tripping, trudging, stumbling to what seemed like a huge cliff that I had found one day while wandering in our woods. I looked down; it seemed like such a looong way down, but the blue sky was such a loooong way up!! And up was the direction I wanted.

I clumsily raised my wings to the sky. I imagined the the sensation of flight and I felt my spirit rise to the clouds above. Yes! Fearlessly I jumped. With wild determination I flapped my lacy wings. I felt the air, I felt the sun on my face, I felt elated.

I hung in midair for a moment, felt the pull of gravity and the sting of surprise. The wings must have been on a downward flap; they now were like crutches under my arms as I teetered precariously before being unceremoniously dumped to my feet. This wasn't supposed to happen! I tried again. I was grounded. The wings broke at their joints; the ragged lace held the misshapen and twisted frame.

I am not a quitter. I continued to dream of flying. Perhaps it was the wings; maybe I just needed to flap my arms, the way birds flapped their wings! I jumped off the roof of my grandmother's garage. I jumped from the roof of my father's Ford. I jumped from stairs from the porch stairs. Grounded. Always grounded.

So maybe the waxed wings and bare arms weren't a good idea. However, since then, I have seen a most fascinating contraption. It's a bicycle with wings and propellers. Now if I could only just peddle fast enough I know I could fly.

I just won't fly too close to the sun.

A Mother's Day Story

2009-04-27T18:59:00.000-04:00

The essence of this story is absolutely true; it's just the finer details that have faded. I suppose I could ask my brother, Grant. He would know for sure as he was intimately involved, but he, like the rest of us, would embroider or diminish certain details, depending on whim, memory, and what he wished were true. And so, family legends are created, and this is one of ours.

My mother had a difficult time conceiving, enduring several miscarriages until I came along, then my sister, Janet, a couple of years later, (with two other miscarriages in between) and then three brothers in two years.

When I was five, my sister died. She was only three years old. Equine encephalitis, the doctors pronounced; a virus carried by a mosquito, probably from an infected horse. I've wondered, in the entire world, how did that one mosquito choose my sister, traveling however far, to infect her, and kill her.

Months later, baby Gene was born. He died at six months of age, from an adverse reaction to the polio vaccine, said my mother (another family legend, I am lead to believe). His death certificate said pneumonia. My mother said no, it was an adverse reaction to the polio vaccine. She knew in her heart, and we didn't question her knowledge. The three of us who remained did not finish the series of shots and we survived. That was her proof.

The family was in a long period of mourning, losing two children so close together. My father handled crisis the way he always did; he drank until he ran out of money. My mother, in retrospect, was, understandably, depressed, emotionally unreachable, somnolent, wordless.

It was my grandmother who bought the matching headstones for the babies. Two white lambs, in repose, fluffy white fleece carved into white stone. She said they were Lambs of Jesus. They had sweet faces, with soulful eyes, watchful and waiting. Little brass plates were embedded into their chests, the names of the babies they safeguarded and the dates of their too short lives engraved in simple print.

So years passed, and each year, my mother and grandmother would go to uptown to Woolworth's to buy plastic flowers to lay on their graves for Memorial Day. More years passed; my mother moved out of state and mailed money to my brother so he could do it for her as she was no longer able to make the long drive north.

As sometimes happens, good intentions and heartfelt promises are not kept, and plastic wreaths with bright grosgrain ribbons never found their way to the babies' graves.

One day, a neighbor knocked at my brother's door. "Hey, Grant, I've got something to tell you. I was up to the cemetery and I saw that those two lambs that belong to your family aren't there. You know how you can't miss them, they're being right as you come in and all. Practically the first thing that you see, and they're so unusual that you kind of look for them if you been to the cemetery before. Did you take them to get them cleaned or repaired or something?"

Stunned, murderous outrage swelled in his chest. "Are you sure? They should be right there! They've been there for nearly thirty years; nobody in the family has moved them! Maybe the groundskeeper moved them for mowing." The smoke spun off his tires as he sped down the road to investigate for himself.

He drove up the grassy lane, pulled up beside the family plot. Where two lambs should have been were two deep rectangular imprints in the earth. He called the groundskeeper; no he didn't move them. Noticed they were missing and figured maybe Grant had taken them for repairs. He calls me next, fury choking his every word, tinged with guilt for not having visited the graves. I share his guilt and wrath; we commiserate and rale. We vow vengeance.

We made a pact: Don't tell Mom. She had endured a lifetime of sadness and loss; we would protect her. We would replace the stones quietly and harbor our bitter fury. Days pass, there is no way to determine when the stones were taken or who would've done such a thing. Everyone he speaks with says the same thing, they remember the lambs, noticed they had been missing for a while, thought maybe they were being repaired, never thought to mention it.

Grant was driving home on his little country road and a force drew his gaze to his next door neighbor's flower garden. Nestled deep in the flowers were two white lambs in repose, serenely waiting and watchful. He punched the brake with his foot; his tires bit deep into the dirt road as the car stopped. In almost a seamless move, he put the car into reverse, backed into their driveway, and strode over to the lambs.

There was no mistaking them. The brass plates had been removed but these were the babies' lambs. He knocked furiously on the door. No answer.

He called me from home, and his fire fanned my own flames. He wanted to do bodily harm, but in a moment of reason, I convince him to call the local constable. Justice will be served without either one of us going to jail, I assure him. It would not come fast or severe enough for us we agreed.

Yes, the constable was very familiar with the lambs (didn't everyone?) He would make his own trip to the cemetery to verify they are missing. The waiting is interminable. He returns, grim, to make an official visit next door, but does not go alone. Grant is there, like hot granite; heat waves emanating from him. He does not feel as neighborly.

The neighbor is surprised, dismayed, horrified, devastated.

Several months ago, he had bought the two lambs at a yard sale some 30 miles away, someplace in Aetna, he thought. He had seen an ad in the paper for a yard sale, couldn't remember the address. The guy had a bunch of stuff, but when he saw the lambs he had to have them. He thought they were lawn ornaments.

Yes, he had seen the indentations where the name plaques would've been, couldn't figure out what the indentations were for, and didn't think anything further about it. He just knew they'd look nice in his flower garden at the front of his house.

Grant found the grace to concede that the lambs did look nice among all the flowers but they belonged somewhere else. The neighbor, now edgy with the thought of headstones in his flower garden, could not return them fast enough.

So Grant took them home, had new brass name plates attached, cemented the stones on a foundation. And they lay in sweet repose over their babies, watchful and waiting for Jesus.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. He called me to say that he had just returned the stones and they looked better than ever because he had them cleaned' the white fleece was whiter and the brass plates were shiny new.

We were silent for a moment, reflecting on the journey those lambs had taken and how they were miraculously returned to us.

"Hey," I said, "Guess what. Today's Mother's Day."

Inch By Inch

2009-04-17T20:37:00.000-04:00

Back in the day, I worked in a regional billing office for a national insurance company. There were six of us on the phone, each of us taking in about 200 phone calls a day from clients who had questions regarding their bills. I don't think I need to tell you, but I'm going to say it anyway, they weren't calling us to give thanks for sending them a bill or a cancellation notice. We had to develop a thick skin to deflect all the threats and verbal abuse and still deliver civil service.

We heard all the excuses: my dog ate the bill (probably the same dog that ate their kid's homework), they moved, they divorced and their ex-spouse is throwing away all their mail, the garbage disposal ate it (for those folks who couldn't have a dog), the mailman doesn't like them and refuses to deliver. And the winning excuse was the woman who said she was in Boston, nightclubbing, when she was accosted, beaten, and raped, her handbag stolen, which had her bill in it. Now the women in the office rallied for her and gave her an extension on her bill, and just as the phone was being hung up, she was heard laughing to her coworkers about what an actress she was. She was immediately called back. Can you say canceled?

We became hardened and cynical and, shamefully, vainglorious. We'd swap stories about the calls we received and laugh and coach each other on how to handle the tough customers.

But they weren't all tough.

One morning, a woman called, cancellation of her auto insurance to be effective in 28 days. She was a Boston resident, and her annual premiums were probably three times greater than her suburban peers. But hey, that's the price for living In Town, right? You choose to live there, you choose to pay the price. That's was the rhetoric we were taught to speak.

She was soft-spoken; fatigue weighed down her words. She wasn't calling to dump blame on us; she wasn't looking for sympathy; she was calling us to find a solution. She needed her car, she needed to work because she needed to eat and a place to live. But the minimum amount required would take an entire paycheck. Could I do take less and let her keep her insurance.

By this time we, collectively, had taken a hard line about accepting less than the minimum and giving extensions. I explained company policy. She sighed, defeated.

A moment of inspiration stuck me. "You could pay week by week, though, if you wanted. Just take the $300 and divide it into four equal payments. As long as we get the full amount before the due date, you'll be all set."

"Really? I can do that?" Her voice lilted. "I can do that! That's like what my mama taught me: inch by inch, it's a cinch. yard by yard, it's hard. I'll see you money every week"

I don't remember that lady's name. I don't remember if she made her weekly payments and kept her policy in force. I do remember the bit of wisdom that she left me with and have applied it to my life.

Just this week, I decided to do some yard work. It's become a big project but I am determined. I'm older and my body rebels. The arthritis acts up and my back aches; I move slower. I have become my mother. Aspirin is my bedside companion. Ole Sweetie-Pi watched me haul out the rake and the brush clippers and the shovel. "Whatcha going to do?" he asks.

"Yard work," I say, as if it weren't obvious to him.

"Too much for you to do. We should hire someone."

"I'm going to work half an hour a day on it," I say.

"That won't amount to much, half an hour. You'll be wasting your time. Let's hire someone to do it."

I agree with him. "Okay, good idea. Let's hire someone." In the meantime, while Ole Sweetie-Pi is researching to find the ideal worker, I plug away in the yard 30 minutes a day. Today, the sun was hot and I was sweaty. My arms and back were screaming in discomfort. I stood up as straight as I could and admired the difference my collective efforts has made.

Inch by inch.

Biddy Bea Finds a Patch of Sun

2009-04-09T18:02:00.000-04:00

Our female tabby, Biddy Bea, finds a patch of sun midst last autumn's overgrown grass and fallen golden rods.

Parting Thoughts

2009-04-02T17:35:00.001-04:00

My youngest brother dated a young woman who was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I never had the privilege to meet her, (and I do not even recall her name) but my brother was quite smitten with her and wanted to continue their relationship even after she discovered her illness.

For reasons of her own, however, she chose to end the relationship (I believe it was to spare my brother the pain of watching her die and then the pain of her death). Also, she still had hopes and dreams and things to do and she was determined to set about doing them. She said she had spoken to her grandmother and asked her what wisdom she could give her that she might use. And her grandmother said, "Make wonderful memories. When you are alone and tired, you will find happiness in remembering the memories you've made. In the end, that is all there is...the memories."

I used to date a man named Conrad. His life-long best friend was Gerry. Gerry was an odd little man, small, gaunt, wizened. He liked to smoke; he smoked a lot. He liked to drink; he drank a lot. He had never married, (never had a girlfriend to my knowledge). He ate pizza and submarine sandwiches ordered from the same shop virtually every day of his life. Conrad intervened in his friend's behalf, got Gerry into a rehab center, got him dried out. So Gerry got sober, stayed sober, but he still smoked.

Conrad and I had gone our separate ways; I hadn't seen him in about two years when I received an unexpected call about Gerry. Gerry had lung cancer and it had metastasized to his brain. Death was imminent. Could I please come and see Gerry (as Gerry had no friends outside of Conrad, and very little family). Of course, I would.

Once we arrived at the nursing home, Conrad was called away by medical staff, leaving me and Gerry alone. Gerry's eyes were sunken deep into his skull, but he still managed a grateful smile when he recognized me. He flipped his hand towards me and I reached over and held it.

"I'm afraid of dying," he whispered. "Don't tell Connie. It would upset him." I nodded. "He's been the best friend a person could ever have. We've been friends since we were little kids. Our mothers used to bath us in the sink together." He smiled, laughed at the memory, coughed. Again I nodded, tears swelling to the rim of my eyes. "Did you know I used to drink a lot?" Again the nod. "Connie got me sobered up. Took me to New Haven, came to see me every day, took care of everything. He even got me a second job, you know, so that I'd have something to do at night." His blue eyes, fogged with pain, looked into mine, suddenly looked sharp and bright. "Know what I think?" I shook my head, no. "I think I should've stayed drunk."

Love Is Kind

2009-03-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

One of the most handsome young men I've ever met in real life is my friend, Mao. Tall, dark, curly black hair, black eyes that sparkle like jet, and a smile that just holds you captive. He dances like a wild man and is not embarrassed to sing off key. He opens doors for me, shares his food with me, holds an umbrella over my head as we walk in the rain, gallantly escorts me to my car in the dark. I want him for my son. He is so full of energy I tell him he is the five children I never had. He smiles when I say this. "Kah-thee, I already have a moth-ther," he says in his Colombian accent. "I call her everyday because I love her and miss her so much."

"You call your mother in Colombia everyday?" "Yes," he said.

See what I mean? I want him for my son.

I met Mao in the workplace; he asked me for a ride home one night. We lived on the same street; I knew where he lived. He didn't look like a mass murderer, a rapist or someone who would clunk me on the head to steal my handbag. I said sure, and from that we were friends.

We were an odd pair, he's 20 years younger than I. I'm a dyed in the wool Yankee, raised Protestant, now more of a free-thinker; he's Colombian, Catholic, studied in a seminary for the priesthood. He doesn't like apple pie or peanut butter, thinks the Easter bunny is the work of the devil himself. I eat way too much apple pie and peanut butter. I understand there was no bunny and brightly colored eggs in the Resurrection and that it is a pagan symbol of fertility (and birth/rebirth connection), but I just can't get all fired up over it the way he does. Perhaps I should, but I don't. He was very stubborn; he did not come to my house for Easter even though there are no bunnies here; he did not accept any food I sent him. He called his mother where there are no Easter bunnies and brightly colored eggs. He is lonely, but he will not change his mind.

Mao was very protective of me (He said Colombian men were that way towards their women. I wasn't "his woman" but I was his "woman friend", which translated to the same thing in his mind.) As we became closer friends, Mao was concerned that "I did not have a man in my life." "Kah-thee," he intoned seriously, chiding sweetly, "You need a man. You need someone to take care of you. I will teach you how to get a man."

I assured him that I did not need a man that I chose not to have one right then. I had been married and widowed, been in love a couple of times since then. I was pretty sure that I knew "how to get a man." But he crossed his arms in front of him, stony and implacable. He was a Colombian man; he knew what was best for me. So, after much cajoling and a few cross words about who knew best what was best for me, he convinced me to go with him to a local lounge to scout out the prospects.

There weren't any that Mao approved of. What a surprise.

We sat, enjoying the band. He drank Sam Adams beers and I had a Coke and we were silent for a while, lost in our own reverie. I felt his eyes on me, and I turned to look at him. He was pondering a question in his mind. I tilted my head in question, raised my eyebrows, a sign I guess that my mind was open to his thoughts.

He leaned towards me and said, "Can you keep a secret?"

"It depends," I said. "How delicious is it?" when he did not fully smile, I said, "If it's important to you and it's not illegal, sure, I can keep a secret."

He drew a deep breath and when he spoke his breath rushed past my cheeks. "I'm gay."

I don't know what he expected from me. I was surprised; women of all ages were mad for him. They befriended me to get closer to him; they practically tripped over me to get his attention. He was charming, polite, attentive. I'd stand back to watch the show, and when he'd had enough, he'd give me the eye that said, "Save me," and I'd scoop him up and off we'd go. I was curious why he didn't have a girlfriend, but unlike him, I did not offer to "show him how to get a woman." He seemed to have that all figured out. I just thought he hadn't found the right woman and wondered what she would be like when he found her.

Mao was peering steadily into my face, trying to read the slightest impression. I shrugged. "So? I'm not." I could see the relief flood through him. His shoulders relaxed, he smiled so broadly that he had to pinch his eyes to make room for it.

"Does your mother know?" I ask.

"Yes, I told her. It was very hard. I didn't know how she was going to take it." He settled back into his seat. "You remember I was in the seminary?"

"Yes."

"When I was there, I realized that I liked men more than just as friends. I prayed to change. I was afraid of losing God, but I knew if I loved men, that it was blasphemy to stay in the Church. I am a gay man, but I am the straightest gay man you'll ever meet," he said defiantly, proudly. "It was a terrible time for me. Finally, I knew that I could not change the way that I felt, so I left. And when I left, I felt that I had left God and that He had left me."

He folded his hands on the table and leaned towards me. "When I had to tell my mother, I went home to tell her, face to face. I needed to see her. I asked her to sit down because I had something important to tell her." Mao gave me one of his huge smiles. "She was so worried. I had thought out what I was going to say. I just came out and told her that I was gay. Before she could become upset, I told her that I was not like the gay man who would sneak into her bedroom and wear her high heeled shoes or her lipstick. Those men are not gay. I told her that I did not fall in love with little children. Those men are not gay. I told her that I would not be getting tattoos, wearing leather vests and pants and chains around my neck. Those men might be gay," he laughed, "but they have poor fashion sense."

"Kah-thee, I was so afraid. I was afraid that my mother would hate me and never want to see me again. If that happened, I didn't know what I would do."

I waited for him to go on. "She cried a little, she was disappointed. She said this is not the life she had wished for me. She had wished for grandchildren (but now would have to rely on his brother for grandbabies). But she said she loved me and always would. She said her greatest wish for me was love and happiness." Mao stopped, throat tight with emotion. "Do you know what I realized? I felt something I had never felt before. It was like someone opened a door and let the sun in. That, even in spite of being gay, if my earthly mother could love me, then how could God, my Heavenly Father, love me any less."

There is not a lot to offer in my little city. We have two grocery stores, Wal-Mart and a K-Mart. Mao needed more opportunities, cultural events, brighter lights. He came by the house for the last time, and we hugged and kissed each other on the cheek.

"Kah-thee," he said to me, one arm slung tightly across my shoulders, hugging me close to him as we walked to his car. "You are the woman I love the most on this earth, next to my moth-ther."

Love is Ever Enduring

2009-03-24T16:15:00.000-04:00

I saw my father slap my grandmother's face.

Just like that, he leapt out of his chair and he slapped her sharply across the left cheek because she had contradicted him.

She stood in the middle of our kitchen, stunned, hurt, humiliated. Her cheek streaked with red where his hand left an imprint. Her huge hazel eyes filled with tears and she bit her lips back, but she did not cry.

Still not satisfied, my father, screeched, "You're nothing but a whore!"

I was old enough to know what that obscenity meant, and I could see my beloved grandmother inwardly crumble. I rushed to her side, with unbound fury, and began pummeling impotently at my father. He laughed and knocked me away.

Gram, now alarmed for me, cried softly, "It's okay. He's right. I am a whore," and then the tears slid down her face.

Every family has secrets, some deeper and darker than others. Whenever my parents celebrated their wedding anniversary, I'd ask my grandmother why she never celebrated hers and granddad's. sometimes I'd ask why she didn't have any more children, only my father. She would just hug me and say, "Oh, I've been married so long, I don't remember the day we got married." And when I persisted about why she didn't have more children, she would be silent for a while, trying to find a place to hide her sadness, I think, and she'd say, "Because God didn't want me to." My grandmother had talked to me about God, a lot, and I knew He was no one to mess with. So if He said no, that meant NO.

I was a teenager when she felt I was old enough to understand. By today's moral standards, her story would raise very few eyebrows or set tongues to wagging. But she was born over a hundred years ago, when moral and social codes were strict and unforgiving. You married someone of your own faith, someone of your own ethnic background, and you had children after marriage.

She did none of those. My half-English, half-Irish Catholic grandmother fell in love with a Protestant Frenchman. She became pregnant without the benefit of marriage. She gave birth without the benefit of marriage (my grandfather's divorce was not yet final). She was disowned by her father, lost the comfort of her family, gave up the solace of her church, because she loved my grandfather and wanted his child.

Nearly, ten years later, my grandfather was taking a train to St. Johnsbury, Vermont. As circumstance would have it, his first wife was also a passenger, and they talked for a while, reminiscing about old times, good and bad. That brief encounter irrevocably created a chain reaction that rippled through generations: she had lied about their divorce being finalized.

You can imagine what ensured after that. The Secret was well guarded. That is, until my father went to join the Army at age 16 (to go to Korea) and he needed his birth certificate. He was standing in line to sign up with a bunch of other guys, when the recruiting officer pointed out that his mother's and father's names were different. Abject humiliation transformed into burning anger and seared deep into his soul. He learned unforgiveness.

From that moment on, he never forgave his mother for being an unwed mother. Never. He used it as a weapon at every turn. He used it as an excuse for all his failures and sour luck. He used it as a reason to despise all women. He wore his anger like a mantle, and his mantra became "I'm a bastard and the son of a bitch." His father, rancorous about his own soured life, did not dissuade him.

At his grave, an off key, off beat bugler played taps. A handful of mourners regarded his death as symbol of their own finiteness and unfulfilled lives. Grief was for potential unclaimed, for pride that did not allow love. He would not be missed.

I heard solitary muffled sobs and turned to see who would cry for a man who was so ill-regarded. His mother, my grandmother, cheeks flushed red and huge hazel eyes filled with tears, was weeping for the son she loved.

Raising My Standards

2009-03-14T07:18:00.000-04:00

My father was an abusive alcoholic. Everyone learned to hide, say nothing, do nothing that might incite his wrath or attention. No matter what he said, we did not disagree; no matter what he threw at us, we endured. Defiance was painful. At 18, I couldn't want to leave home, but I took these lessons with me.

What I learned served me well, I thought, that is, until I met someone who coveted my job. I thought it only happened in movies that someone could systematically and deliberately destroy another person's career. I did not refute her outrageous statements, I didn't call into question the private meetings and whispers. I believed that my character and intregrity preceded me, that those who knew me would disdain any lies. I continued to do my job the way I always did -- to the best of my ability in the best interests of the company that employed me. What more could they want? Indeed. Humph! In deed, everyone received what they earned.

Experience can be a hard teacher. Sometimes you must stand up for yourself. Silence is regarded as acquiescence. Relationships are neither advanced nor elevated by silence if one is hurt. In essence, I held the door open and invited her in to treat me so shoddily and shabbily. By the time I stood up for myself, it was too late. A new belief system was firmly ensconced and she had my job.

Balance~it's all about balance. Knowing which battles to fight. Can this incident affect my reputation or is the person having a bad day and being a jerk? Will it all be forgotten in a day or two? Or is this incident, however minor on the surface, in the context of an entire relationship, one that needs to be addressed?

It's my observation that when you think you've learned a life lesson, similar incidents arise to test your knowledge. Do you really get it? Or do we need to do this again so that you do?

As it happened. a situation presented itself in another workplace where. I was ready. Based on my prior experience, I felt I must stand my ground. I believed my integrity was being maligned, my intelligence questioned, my willingness to adhere to company policy called into question. It's not easy for me to stand up for myself; I'd rather take on someone else's cause, but I learned not to revert back to my childhood practice of hiding.

I'm not going to bore you with she said/I said/third-party-said seesaw. The details are irrelevant and tiresome. What is relevant is that a person in a position of authority over me called me on the carpet because I was brazen enough to want to understand the intent of the communication sent to me by another person.

The written word is powerful (think contracts, for example). I take written business communication seriously, and if it's about me, well, let's say I take it very seriously. My meeting culminated with my boss saying, "Your standards are too high. You need to lower them. People are never going to meet your high expectations and they will disappoint you. Look and see who and where this is coming from. Take it at face value."

Lower my standards? And do what? Dye my hair blue, wear a backless dress with a bra, don't cross my legs when I sit,chew gum and blow bubbles? Okay. Wait a minute. I didn't actually say those words. However, they were in a huge conversation cloud over my head. (Unfortunately, when I become emotionally involved, rational thinking flies out the window. Try not to do that. You'll lose ground and credibility and any meaningful conversation ceases). Regardless, I'm sure my body language conveyed my repressed thoughts. (Hanging head here.)

The story ends happily. I received a written communication again from the same person, with content and wording similar to the first. And then I got it. I understood perfectly the intent. The writer is a chapter and verse person, quoting line for line from The Policy Manual (imagine deep, echoing voice here). That is her method of communication. No fluff, just fact. Not a lot of tact, just fact. No soft and warm offers of help, and assurances that everyone makes mistakes, that you're forgiven, just the facts' you figure out how to implement them accordingly.

I'm inclined to be nebulous, wandering all over creation, back and forth between the left and right globes of my brain, before my point is made. Having facts, figures, rigid rules and unforgiving expectations thrown at me made me regress to my child's mind--I felt threatened, angry, defensive. As an adult I learned to stand up for myself. But it's someone who's grown UP (up meaning up to our Creator) who can listen with their heart to hear what the other person is saying.

Got it. I'm not lowering my standards. I'm raising them. I'm working on listening with my heart. Speak gently. It's new territory for both of us.

Mollie Looks for Spring

2009-03-12T17:00:00.000-04:00

Mollie is still too young to go outside. But there is nothing to say she can't sit in the window sill and dream.

My Work Is My Missionary

2009-03-12T16:26:00.001-04:00

When I lived in Massachusetts, Thursday nights (or was it Wednesday? I don't remember!) were special; I used to get together with two other couples for an evening of pizza, Friends, Seinfield and Kramer. We'd all sit around, laughing and recalling the week's events, the good and the bad, offering encouragement and support, and sometimes a little wisdom.

One of the couples, Dennis and Linda, was very active in their church, and they'd warm to their stories of their church's activities and their participation. One night I asked Dennis, "You love the church so much, why aren't you a missionary? It would just seem such a natural path. Or is it because you met Linda and she changed all that?" I teased.

He laughed his easy, soft laugh. "Well, Linda did change my life that's for sure." He grinned,looked shyly at her, making her smile back at him. "My work is my missionary. I get to be outside everyday,enjoy nature, talk to people. Many of my customers are friends." he explained simply. "Some may see me as just a postal carrier, but everyday I meet someone who needs a kind word or a helping hand. I know it's not showy like working for the Peace Corp or being a missionary saving souls in a third world country. But you know what? I can't tell you how many times Ive been told that I'm the only person who has acknowledged them. In my own way, I make a difference."

The other day, I was speed walking down the hallways of the office where I work, feeling as though I was running late after stepping out to purchase a cola. After weighing the pros and cons of elevator versus stairway, I chose the elevator. At the same time a young mother with two little boys boarded the elevator with me. I pushed Level 2, turned and asked her where she was going. "One," she said, "we're headed out." I nodded, smiled politely, pushed one. And as people in elevators often do, I pretended to ignore the other passengers; after all it's only polite, right?

The young mother blurted out, "Can I ask you for a favor? Can you go to the first floor with me? I have claustrophobia and I hate elevators. It would help me if you went with me." Her two little boys were oblivious to their mother's anxiety as they raced about in tight circles around her, but I saw her green eyes open as the doors closed and the elevator shrugged downward.

Truthfully, my first reaction was to be a little peeved; I was in a hurry for heaven's sake! Her eyes did not leave mine and I felt small and petty. "Sure," I said. "Be glad to."

Her face was awash with relief and her mouth relaxed into a small smile. I studied her for a moment, weighing what I wanted to say. "You know what I read one time? That sometimes when people have a fear of closed-in places, it's because of a birth trauma memory. Your subconscious mind remembers and your adult conscious mind translates it to fear of enclosed spaces."

She gave such a knee jerk reaction that she started us both. "Yes!" she said.

I breathed deeply and released my breath, and unknowingly she did the same. "Feel better, freer?" I asked her.

Her eyes shone bright with gratitude and new understanding. She grabbed her sons' hands. "Yes, I do! Thank you so much." The elevator doors opened, and she and her sons stepped out. She looked back at me one more time, and whispered, "Thank you again."

The doors closed, I pressed the button for the second level again. That small exchange maybe only took 45 seconds out of my workday, but they are moments that will stay with me for a long, long time.

The workplace as a missionary. Wow.

Snow

2009-03-12T16:12:00.000-04:00

I look out my window this morning. Snow dances to its own etheral music. Soft, white, cold, beautiful, gliding, sashaying. I strain to hear it flit and fall and hit the earth. I hear...silence.

Buster Crabbe, My Blogging Buddy

2009-03-11T16:14:00.000-04:00

This is Buster Crabbe, one of my five blogging buddies. Buster often sits behind me, peering over my right shoulder, making sure I'm not goofing off and thereby assuring a steady flow of treats and affection.

Words Matter

2009-03-10T16:18:00.000-04:00

I love words. I love reading them, I love writing them, I love speaking them. They inspire, belittle; heal, wound. Yet almost everyday I hear someone say, "It's just words. They don't matter.

"What if someone said, "Being of sound mind I bequeath..." "With this ring..." "And the winner is..." Or what if they said, "I want a divorce!" "I don't know how to break this to you..." "You only have months to live..." All of a sudden words take on a whole new meaning and significance. I was in my 30's when I first learned this. It was a fleeting exchange but one that changed my life irrevocably and became a life lesson that I've practiced.

I worked for a particular life insurance company in the Boston, Massachusetts, area. Management positions were male dominated; women were clerks or administrative assistants. We were also supposed to be pretty and ladylike and almost subservient, though there were a brave few who were striving to break the gender bias (in a pretty and ladylike way of course).

As is wont in many office settings, there are women who always organized birthday parties for staff, and this office was no exception. On this particular occasion were were celebrating our supervisor's birthday. Someone had brought in a camera and was snapping and clicking pictures of everyone. That is, until she came to me.

I declined the photo op. Period. My body language made it clear there would be no further discussion. Nonplussed, the photographer turned her attention to the lady who was sitting beside me. Her name was Marion. Now as I mentioned, most of the ladies were quite fashionable and outgoing, taking great pride and time their in primping. Marion, however, was different. Her skirts were too long; so was her greying, kinky hair (considering she was middle age and all, some noted), and to compound it all, she really just didn't have much to say. She politely allowed her picture to be taken and the offending camera and photographer were gone.

Marion waited a moment and then she gave me an inquisitive, sloe-eyed look, and asked me in a whisper, "Why didn't you want your picture taken?"

I was still feeling edgy and high strung and gave her a brutally honest answer. "Because I think I'm ugly. I look like a troll in pictures." I immediately regretted the bluntness of my response but it was too late to think about it and take it back.

Marion's lips were not smiling, but her eyes were filled with a womanly compassion and wisdom that shone. She sat boldly upright, steeled with fire and conviction, and her words flowed firm and steady. "I don't know who told you that and you believed them, but they have lied to you. You are beautiful!"

And that's when it happened. I felt a dark veil lift from my heart; my spirit shifted. I saw myself in a new light, and more powerful than that, I felt a deep healing of a pain that I did not even know that I had. Those twenty words resonated right down to the cellular level. Me? Beautiful?

I never did thank Marion for her compassion and encouragement. I pray that someday she will know what a wondrous gift she gave me. And now because of her, when I see the opportunity, I, too, speak twenty words of compassion and encouragement.

You just never know where a person is at in their life and what a difference your words can make.Are you listening with your heart? Is there someone you know who may need your twenty words?

Do you know how beautiful you really are?