One woman's reflections of past and present - people, places and things that contribute to the joy and sweetness; the sorrow and hurt of an everyday ordinary life.
The last day of the year - 2012. Some who trusted in the Mayan prophecy believed this date would never be. I can't help but wonder how many doomsday scenarios and end of the world predictions have been proclaimed through the years. I take comfort in the Lord's word to us in Scripture, 'Only God knows the day and hour."
For me, the onset of this day wasn't much different than any other day, except a quiet knowledge, and silent reflection that another year was ending - a new year soon to begin. I busied myself with usual things - washing dishes, laundry, and after Christmas chores - putting away Santa's and taking down the tree. I took time to browse through favorite books, share a hamburger with my husband and watch a classic movie , After The Thin Man on TCM. I called my mother, and chatted with my son, Gavin about the high's and low's of his new job, and read a note from my father about his Christmas Day. I hung a picture my grand-daughter, Emily drew of her Grandpa and me on our refrigerator door, and smiled.
I thought of those no longer here, and cried, and reflected on life's moment's , both big and small , so grateful for family and friends who color my life with joy - this past year and every year.
Yesterday when Father Bill Crowley, the pastor of St. Thomas the Apostle parish in Coeur d Alene lighted the first candle on the Advent wreath , I thought about its significance , and how it helps Christians deepen our appreciation of Christmas , helping all who participate to anticipate, and prepare spiritually for the coming of the Lord. I was also reminded of my youth where I attended St. Rose of Lima parochial school in the small Los Angeles suburb of Maywood, California during the 1950's and 60's.
It was a time when southern California colors were vivid and bright, not yet hazed over in a constant veil of smog , and the landscape still dotted with orange groves and dairy farms. St. Rose of Lima school, built in 1933 was a Spanish style two story structure with a red tile roof and triple arched portico's off to the side of the front entrance. The architecture gave way to the rich Hispanic heritage of southern California , and seemed both grand and humble as it stood among a neighborhood of modest homes with well groomed front yards.
Upon entering through a pair of massive wood doors at the front of the school, students grades one through eight stepped into a protected, and disciplined environment dedicated to religious and academic studies. It was on the ground floor, in the long hall that the entire student body would gather every Wednesday afternoon for the the lighting of the Advent Wreath during the four weeks of Advent. The wreath hung from the vaulted ceiling, and was larger than any wreath I've seen to this day. The janitor, who was ever present around the school, making sure the toilets flushed properly, and floors were cleaned, constructed a rope pulley that allowed the wreath to be raised and lowered to make the candles easier for one of the older students to light; I recall the thick lush, green branches , and how beautiful they were, and the scent of a fresh wintry mountain smell that permeated the hall. It's a smell familiar from the wooded area I live in today, far from my southern California roots, and am reminded of that time long ago, and what the evergreen branches circled around the wreath represent - continuous life.
My grade school days are long past, but I happily remember the good Sisters of Notre Dame, wearing traditional habits, that included a black tunic, white Wimple and Rosary beads hanging from their cincture, and how they read scripture passages aloud from Isiah, then lead us into prayer, and helped us understand about the Advent Wreath and its meaning to our spiritual life. We learned what the four candles; three purple, and one pink - the base of each candle nestled into the evergreen branches represented. The purple candles signify prayer and penance; dark days of waiting. The pink candle, lit on the third week of Advent is a sign of hope that the long wait is almost over - the birth of the Messiah is near.
Even now, if I look closely through memory's eye, I can almost see Sister Mary Angelista blow into her small round pitch pipe alerting 250 uniformed boys and girls it was time to sing, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" , and smile. Giving thanks for the blessing of that time, and what it means to me today.
***Note: The word Advent is derived from the Latin adventus meaning arrival, approach, coming.
I heard the familiar hoot of the Great Horned Owl again this morning; His loud and persistent call who, who, who continued on like the beat of a tom-tom sounding an alarm at the break of dawn - waking me from gentle sleep and my land of dreams
Note: Great Horned Owls make their home in north Idaho year round,and are chiefly nocturnal. I have seen this owl starring back at me a few times over the past years and am struck by the gaze of his yellow gold eyes - strikingly beautiful as he penetrates the dusk, and the focus of his vision. According to Stan Tekiela's Birds of Idaho field guide, the Great Horned Owl isn't able to turn its head all the way around , and his 'ears' are actually tufts of feathers (horns) and have nothing to do with his hearing, which is excellent - the Great Horned Owl is able to hear a mouse moving beneath a foot of snow. Because his wing feathers are ragged on ends, the Great Horned Owl is like a thief in the night , stealth and silent when he takes flight.
I may not live here forever, perhaps a time will come when I have to leave this place - but for the moment, I delight in the beauty of my surroundings - nature at its best.
A forest of evergreen trees circle round our north Idaho home, like a fortress protecting the King's crown; There is the shimmery glimmer of Lake Coeur d Alene not far in the distance, and the sway of a gentle breeze, like a breath of life moving across the land. I see a Red Tail hawk fly low in the sky, while two Blue Jays, brilliant in color perch on the feeder hanging from the limb of a fir nearly 100 years old. I watch white tail deer follow one another over wooded trails , and a hen turkey lead her brood of eight through a thicket of brush. It is peaceful and quiet, like the sacredness of a sanctuary. I am reminded of the Biblical verse Psalm 24:1 The earthis the Lord's ,and its fullness, and am grateful for the bounty He shares.
Every Sunday at Mass, after the Gospel reading and homily, Catholics proclaim their Profession of Faith - the end of the creed is this : I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting .
By Communion of Saints the church means the union which exists between the members of the church on earth with one another, and with the blessed in Heaven. A spiritual solidarity which binds the faithful together - both living and dead.
I hold this belief dear, and perhaps because of it, find it easier to picture my brother Walt celebrating his birthday today with the Heavenly crowd. Surrounded by Angelic well wishers, joyfully singing to him the birthday song. Others are there celebrating with him, too - the faithful departed he knew and loved while on this earth - grandparents, aunts, uncles, and long time friends. And Walt is smiling and happy.
I hope, just for a moment Walt looks down from Heaven's door to hear me say, I remember this day, the day of your birth and how special you were - Happy Birthday, little brother ! Love from your Sis, always and forever.
Because Gary and I live in a rural area , far away from the beaten path, we never ever considered a yard sale, knowing very few would make the trek to buy junk from our trunk - miscellaneous items slightly used, but not abused at our place. So when dear friends Patty and Marty invited us to bring our 'stuff' to their neighborhood home located near the heart of the city, to be part of a two family yard sale , we jumped at the chance.
From early morn until late afternoon yard sale shoppers of all ages and appearance entered the gate hoping to find a special treasure - at our sale , some bought books, Fiesta ware, and king size comforter; Others delighted in Madonna figurines, a bedroom lamp, and whiskey crock. All were friendly, taking time to share in conversation, and pleasant chatter; and seemed happy to be on their journey, following yard sale signs one to the other.
At end of day, family one and family two smiled big as we not only got rid of unwanted items, helping to clear out our overcrowded, cluttered garages, but we earned a little money, too. ( In this sad economy earning a little extra money would put a smile on anybody's face)
Waving goodbye, Patty said, "Save your stuff, Kath, and bring it over again next year for our Second Annual , bigger and better yard sale !" She won't have to tell me twice, I'm already thinking of unpacked boxes stacked high on the shelf, and the joy they'll bring next spring to some yard sale shopper looking for a find.
A circle of friends goes round and round there is no beginning, it has no end. Each important to the other for the gift they bring of love and laughter Like a link in a chain their hands are clasped, their hearts entwined; Strength.
All are sorrowful when one is sad, all are joyful when one is glad. Fellowship.
They stand together against misfortune and woe, disease and death - To bring to the other encouragement and hope
I awoke this morning thinking of my Grandpa Cooney. It would have been his birthday today. To me he was the best of grandpa's - loving, supportive and fun to be with. We enjoyed each other's company, and spent time together in his backyard picking raspberries. Raspberries were a favorite of both grandpa and me. On the night grandma taught cake decorating for adult education ( at Thomas Jefferson high school ), she would prepare dinner for grandpa and I before she left , then set up the cardboard table in the front room, cover it with a cheery cotton tablecloth , and arrange place settings for two. And always there would be raspberries, one bowl for grandpa, and one for me. I looked forward to those dinner dates with my grandfather, sharing our meal and talking about the little things we did that day. Grandpa was a good listener when I would tell him about my doll, or some make believe game grandma and I had played.
Grandpa was an upholsterer, and owned his shop Cooney's Upholstery in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Grandma often told the story of how I'd sit at the window waving at Grandpa when he left for work, then in the evening sit at the window watching for him to return. I'd rush to greet him at the door, and take him his bedroom slippers. I can still recall the smell of Borax soap Grandpa would clean his hands with when he got home, the BenGay to help ease his tired muscles, and the sweet smell of tobacco from the pipe he would smoke after he'd sit down in his favorite chair.
It was a special time between a grand-daughter and her grandfather, a time that wouldn't last forever; my parents, baby brother and I moved from Council Bluffs when I was still young girl , and my grandfather passed away when I was 12, but the joy, and experience of knowing Grandpa's unconditional love has lasted a life time.
The sun shines warm, not too hot like the heat of the desert, making it comfortable and nice to be outside. Its glow gives afternoon light to the color of sky and evergreen trees; Brilliant blue, and shaded greens. A gentle breeze brushes against my skin, i look up to watch billowy white clouds change form, and slowly drift by. i hear the rapid flutter of a hummingbird as she gets her fill of nectar from a potted red rose, then see a reddish doe at her leisure, browse through tall grass and wildflowers. A feeling of peace and serenity fill my soul.Grateful am i for this perfectly beautiful north Idaho day
Let us remember this Fourth of July
the heroic deeds of
colonial men and women who
with firm purpose
and resolve, sought freedom
and declared independence
from a king's unjust laws; To
form a more perfect union
with liberty for all citizens,
affirming that all men are created equal - politician, poet,
lawyer, laborer ; no matter creed
or color, wealthy or poor - that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights
Let us remember this Fourth of July
our rich heritage in being called an American
I stand in the shadow of an open window, and quietly watch a fawn atplay The white spots on her back tell how young she is, and remind me of snowflakes falling from a winter sky. She runs ahead of her mother, her legs still wobbly as she darts back and forth across freshly mowed grass . I can't be sure, but it seems she is smiling, and happy and content to be born, living in such a beautiful place. Then, mama nuzzles her nose , signaling it's nap time, and leads her baby to a sheltered space , secure and safe from dangers of the wild, and those who would do her harm
I got
another lesson today about the sad, sudden passing of life. My sister-in-law
called at 6 a.m. to tell my husband his brother, Vic had a heart attack and
died an hour earlier. Gary’s grief was
immediate, his deep felt sorrow evident as his body slumped, like he had just
been hard punched in the stomach, and tears streamed down his face.
Vic was Gary’s
younger brother. They were always close, and along with their baby brother, Joe
shared many happy times growing up together; First in Kansas, then California. Gary tells a story of a time when they still
lived in Kansas and the three young brothers went Trick –or-Treating one
Halloween. Gary recalls it was dark and
patches of snow covered the ground. They
were pleased with their loot as each had a collected a bag full of candy. Somewhere
along the way Vic lost his shoes, and walked for a while with just his socks
on. After a fashion, he stopped, started
to cry and said he couldn’t go any further because his feet hurt. Gary lovingly put his arm around his little
brother and said, “Here, Vic. It’s okay.
Jump up on my back, I’ll carry you the rest of the way”. I’ve heard this story many times through the
years, and always find it endearing as I listen to the love in Gary’s voice as
he tells it, and can picture three little toe-headed boys trudging along the cold
country road on Halloween night, one brother shoeless, the other big brother
carrying him piggy back, while the youngest brother stays near, following closely
behind.
Gary reminisces
about Vic some more, about how they worked together for nearly ten years at
their family owned auto part store , Nu-5 AUTO SUPPLY, and what a hard worker
Vic was. Gary gives tribute to Vic by saying he was a
good father to his daughters Linnea and Kim, a loving husband to his wife of 43
years, Yvonne; a dutiful son, and faithful brother and friend. Gary calls his brother, Vic the ‘Salt
of the Earth’.
Vic was also a caring grandfather, kind uncle,
and sweet brother-in-law to me. I remember Vic was a sun person, and enjoyed
vacationing in Hawaii, but mostly he liked the comfort of his own home and
spending time with his wife, and their dog Patsy.
I can’t help
but think of the fragility of life, and how in a blink of an eye a loved one is
forever gone – no longer do we hear their voice or feel their touch. No longer can we visit, or call them on the
phone to say hello, or I’m sorry, or I love you. There are no more memories to make, memories
to share. The pain is at times
unbearable, and for a while we feel empty, broken and lost. Many of us have known that kind of anguish;
Vic’s wife, his children and brothers know it tonight. But they and I trust God’s grace rains down
on them, and His loving providence will guide them, and all of us who loved Vic through this difficult passage. We can
be further assured with the words from John 3:16 “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, so that
everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life”
Gary says
his brother was ‘Salt of the earth’. A very high compliment, meaning he was a
good, decent, simple, faithful, and caring man always willing to lend a
hand , and give a kind word. Vic, once ‘Salt of the earth’, now adding to the spice of
Heaven.
+ Victor L. Dobbs
(March 3, 1942 – June 11, 2012) Rest in Peace, and Eternal Light Shine upon
you.
Before i saw his feathered red head, i heard the loud rat-atty - tat - tat as he rapped his his pointed beak against the trunk of the tree. So intent on the work he was doing, he paid no attention to me, the Blue Jay squawking, or the Swallow flying near by. i was reminded of Walter Lanz's famous animated character,Woody - but recognized right away this woodpecker was no silly cartoon figure, but a beauty of nature, so lovely to see
i close my eyes, and listen to the rush of wind making a swooshing sound rumbling through the trees; Sometimes like the
sound of tall grass blowing in the breeze; Sometimes clanging, banging like a constant knock on the old wooden door Softer now, like a softly played largo then crescendo building like the composer's musical score; Twirling and swirling like a wild Irish dance i close my eyes , and listen - to the rush of wind making a swooshing sound rumbling through the trees
He wasn’t
rich or famous like a powerful politician, big time movie actor, or rock star,
but he was very important and vital and uniquely special to his family and circle
of friends – some lifelong from the time of his youth; Walt was my cherished
little brother, Kerri’s longtime companion, Dad’s oldest son, and the apple of
our mother’s eye, the one she called her ‘Golden Child’.
While reliving the anguish
and horrible pain of learning
my brother had died does no good, reflecting on Walter's life, and the gladness
he brought to others, helps to lighten the empty feeling, and loss of one so loved ,
one no longer (physically) here. So today, on the anniversary of his death, each
of us who knew and cared for my brother commemorates his 55 years of life with
both tears of sorrow, and tears of joy for his presence in our lives, and all
that he gave us.
Walt was no saint, and could be full of the dickens, but he had
a kind heart and gentle spirit; He didn't judge people harshly, or hold grudges,
and loved to laugh. He was never overt in sharing his faith, but
often called our mother and asked for prayers for some special need. He told
her he liked to stop in at St. Joseph’s church (not far from his home) during
the week to ‘talk things over with God’.
A few weeks after his passing I was moved when Mother presented me with an edition of the New Testament, the one inscribed
to Walt from my husband Gary and me for his birthday in September, 1982. I held it in my hands, and remembered buying
this particular edition just for him at a religious education conference I attended
in Anaheim, California. What touched my
spirit more was to find passages and page numbers my brother had highlighted,
like the one from Revelation 5:11-13
As my vision continued, I heard the voices of many angels who
surrounded the throne and the living creatures and the elders. They were
countless in number, thousands and tens of thousands, and they all cried out: “Worthy
is the Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches, wisdom and strength,
honor and glory and praise!” Then I heard the voices of every creature in
heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea; everything in the
universe cried aloud: “To the One seated on the throne and to the Lamb, be
praise and honor, glory and might, forever and ever!”
It was as though , just at that moment while I
was still deeply grieving for him, my brother wanted
to share this passage with me, to help reassure me he was okay, he was worshipping in
the glory of the Lord with all the saints and angels; That all was well.
And it did help me through the grieving process. Not that there
aren’t times I still grieve, and miss my brother. I do. I will always miss him.
Not in an unwholesome way, but as one
misses someone so dear, once part of themself, the sweet days
of childhood and their lifetime of shared
moments, now forever
gone. It is then I pick up Walt’s New Testament
to read the verses he underlined so many years ago, and am reassured again. He is with the Lord, and the Lord is with him.
The truth is my brother wouldn’t want his mother or father,
his family or friends to be continually sad, he would want us to be happy and
embrace life with zest – to live and love and laugh. He would want us to think of him and smile.
What do i see sitting from my front door bench ? A doe browsing newly sprouted grass beneath the evergreen tree; A Bluebird, bluer than the pale blue sky fluttering its wings, then floating mid-air before quickly flying over two red breasted robins bobbing along the rocky ground, searching for seed; And in the field, green from spring rain, a brown rabbit with four white paws that look like socks on furry feet.
The bright of day slowly fades away - Dusk moves in to cast a shadowy grey over the forested land, and deep water lake. Darkness looms; It's blackness soon to fall upon us like a theater curtain signals the end of a Broadway play. Birds seek their rest, deer bed down The earth grows quiet; A faint whispering of wind the only sound
i sit and watch a flock of geese flying across the pale blue sky i listen to the happy sound of songbirds singing their melodious tune from high atop evergreen trees i feel the gentle breeze brush against my freckled arms, and am grateful for this moment in time; Sweet solitude, peaceful space to breath nature's beauty in my own special place
not just the telling of, but the doing day in and day out Giving of self and sharing the load To give encouragement, and kindly word to the other who is discouraged, broken and bent; Listening with an understanding heart To forgive a flare of anger after the heat of bad temperament Laughing together with joyful glee over some silly moment Steadiness. Faithfulness. Commitment, and trust.
Today, the Idaho sun
is warm and bright,
too bright to be outside
without wearing sunglasses
and a wide brim hat
covering my head
The lake looks smooth,
not solid in color
but with shades of
dark blue, light blue
and tint of gray
Evergreen trees stand
tall and still, not enough
breeze to sway even
one piney branch
Strands of feathery clouds
criss cross the pale blue sky
All is quiet, except
the sound of birds
and a wayward wasp
busy buzzing by
The past few months I've read several stories about hand writing no longer being taught in many school districts, and how the art of handwriting may even become extinct, giving way to technology - text, type and tweet. Just this last Sunday it was the lead story on the front page of the Spokesman Review . According to the article, The federal government's new "common core" standards include a composition component but leave out handwriting altogether, which has sparked much debate among researchers and educators.
Wow. Hard to believe. It seems to me not teaching students how to write, is paramount to denying them a new language , an important way to communicate way of the written word. I wonder, if students don't learn how to write , how will they know how to read the long hand letters written throughout history by philosopher, poet and politician? Or sign their name to an important document ? Just think how different our Declaration of Independence would look without the great signatures of those grand men.
Most of us of a certain age can easily recall the handwriting chart hanging above the blackboard in our elementary school classroom, and the joy we felt as second graders knowing we would no longer print our words but would learn how to write cursive, and how that seemed a small entry into the world of grown-up communication. I remember the good Sisters of Notre Dame who taught at the parochial school I attended , had the most perfect penmanship, and wanted their students to have the same. Penmanship was part of our curriculum, and time each day was given to the practice of writing letters of the alphabet. Our homework assignments included the same. When we wrote an essay for English or History, the neatness of our penmanship was taken into account.
The Palmer method - a system that dominated most of the 20th Century emphasized four qualities Palmer saw essential to good writing : Legibility, rapidity, ease and endurance. While Palmer's method set a standard and stressed conformity, each individual still has their own unique handwriting style. As example, when receiving a letter from friend or family member, I only need look at the writing on the envelope to know who it's from. In that sense, handwriting is part of our identification, like the way we walk or talk.
I think now of the lyrics to the once familiar School Days song
School days, school days dear old golden rule days readin' and writing and 'rithmetic taught to the tune of a hickory stick
and smile. I only hope handwriting and penmanship will not be lost to our nation's school children, but continue to hold a place of value, and importance in the educational system.
** NOTE: There are many on-line sites referencing penmanship & handwriting . I list one here
A month ago my mother suggested I write something about our
friend, Lawrance Mattix on my blog. We had just
learned from him that he had congestive heart failure, and the prognosis wasn't good. “I’m sure he would appreciate it,
Kathy”, said my mother.
I waited too long.
This morning my mother called the care center where Lawrance had been admitted and was told by the attendant he couldn't speak at this time, the nurse was sorry she couldn’t give my mother
any more information. A few minutes
later, Lawrance’s grand-daughter Patty emailed telling us her grandfather passed
away last night. I’m grateful both my
mom and I got the opportunity to speak with Lawrance during the last week. While
mother and Lawrance had a good conversation, and were able to laugh some together,
and share about things that connected them, by the time I spoke with
him, he was tired and his words were slurred.
I don’t recall all I said, but I knew
Lawrance knew it was me talking.
Lawrance and his wife, Patsy married when they were very
young. Patsy was only 17, Lawrance 19. Patsy and my mom were just 21 when we moved
next door to them on Gifford Avenue in Bell, California. From the moment they met Mom and Patsy were
simpatico and quickly become the best of friends. They would remain so until
Patsy’s early death at age 55.
Patsy left a huge void in the life of the people who loved
her, especially her husband. Lawrance
did remarry, moved to Wisconsin and had a good life with Iris. But all who knew
Lawrance, understood Patsy was his true soul mate, whom he often longed for - the
mother of his children, and the one who knew him best.
I knew Lawrance from the time I was 4 ½ years old. I'm 61 now. It’s hard
for me to think about my growing up years without including Lawrance. He was a good and faithful husband, a devoted
father, and loving grandfather and great –grandfather. He was always so proud of his family, he sang
their praises constantly, and didn’t think there was anything they couldn’t
do. He was also a strict disciplinarian.
I so well remember Lawrance telling us neighborhood kids how he left for work
every morning at 4 am, and when he came home at 5 pm he was tired, and didn’t
want to see our bikes laid out across
his driveway, bikes that he would have to move. It would be sad he said if he had to run over
them. Lawrance made his point and I can
tell you for certain, we kept his driveway clear of our bikes! Wasn’t that a good lesson for kids to learn? I
think so. Lawrance was teaching us responsibility and to
be considerate of others.
Another thing I remember is Lawrance telling his daughter Linda
- she was only 16, he would give her his car when he bought a new truck if she
would take AUTO SHOP. Linda argued she’d
be the only girl in that class. Lawrance said, “Then you’ll be the only girl
who knows how to fix her car if there’s a problem”. He was right. Linda was the only one of us girls who knew
how to fix a car. I know, because other girlfriends and I were with Linda when
the car we were in broke down, and it was Linda who got under the hood and
fixed the problem!
Lawrance was a good role model, a mentor to my brother, Walt. One of our favorite Mattix – Cooney stories is
how Lawrance and Patsy took Walt to buy him his first pair of cowboy boots when
Walt was only five years old. From that
day forward my brother loved cowboy boots, and when he passed away at age 55 was
buried with his boots on! Lawrance
wasn’t a big banker, lawyer, doctor or high ranking executive, he was in construction,
a blue collar guy who worked hard to provide for his family, and lived life honestly.
In my last email to Lawrance dated Friday March 23 , 2012 I
wrote:
I don’t know if you’ll see this email, but want you to know my
mother, Lenore and I are thinking of you at this very minute. We love you,
Lawrance and are so grateful for the cherished friend you’ve always been, and
the sweet memories we share. I just
looked at a picture of you and Patsy on
Southall Court standing in front of your
very cool Studebaker – you look pretty cool yourself. Last Saturday
my mom told her friends in Clarkston about how you would babysit Linda and Pam and me and Walt so Patsy and Mom
could go Christmas shopping, and how you’d
drive up to Cooney’s Donut’s on Florence Ave
at midnight to buy mom and Patsy fresh donuts while they were wrapping
presents. Please know you were a good example,
and made such a positive impact on my mother, brother and me – especially during
some of our hard times. You can be assured we will keep you in prayer, and in
our hearts. God Bless you always. Love,
Kathy.
And now, LAWRANCE TIMOTHY MATTIX Rest in peace, May Eternal Light Shine Upon You
+
Another night of rain and i quietly sit with book in hand, listening again to pellet size water drops hit rocky ground This night it doesn't remind me of falling tears from sad, lonely people, but God baptizing the earth, ready for Spring and new birth
i hear rain falling
from the clouded sky
it reminds me tonight
of tears falling
from the eyes
of one hurt and
lonely, broken from pain
and weary with life
But soon the rain
will stop, like the tears
Blue sky will appear,
the sun will shine
bringing hope and
renewal to our land,
and to the soul
of troubled man
Tis a day to be Irish and a wearin' of the green Lookin' to the rainbow for your pot o' gold dream St. Patrick's Lorica, and Celtic song; Shamrocks, a shillelagh and the wee leprechaun
Like a thief in the night
it comes unexpected
moving fast and furious
Like a mountain lion
ready to attack its prey
You can't see it, but
you feel its power
and hear its howl
as it slashes through
trees, breaking branches
and twisting limbs
The mighty March wind
Like the sound of ocean waves
crashing against a sandy shore
doesn't relent, but presses on
until it meets the calm
on the other side
of the storm
Carolyn Howard-Johnson, author of The Frugal Book Promoter and guest blogger for Writing North Idaho - a Web-Retreat for Writers in the North Idaho Panhandle wrote To Pseudonym or Not to Pseudonym listing reasons why authors like Nora Roberts, author of more than 150 romance novels choose a pen name .
Number one is marketing, and branding. A simple defintion of branding is when a writer becomes well known for the genre they write, i.e. romance or horror, then decide to write another genre i.e. children's stories - the author will often use a pseudonymn to help brand it for the reader, and to broaden readership.
Howard-Johnson got me thinking about other authors who chose to use a pseudonym - Mark Twain first came to mind. I wondered if his The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn would have found less success and popularity published under his given name, Samuel Clemens. And what about George Eliot (aka Mary Ann Evans) and George Orwell (aka Eric Arthur Blair )? How would their famed novels, Silas Marner and Nineteen Eighty-Four have fared if they hadn't used a pen name ? I guess we'll never know.
Then, with whimsical pondering, I considered what pseudonymn I might use if my book was to be published, and thought about the cards and emails my friend Phyllis and I exchange, and the letter writing pen names we have used over the years; Heckle (aka Phyllis), Jeckle (aka Kathy) or sometimes Calamity Jane (Phyl) and Annie Oakley (me). My cousin Shauna and I have done the same, Shauna aka Shaunneaqua Warrior Princess, and I'm Kathiawatha. While those pen names make me smile , and are fun between friends and cousins, I doubt they'd work for an agent or publisher. So, guess I'll stick with my own name, Kathy Cooney Dobbs. Now, just to write that novel !
Not fully awake, I was still laying
cozy and comfortable in my
warm bed when I heard the
cheerful sing song sounds of
an early morning bird coming through
the slightly opened window
My eyes opened wide to
see bright sunlight peering through
the slatted shade, I sat up as it
dawned on me, migrating birds
are back ! Spring is on the way
Being both a long time movie buff, and practicing Catholic with a penchant for traditions and things of the church, I looked forward to watching the Academy Awards this year. I was curious if the first silent movie since 1929 , The Artist would win the coveted gold statue, and God Is The Bigger Elvis , a short documentary about Mother Dolores Hart , the one time actress who left Hollywood to become a Benedictine nun at the Abbey of Regina Laudis , could claim the Oscar in its category. Happily,one did. Sadly, the other didn't.
I first became aware of Dolores Hart as a teenager when she starred in the popular movie from the 1960's, Where The Boys Are. I thought she was wonderful in that film, and make a point to watch it whenever it shows on Turner Classic Films. At some point in my younger life, when I too considered entering the convent, I remember reading Hart gave up her promising Hollywood career to become a nun, and marveled at her conviction of God's calling. Later I learned she entered the Abbey of Regina Laudis founded by Mother Benedict in Bethlehem, Connecticut - the same Mother Benedict and Abbey loosely portrayed in the delightful 1940's film , Come to the Stable , starring Loretta Young and Celeste Holm.
Another acclaimed actress to spend time at Regina Laudis was Patrica Neal, who gives sole credit to her spiritual and moral recovery (with the help of God's grace) to the influence of the nuns at the abbey, and the spiritual direction they provided. Ironically, it was Maria Cooper, daughter of actor Gary Cooper, and Neal's one time married lover who brought her there. Mother Dolores Hart was helpful in writing Neal's autobiography, As I Am. Neal eventually converted to Catholicism and is buried at Regina Laudis.
While this may seem a twist away from my opening paragraph, I share it because for me it shows how one person's generous, gracious act often leads to paths and people unimaginable, and the gentle way God connects us to another without our ever suspecting it.
My thoughts about Mother Dolores Hart. I admired her then, and admire her now for her example of faith and commitment to her vocational calling, and how she inspires others with her joyful spirit to remain committed and faithful to their calling , whether it be religious life, single life, or married life.
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