New Year's Eve & Resolutions

     New Years Eve brings the end of one year, the beginning of another  as folks celebrate, reflect, anticipate; some are melancholy and sad remembering the loss of a loved one, others overjoyed with the birth of new life. Some are glad the old year has passed , others sad to see it go. Many make New Years resolutions to rid themselves of negative traits, and make promises to improve their way of eating , exercise, playing , praying and living life; They resolve to become , what they deem better in the new year than how they were in the old year.

           
        I'm one of those people.  I want to grow in my personal life - to improve my manners, my temperment , my charity toward others . Ah, yes! To exercise more and lose those dreaded pounds gained over the holidays;  To be  more organized , more bold and less fearful , and most importantly to judge less and love more. To practice the Prayer of St.Francis :
       
Where there is injury , pardon; where there is doubt , faith; where there is despair , hope ; where there is darkness , light ; where there  is sadness, joy

       A lofty ideal indeed,  but still my goal - year after year  after year. Resolutions made,  most often unfulfilled - year after year. Yet, I persevere. Perhaps in that alone I succeed , my perseverance  in striving for that higher ground , no matter how many times I fall short . Or maybe it's not my perseverance at all, but God's grace renewing, restoring , resurrecting my heart to try again as one year ends and another begins to strive to forgive and love better.

    Happy New Year ! Praying your  resolutions be fulfilled , and  the blessings of the Almighty flood your gate each and every day of 2015

     



     

   


      

Social Media - Privacy, Friends, Family & Bing Crosby

     There's been a lot  written  about Facebook regarding  privacy ,  and  addiction to  social media.  Two subjects I take very seriously. I, like most folks,   cherish privacy,  and don't relish the idea of  being addicted to something , anything out of my  control.  Because of this , I have  seriously considered closing my Facebook account.

      But  then  something interesting happened. Bing Crosby ! Yes, that popular crooner from long ago . Bing has always been a favorite of mine  - his songs, classic  movies, and Tv specials  I watched in days of my youth. And now, PBS is airing  an episode of American Masters ,  about Bing! I posted on Facebook about the show.  To my great delight, I  found  cherished friends from  high school days , and newer friends made comments and were going to watch the show, too.  For me , it was  a  welcome connection past to present,   with friendships  I value , and love ; friendships I hold dear .  

    I began to ponder if interaction like this  could have happened  without Facebook, the sharing back and forth in real time , and if this might be the positive of Social Media where long distance families  and  long ago friends , and new friends are able to connect so easily .     Where folks share the happenings of their  everyday  life-  those  fun , silly , happy times; and yes,  broken moments, when life seems in total  despair.  Or are we only  being self centered, yelling out to the world ,  'Look at me, here I am'

   I don't have an answer yet, but  will continue to seek a resolution ,  if social media is a good or bad thing.   I do know I enjoy hearing from long ago friends, seeing pictures of  a beloved aunt , Joy Thorson Mann running in an Omaha marathon,  Cooney cousins and other family members,  and on this night watching Bing Crosby Rediscovered on PBS , and being able to share commentary  about  my favorite song man ,  with dear pals Jeannette, Roberta, Cheryl,  and Kari B Allen.  On this night,  social media seems a good thing, and the camaraderie it brings.

 
   

 

   

     

   

Now I'm 64

   For the past several days , in anticipation of my 64th birthday I've been going around the house singing in a  slightly off key, but  spirited voice to my husband, Gary

         Doing the garden
         digging the weeds
         who could ask for more
         Will you still need me
         Will you still feed me
         When I'm sixty-four
 
  When this popular Beatle song from their album Sgt. Pepper's  Lonely Hearts Club Band was released in June 1967,  my friends and I were 16 years old  and 64 seemed an eternity from where we were at.   Our point of reference was  more immediate: Summer fun at the beach, date night , toilet papering the Smith household,  hanging out at Taco Bell, and   anticipating our  senior year at good ol' Bell High.

   But  I soon learned what seems an eternity  is only a series of  tomorrow's , soon to become long ago yesterday's .  Which brings me to this special day, October 25, 2014. My 64th birthday.

     I like birthdays, mine and everybody else's . I think of  them as the day The Lord has made , we shall rejoice and be glad in it (Ps.118:24). To celebrate the gift of life.  I like my birthday is in the Fall of the year, the end of October when the seasonal change in color moves to  autumn orange, gold's and reds, and  the change of weather takes place -  from hot summer  sun to cooler days.  I like Scorpio is my astrological sign, and opal my gem.  I like I'm  a baby boomer and remember hula hoops, silly putty, roller skates with a key, chasing through the sprinkler with my little brother, Walt and neighborhood kids on hot summer days,  and riding my bike  to Bell Park with  best friend, Linda.

  On T.V.  there was   Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, The (original) Mickey Mouse Club starring  Annette Funicello, Cubby and Karen;  My Three Sons,  and The Rifleman. Today, what  I'd call sweet shows.

    At 64 I  look back and  cherish all the times of my life: My early years  in Council Bluffs, Iowa  where I was doted on by loving  grandparents, aunt and uncles, where my roots began as my parents did,  in a small mid western town. I was baptized in the same church my mother was, Holy Family Catholic Church,  and played at my Grandpa Cooney's upholstery shop. I equally relish my growing up years in Bell/Maywood, California where I attended  St. Rose of Lima grade school first through eighth grade, and Bell High starting my Freshman year, and learned lessons of faith and friendship.

     And my working years at the Herald American/Call-Enterprise newspaper and The Los Angeles Times. Editing copy, writing the story, retail sales, meeting a deadline. A job that helped me gain confidence, and gratified me with a sense of personal achievement.

   Then , the most rewarding years - marriage  and motherhood;  my Gary, and sons, Gavin and Garrett. Husband and wife making a home, raising a family, creating new memories for future years. The joy of experiencing my son's first word, first step, first day of school; family trips to Disneyland and Disney World, New York City and Yellowstone. Play days, sick days, Sunday go to church day.  Halloween costumes and Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas Eve at Grandma Nor's, coloring eggs for Easter and  4th of July fireworks, and yes, birthday celebrations filled with smiles and laughter.

   For sure, not every moment in my 64 years has been carefree and happy, but all has been good. I'm grateful for my mother and dad, where I came from and who I am. I'm blessed in family and friends, and knowing God's presence.

    I  started this birthday reflection with lyrics from one Beatles song, and    think closing with another (with slight word change) sums up my feelings pretty well

            All these places had their moments
            with  family and friends
             I  still can recall
            Some are dead and some are living
             In my life I've loved them all

            
       
  

     

     

   


   
  

  

   

   

 
     

The Sky

The  poets prose can't
accurately describe the
awesome beauty , unfiltered
and pristine of todays
north Idaho sky
Nor a painters brush
its brilliant hue;
A blue so blue
with clouds so white
bringing to mind
something pure and serene
I wonder,  is  this  what
the  first sky looked like
when the world was created ?
And God  saw what he had done
and proclaimed, This is good

His 60th Birthday (my brother Walt Cooney)

September 4 , 2014 - note to Mother

Congratulations, Mom! 60 years ago today you gave birth to your beautiful blue eyed baby son! Walter Rod Cooney - 9 1/2lbs. 21" long. Named for your beloved Walt Thorson, Walt was welcomed into the world with great joy  by you and dad,  grandparents, aunt and uncles , and  me - his big sister. But most  especially in your tender and unconditional love, a love that nurtured and guided Walt throughout his life , and helped him become the caring , good man he was.
                                              

We celebrated his first birthday, and each year after wished Walt a happy birthday with party, cake and presents; and while all memorable in some way, his 21st birthday stands out as one his most special birthday's.  Not only because turning 21 is considered a landmark birthday, moving from youthful idyllic days into adulthood,  but because of all the friends and family there, including Patsy and Lawrence Mattix; Linda Mattix Funk and Jim Funk, Austin and Mark, Jim Moore , and Walt's best friend, Jimmy Taylor. Phyllis and Don .  You , me,  Gary, and of course, Patty.  Not only was Patty my brothers long time girlfriend, she was, and is like a little sister to me.

And let's not forget Harris the Parrot! Your gift to Walt, the number one gift on his wish list!  Although, I do remember it was a cockatoo, like the crazy bird on the popular T.V.  show, Baretta Walt had  originally asked for , but when learning the  high cost, he said, " you know, Mom, I think I could like a parrot just as well".   Harris fit right in with all  of us laughing, dancing, singing folk - at first a little shy, he quickly began with his squawking, talking parrot sounds. Not exactly, "Polly want a cracker",  but more a deep throated , "Caw, Caw, Caw" .

With Walt's birthday so early in September, the sounds of summer still played in our heads and we listened to some of the great pop  hits of 1975 - Elton John's Someone Saved My Life Tonight, James Taylor How Sweet it Is To Be Loved By You, Bee Gees Jive Talkin , and a favorite of Patty and Walt's,  One Of These Nights by the Eagles .

Mom prepared a lovely buffet of meats and cheeses and homemade dips . My childhood playmate and life long pal,  Linda  (she had known my brother since he was 6 months old) fixed herself and Walt a Rum and Coke  (now that he was a legal age ) , then offered a Happy Birthday toast . When she finished we all clapped our hands and shouted cheers,  and took turns giving Walt a birthday hug.

It is sweet memory of a happy time , when life was good with loved ones near.  But the years pass quickly, and today would be my brothers 60th birthday, though he is no longer here for us to give him a party or buy him a parrot. Yet,  we love him still - the baby , the little boy, teenager ,  and man he was.  Happy Birthday,  dear Walt! Love,  your  Sis.

The Fabric of Friendship

    I'm home from a weeks visit with  a very dear friend of mine since high school . Diana and I spent leisurely hours reading, watching movies , going for a morning walk .  Along with her husband Bill, also a friend since high school we played Scrabble each night ,  enjoyed a glass of wine (for Bill n' me a mug of beer ) and ate ice cream . It was a most pleasant time.

    Diana and I also went to Cheesecake Factory and Mimi's Cafe - two totally different  restaurants , but both with an ambiance suited to the ladies lunch set.  At Cheese Factory  we met a long time friend of mine to help celebrate her 70th birthday - a special day, indeed. Phyllis and I became friends when we worked together at The Herald American/Call Enterprise newspaper; she was 27, I was 21 and have remained close friends over these many years.  The  next day , Diana and I met our mutual friend,  Manya   at Mimi's Café.  Manya is  another cherished  pal from high school days.
                                       

    It was during that lunch I began to think about the thread of friendship, and the fabric it weaves. Diana, Manya and I are three of a larger group of high school friends that try to get together at least once a year to reminisce
our youthful antics,  and renew our vow of friendship. To celebrate our past , while at the same time build new memories. Just this past April we met at Susan's home in Eatonton, Georgia; we laughed and played, and carried on like we were the same carefree teenage  girls from long ago.

 

    The truth is we're now women in our 60's - 2018 will mark 50 years since we graduated high school. Underneath the L'Oreal or similar  product, our hair is some shade of gray, our skin wrinkled and crinkled,  and dotted with age spots, and our once slender bodies a bit fuller than they once were. Each of us in some way have endured heartbreak in one form or another, and have persevered. Faith, family and yes, abiding friendship.

     I listened and watched Manya and Diana as they spoke - Manya telling us about her husband Bill who just left for Tennessee  on a work related job; Diana, about her grand-daughter starting her first year of college. I saw them as they are now , but also saw them through the eyes of time, remembering who they were then, and recognized at once  their same familiar smiles, the lift of Manya's eyebrow, the gentle sound of Diana's voice. A warm feeling washed over me knowing we have been friends the greater part of our lives, sharing  much happiness and deep sorrow. I am joyous that the fabric of our friendship is made of cloth strong and enduring, that our friendship doesn't reside only in the past, but is present in the here and now, and no doubt, long into the future.

                   (a favorite photo of a favorite time with friends Diana,
                     Manya and others. Our first Mammoth ski trip 1969)

 

Cecil E. Cooney, My Grandpa.

    He wasn’t a tall man by today's standards, under 6 ft., slight of build, but to me he was a giant of man; good and grand. Loving, faithful and fun. 

     After mother and dad, my  Grandpa Cooney was one of the first to welcome me to the world  October 25, 1950 - the day I was born.  From the  beginning  we shared a sweet camaraderie and  were very simpatico . I was his Little Brown Eyed Sweetheart, he was my hero. I adored Grandpa and cherished my time with him. 

  
    Grandma used to tell the story about when I was still a toddler and  came to visit  I'd run right past her to give Grandpa my first hug, and how he'd be sitting in the old Morris chair  in the back bedroom after work waiting for me to bring his slippers; I'd climb up on his lap and we'd talk about our day.

  Grandpa was an upholster, the best in the Midwest!  His shop was Cooney's Upholstery on Pearl St. in  Council Bluffs. When my dad was in high school he helped Grandpa at the shop,  and  according to my mother,  Dad learned a lot about the trade, stretching material over sofa's and chairs in just the right way,  pulling thread and tacking nails,  and became a good  upholsterer himself. When I was a little girl I often    visited the shop, too. I can still picture the  large spools of thread and rolls of fabric all about , and how tickled I was  to be near Grandpa. I remember how he  would stop his work, no matter how busy he was , pick me up and  carry me in his arms the whole time I was there,  like I was royalty.

     When Grandpa came home from work he washed his hands with Borax and soothed his aching muscles with BenGay .  When I had trouble with warts on my thumb he cured the problem  by  rubbing  a  ball of  hot  bee's wax on the warts making them disappear.  Grandpa smoked a pipe, and enjoyed drinking  a  Schlitz   beer   every evening.  To this day I still associate the sweet smell of  pipe tobacco with  Grandpa - it gives   me  a pleasant, nostalgic feeling of him being near.  

     Both Grandpa and I liked  raspberries. During summer months we'd  pick a basket full from his patch in the backyard . When I was a little older and the berries weren't so plentiful on that  backyard bush, Grandma bought frozen raspberries at Piggley Wiggley.  Grandma  taught an Adult Education Cake Decorating class at Thomas Jefferson High School on Tuesday nights. Before  she left  for class Grandma always had  dinner prepared, and card table set in the front room  for Grandpa and I to eat together. We always looked forward to a bowl of raspberries for dessert ! 

    Grandpa's early life wasn't an easy life, I'm sure. He left school after 6th grade to go to work.  Grandma once told me  Grandpa was an industrious young man, and would  buy  her  lovely gifts when he was courting her. In Grandma's  high school memory book  she   listed one of those gifts as a  diamond lavaliere to  'Vera from Cecil' . Grandpa’s  graduation gift to her. 

Many years later , it was  grandma's gift  to me to wear on my wedding day. 

   Like many young men of his generation, Grandpa was a soldier during World War I and  shipped overseas; He and  Grandma married after his return home. While I'm sure there were troubles and challenges for Grandma and Grandpa during the course of their marriage,  I know Grandpa was a faithful and loving husband, a father who did his best to   instill high morals and responsibility in his children.  Grandpa loved baseball , even played on a team in his younger days, and   was an  avid  fisherman; At one time  he was  president of the local Fish and  Game, and was   also   Boy  Scout Scoutmaster, encouraging each of his three  sons -   Lloyd, Skip (my dad) and Pep to become  Eagle Scouts, which they did.

    Grandpa was very ill at the end of his life. Today he most likely would be  diagnosed with Alzheimer's .   Not long ago I came across a youthful essay I wrote about visiting Grandpa at Veteran's Hospital in Omaha - an essay I included with other little stories  and poems I wrote and sent to Grandma   for Christmas 1962. It was about visiting  Grandpa in the  hospital and the nurse allowing  me  to feed my Grandfather, and how overjoyed I was to be near   him.   Dad and Mother  had already told me Grandpa probably   wouldn't  know me,  but  to everyone's great surprise when I entered his hospital room Grandpa lifted up, reached out his hand toward me, and  smiled. I  rushed over to  him, happily crying out, "Grandpa, it's me, your little Brown eyed Sweetheart ", and told him how much I loved him. That was the last time I saw Grandpa. He passed away that April . My heart was broken and I cried for days. Grandpa is one of the great loves of my life.

 

 Today, August 3 would be his 118th birthday.  Looking back  through memories eye, I see us as we were then, a loving grandfather and his devoted young  grand-daughter laughing and playing, and enjoying each others company.






    

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  

  

   


    
 

Old Photo's & Stories They Tell

    One day last week I posted a picture of my brother, Walt  and me on Facebook. It was one of those photo's popular in the early 1960's where companies solicited doting mother's to have a 'professional'   picture of their children taken for a   low cost,  while at the same time  cleverly advertising  their company brand. For this photo,  the company was  Foremost Dairy. It's a sweet picture, made more fun and memorable with the Foremost logo in upper left hand corner, and  1963 calendar below.
                                                 

   I recently came across it in one of my Mother's albums; Seeing the picture brought a sense of happy nostalgia and made me smile,  but not until a writer friend of mine commented  "there must be a story to tell behind this photo"  did I think of it from that perspective.  So I decided to look at the picture more closely to see what story there might be.

    I studied the  girl and boy in the picture and knew we were happy kids,   our lives still young and innocent, secure in our Mother's embrace. I thought about our parents  being divorced and Walt longing for our father's attention, how the world had been in the midst of the cold war and drop drills were the norm in classrooms throughout southern California.  How after my parents divorce we moved to an apartment next to the  railroad tracks.   I remember the  first  night after we moved  in  a train loudly  chugged by  with all  its bells and whistles,  and  my little brother ran from his bed to mother's room asking if the Russian's were coming. While it seems a funny story now, then it was tender and endearing , and completely understandable that a frightened  9 year old might ask that question, especially since the week before he and other classmates took cover under their desk in response to a drop drill in fear of the Soviet Union bombing the U.S.   Only mother's assurance  'all was well ' gave Walt  comfort and peace before he could fall back  to sleep.

    In 1963 I was at that awkward age, 13. Kind of twixt and in  between. No longer a little girl, but not yet  grown up. I still wanted to play outside games with the MacInnis kids, ( our good Catholic  neighbors and school mates),  but also wanted to be popular and pretty  enough to have a boyfriend.

    I suppose if there is  a story to be told, it's  my brother and I were always the best of  friends. We liked each other, had fun together.  Oh, that's not to say we didn't get mad at one another,  we  surely did, and  Walt would be the first to tell you, I was his bossy big sister. And  as we got older,  I was  sometimes  disappointed  in decisions he made, like one that took him far from his roots and home.  But no matter, whatever differences we may have encountered were overrode by the bonds of love we shared -  a bond  that our Mother instilled  in us from the day she brought Walter Rod Cooney  home from the hospital, and introduced me to my baby brother.

   

   

   

  

   

   

   

My Brother Walt ( May 30, 2014)

                                                  Walt & Mom    

       Many of you, like me, may remember Memorial Day was always  May 30, and  only in recent times  is  Memorial Day celebrated on the closest weekend to that date,  to allow for a  three day holiday.  No matter the date change ,  I  will always think of May 30 as the traditional and true  Memorial Day - not only because I recall the sweet stories  my mother told  me from the time I was a young girl of  how she and her family drove each Memorial Day  from Council Bluffs  to  the cemetery in Odebolt, Iowa  to place a fresh bouquet of Peonies on  grave sites of aunts and uncles and other beloved , but because May 30, 2010 is the day my brother, Walt Cooney passed away.

        I'm  not alone in knowing the pain of losing a sibling, there are many, including friends who  have lost a  beloved sister or brother . How  easily I can  sympathize and  understand their anguish and sadness of losing one so dear, one  they were so connected to, one   so cherished.

      My brother was very dear to me, I loved him unconditionally, and was always proud to be his  big sister - from the day our Mother brought Walt home from the hospital I was his champion, he was the most perfectly beautiful baby - from the beginning we were simpatico, and I instantly   felt  called to be his protector, a feeling that would remain with me throughout my brother's life.  I'm happy to say Walt and I  would always have a close bond - we shared and experienced so much together.

     On this day, the fourth anniversary of his death I especially think of our mother who lost her youngest child, her only son - the one she called her 'Golden Child', and the lifeline they had one to the other.   And Dad, too , who just last month showed me a view  near his   house in The Village's my brother liked very much when he visited there - a place Dad  now calls 'Walt's View'.
                                                                                              

 

     Mom and I often talk of Walt, about some fun thing  he said or did - how for so many years we were the "Three Musketeer's".  Today,  mother will share how Walt called her the morning of May 30 to tell her he would be there (at her house) in a month to help clear out her garage, and fix  bathroom plumping, and how she couldn't wait to see him.  I will silently relive  mom calling that evening to tell me my brother had died  -  how together,  our hearts were  broken and  our sorrow,  at that moment seemed unbearable.

      But for the grace of God, and the promise of His enduring love in the glory of Jesus Christ ,  we would not have been able to carry on. We know Walt is with the Lord - praying for us,  waiting in Heaven, like we are here on earth until one day when we'll  meet again.

     
                             Walter Cooney 1954 - 2010  RIP+

Precious Moment

O peaceful morning!
How lovely you are
the sun rising
over the mountain
streams light across the lake;
It glitters like gems found
in a treasure chest
The red fir , white fir and
pines are still shrouded
in a dewy mist,
the air is fresh and crisp
The busyness , the noise
of the day is yet to come
and I'm grateful for
this moment of solitude
to ponder, and give thanks
for God's creation and
nature's beauty

Bird Song

(for my Dad, who recently read aloud to me the verses of  Kate Greenaway)

I sit on an old
stump of a log
and watch as
early morning sun
shines like a spot light
on a forested  stage
and listen to 
a chorus of birds
perform their sweet
Spring song, making
me wish I could
sing along



 

A Walk With My Son

    No high  dollar adventures, small pleasures suit me fine,  like today when my son, Gavin  came upstairs and said he was going for a walk and asked if I'd like to go with him. It took me less than a second to say yes. I quickly changed my shoes and off we went down the old rock road. Our dog , Maggie doodle trailing happily behind.

                                             

    The sky overhead a beautiful blue, the  April sun warm against our still   wintery, pale white skin. I thought about long ago years, that don't seem so long ago,  when my son and I spent hours together sharing, and playing with Fisher-Price  Litte People , Disney characters,   and Ninja Turtles. Throwing the ball back and forth.  Reading books and coloring books. 

    Gavin is no longer a little boy , and has his own view of a grown up world , busy with life and work and love,  but  happy am I  on our afternoon walk as  he tells me about his  hopes and scope of future dreams.  I listen , and my heart smiles as  he talks of possibility and  his goals to achieve.

 

    

The Lovely Mrs. Wagner

 

 

     Some people we meet at a very young age, and their influence leaves a lasting impression throughout our life. I'm blessed to have many such people in my life,  and think of one person now who is very dear to me. It  was 1957 and I was  in second  grade  when I met Mrs. Wagner. My mother had arranged  for me to  ride   to school with the Wagner's.

  The Wagner children , including daughter , Susan attended  Zion Lutheran, while I went to St.Rose of Lima on the opposite corner.  Over the years , Susan and I would become best of friends and share many adventures and momentous times together.

   But at that first meeting, I was a kid who didn't much like being away from my mother and dad, or familiar folks and was a little shy to be riding to school with people  I didn't know. It was Mrs. Wagner's  kindliness and happy  smile that helped me feel secure, and welcome. March 10th, Mrs. Wagner will be celebrating her 99th birthday, and  her smile is the  same great smile  I remember from long ago - a joyful, happy smile that still makes me feel secure and welcome, and  makes me want to smile, too !

    While Susan and I got a ride to school with her parents, we would often walk home. I must say, a walk much easier for me than for Susan as she suffered with Leg Perthes and had to walk with metal crutches and a brace strapped  around her waist until she was ten years old. In my youthful innocence, I'm not sure I really understood Susan's challenge, but am happy to say,  intuitively , I knew  Susan had to walk at a slower stride , and so  never tried to outpace her, but always walked by her side.  Well, until we got into high school, and Susan had the fastest time around the track !

     At night Mr. and Mrs. Wagner set up an apparatus to keep Susan from putting any weight on her foot and  used a 5lb. bag of sugar as a pulley to keep her foot suspended in air. Susan remembers her parents never complained about that chore they did night after night, and says  watching the care her mom and dad so lovingly gave, helped shape how she cares for her own children and grandchildren;  and   how her  difficulties at such a young age molded her determination, competitive  spirit  and can do personality.

       Throughout our teenage years, Susan and I were always at each others house - I don't think a day  went by we didn't see each other or talk on the phone.  One afternoon while at Susan's, Mrs. Wagner was  gently  reprimanding  her older brother, Terry for neglecting a chore. I remember Terry picked up a broom , danced around the room, saying  in a teasing, light hearted  way, "Here, Mom! Go ahead,  take it , and give me swat". Mrs. Wagner got the giggles , and we all started to laugh. It was an endearing moment, and one that has stuck with me all these years. The last time I visited with Mrs. Wagner, a year or so ago,  I shared that memory with her, and she got the giggles all over again.
                                               

 

        I don't recall seeing Mrs. Wagner ever wear slacks or capri pants, only dresses , like Mrs. Cleaver on Leave it to Beaver.  Even when she drove Susan and I to the beach after our 9th grade graduation , she wore a summer dress. Her example of how women should look and live, and conduct themselves  was a positive role model to all of us young gals.  Both Mr. and Mrs. Wagner lived their faith by example - Mr. Wagner owned Don's Hamburgers  on the corner  of Heliotrope and Randolph. My mother, brother and I lived across the street.

    One Saturday evening  when mom stopped in for hamburgers for us, Mr. Wagner  added 3 vanilla malts. Mom, looked surprised, and told Mr. Wagner she only ordered hamburgers. At that time  Mom was on a pretty strict budget, and the malts would have been an extravagance.  Mr. Wagner told her, " You just take these home to Kathy and Walt, Mrs. Cooney, it'll make their hamburger taste better, and add a little calcium for their bones".  My mother has  never forgot that kindness, and said it is one she has tried to immolate.

       Don and  Neoma Wagner were married in 1944, and together raised five children -  Don (Mike), Terrence, Susan, Pamela, and Reid - all  of which I'm privileged to have  known.  Mr. Wagner passed away at age 67, and eldest son, Mike,  two years ago.  The Wagner's were, and are a wonderful family.  And as anchor and guide, their dear  mother, Mrs. Wagner!,  who leaves  a  legacy of wisdom and joy,  deep faith in  our Lord and  Savior,  Jesus Christ,  and love - not only to her children, but also her grandchildren and great-grandchildren - and to all, like me,  who have been graced by her goodness.

                          Happy Birthday, Mrs. Wagner !
    

       

      

       

        

        

  
        







      

      

      

   

   

    

   

Winter Camp

     One of my favorite memories growing up is going to  summer camp. I was a member of Junior Catholic Daughters - an organization similar to Girl Scouts and Camp Fire, and many of us looked forward to making the 75 mile bus ride from  Maywood to Wrightwood, California to spend a week at Camp Teresita Pines.  I can still picture the metal bunkbeds  in our cabin, and screen windows - they looked a lot like the camp cabins in the classic Disney movie, Parent Trap.

 

     All week long we swam, did crafts, played games; went on an overnight hike where campers cooked hamburgers wrapped in tinfoil in a hole in the ground, and attended daily Mass  at what looked like an outdoor amphitheater; We played a lot of volleyball,  sang around the campfire every night, and visited the camp store every afternoon.  I still remember counselors, Miss Sue and Miss Pat, and how I teased Miss Sue by continually calling her Sappy Sue. She took it all in good stride though,  and retaliated by calling  me Looney Cooney.

                                                  

     For most of us our camp experience ends when we reach our teen years ,  and what remains of that special time is only a memory.  That's one reason I looked forward to  Winter Camp.  To make a new camp memory! Although , not the same place or same season, and definetely not the same age ,  it was fun to gather with a group of women who cherish their own camp experience as much as I did.

 

 

   I first met these ladies , who call themselves The Goldens when we paddled the shores of Lake Coeur d Alene last September for PaddleFest . Our 104 mile journey around the lake was  a fund raiser for Camp Sweyolakan in Mica Bay to help bring attention to the camp's unique legacy and present day financial needs. It's the camp these women, now in their 60's attended when they were Camp Fire Girls ,  and later served as camp  counselors.                                              

                                                       

 

     Hearing their stories about camp, and the bond they share made me wish I had been a Camp Fire Girl, too. Several months ago while at a pot luck dinner for the paddlers, I was delighted when Mitch presented me with Honor Beads. Each color represents a particular achievement, i.e. Brown - Outdoors, red-Sports and Games, green - Creative Arts, and so on. They are called Camp Fire honors because when you have done any one of these successfully, you have the honor of wearing a bead. I was proud to wear mine at Winter Camp !
                                                      

 

     It was a great couple days, too !  We  played marathon games of Progressive Rummy and Mexican Train, did some bird watching - even saw a magnificent Eagle glide slowly across Scottie's deck to perch in a nearby pine tree. Some of us  enjoyed a cold, snowy night sitting outside in the Hot Tub.  Huck gave instruction about Tatting, and shared pictures of her talented work. Cooking was no problem as we divided into teams of three, and took turns preparing Brunch and dinner - all the meals were wonderful ! Including,  Miss Jonny's  best ever Blueberry Waffles with her specialty, homemade Blueberry syrup.

     I happily learned during PaddleFest, singing camp songs play a very rich and important part of the Sweyolakan tradition, so was pleased at Winter Camp we continued that tradition by singing the blessing before each meal.
                                             

    What's fun  is the Goldens still call each other by their camp  (counselor) names - Huck, Scottie , Mitch, Miss Margie,  Miss Jonny, Miss Kari, MoJo. These women ,  most of whom are now retired had successful careers, raised families and continue to be active with Camp Fire and Sweyolakan.

     I admire loyalty. Perhaps that's another reason I like The Goldens, not only are they loyal  to Camp Sweyolakan, but are loyal to one another.

Angry Wind

The wind blew angry
all through the night
whipping through trees
like hurricane waves
slapping hard against
a sandy shore, reminding me
of my own angry mood
when I lose my temper
or feel misunderstood
The churlish sound
constant and loud
like the night of
the dead on
All Hallow's Eve
pounding my head -
while  quiet sleep
escapes my realm
Oh! How I long
for soft lullaby
of gentle breeze
and whispering pines
to sooth my soul

Old Log Swing in January

Here's  the  old log swing
where I sit and gaze
at the dark blue water
of Lake Coeur d Alene
and its shadowy shoreline
in the distance
to contemplate life
and its living and loving
and goodness and giving
throughout the ages;
Its magnificence
and beauty
even on this cold, bleak
January day

Is Letter Writing a Lost Art?

    A sweet, lovely gift arrived in my mailbox Saturday, a letter  addressed to me from my dear friend, Phyllis.  Letter writing is considered somewhat of a lost art these days, so it was with great delight I opened the lengthy missive to  read the salutation that began,  Dear Kath

     As I curled up in my favorite  comfy chair to sit in  front of the warmth of the fire and leisurely read the  newsy details of a family Christmas, a grandchild's  soccer game,  a younger brother living in Oklahoma , and  movies ,  a warm , easy feeling fell upon me ; one so familiar between trusted friends. 

     Phyllis  also shared  her thoughts  about an article she recently read in the Los Angeles Times titled A love letter to the letter where  featured columnist, Simon Garfield laments  the loss of letter writing , and what society misses  by only texting, tweeting  and email.  I , too, lament the loss of letter writing and have blogged on this subject before.  Garfield rightly points to Keats and Dickinson suggesting what we know about their lives , their creative talent  and style primarily from letters they wrote.

    The same holds true not only for people of fame - authors, poets, politicians, but those within our own life circle.

     I thought about the box of letters I have from family and friends dating back to the late 1950's , and  how they describe place and time, activities and adventures,  mood and emotion . Sometimes they express encouragement, other times great sadness.  But what they always do is  leave a history , if even a glimpse,  of who we were, and how we lived.

    To write a letter takes some effort, it is sharing, a giving of oneself. There was a time, for  30 years or more  I received a letter from my Grandmother Vera Cooney every week. She was always interested  in how we were doing - mother,  my brother, and me. Then  she'd  write about her  activities - catering a big wedding and decorating cakes,  China painting, church,  an Altrusa club meeting, and  news about aunts, uncles and cousins, and about the weather in Council Bluffs.   I always looked forward to a letter from Grandma, and am happy I kept so many of them. There are other letters in my box - from Grandma Blanche, Aunt Nor, Dad, Uncle Lloyd,  Grandma Viv, and cousins , including  Lynn,  Shauna and Nicole, and  long time friends who wrote about their summer vacation  at the beach, or some feeling of great angst or  delirious  joy.  Each letter important, and held very dear. Each one a small  part of the larger story of family and friends.

    I once considered myself  a good letter writer, too,  but must admit in recent years have fallen victim to the  quick and easy text and internet as so many others have,  where texts never linger long, and email deleted. In his L.A. Times article, I appreciate what Garfield writes:

    And if we replace simple letters with their instant always-on alternatives, we relinquish so much epistolary architecture too. The elegant opening address and sign off, the politeness of tone and the correct grammar and spelling. And before this there is the nice flowing pen and the stationery, and after it the scuttle for the stamp and the rush to the last post.

    Receiving Phyl's letter helps renew my hope for letter writing.  I'm grateful to my friend for her letter, and the joy it brought me,   and because of my friend's letter, I'm  prompted  to  take pen and paper in hand   and  write a letter, too.