Process and Providence

The 4th of July.  The first holiday since my brother's death a little over a month ago. The emptyness, the void of his not being here looms large, like i'm  lost in the vast expanse of a dry, desolate desert.   i want to call  Walt  on the phone to hear his voice, to send him an email letting him know i'm thinking of him, to follow his Mafia game play on Facebook;  But it's not to be.   i want to look forward to being with him this month at our mother's home in Clarkston where we'd  visit the Pawn shops, share secret thoughts and  laugh at some silly thing while having  a beer together.   Walt promised mom he'd install gutters on the outside of her house.  A promise he won't be able to keep.  My mother is sad beyond belief, not because of gutters, but because her only son is gone from this earth , the one she brought into the world , nurtured and loved unconditionally. Her son who  is no longer here for her  to encourage  and  tenderly embrace .  My heart aches for her.

i think of Kerri, Walter's long time love,   her heart broken as she sits alone in the front room of the house she and Walt shared for so many years.    Weeping,  and wishing with all her might that this 4th of July was like last 4th of July when Walt grilled steaks outside and found joy setting off boxes of fireworks in their backyard. 

i want to be strong for both Mom and Kerri, but it's not easy as i still have a hard time grasping  my brother has died.  Looking for solace and trying to understand,   i read C.S. Lewis' ( the reknowned Christian apologetic)  book, " A Grief Observed".  Lewis describes so accurately the anguish of grief when a beloved one dies.  He says, "it's like an amputation".  And indeed it is.  Especially when it is one so close, so connected, so loved.

Somewhere in my being i know this total feeling of loss and separation is  a process we must endure.   Not easy , but hard. At once angry with God, questioning God, doubting God. Until finally accepting God's wisdom, and His Divine Providence ; Trusting in the end all will be well and Walt is laughing  with the Angels.

Chains of Sorrow

The shock
of his death; sorrow
deep, sorrow pervasive
sorrow not bitter,
just sad
over the loss
of this dearly
departed one
locks my heart
with grief
like chains
around the ankles of a prisoner.
Where is the hope?  of seeing
his face again, the joy
of his laughter, the sound
of his voice.
How long will i feel the pain ?
the void, the emptyness of his
not being here (little brother mine)
Only all the days
of my life.

Eulogy for Walt ( Sept. 4, 1954 - May 30, 2010)

Writing my brother's eulogy has proved to be the hardest thing i've ever had to do.  Not because i didn't know him well, or have a million jillion memories to share, but because his life on this earth ended so suddenly.  I still expect to see Walt, so full of life, hopeful, dreaming big dreams and endeavors walk through that door right now, saying "Hey, Kath are all these folks really here to celebrate me"?  He would be so pleased, so proud, so surprised  to know there were family and friends who love him so dearly.

Walt is my mom and dad's son, but when they brought him home from the hospital, i thought he belonged to me. i adored my baby brother from the very moment i saw him, and decided right then and there i would always be his champion, his protector.   Something he didn't always appreciate when he got older, and would say, "Sis, i can take care of my own battles". The truth is, Walt wasn't a batttler, or confrontational; He was sweet and forgiving by nature.

Looking back to his younger days, i can see my little brother and our next door neighbor, Richard pushing an over sized desert tortoise all around the  cul-de-sac  in my doll buggy, pretending they were on a hunting expedition. And how i'd make Walt be one of the students in my make believe classroom. And our sitting together on the front room floor eating Oreo cookies while watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Our mother instilled in us there wasn't to be any tattling - if there was, we'd both be in  trouble.  Mom taught from an early age we weren't just brother and sister, we were friends and needed to look after one another.

That doesn't mean we never had any tiffs or scuffs - we did.  Once when i was  15 and Walt 11, we were chasing through our small frame house on Palm Avenue - teasing each other about one thing or another.  At some point i stood inside the front door, pushing it shut while Walt stood outside the door trying to push it open, when slam-bam ! three of the panes cracked and broke.  After mom came home from work and inquired what happened, Walt and i just looked a blank, shrugged our shoulders  and said it must've been the hot weather. It  wasn't until many years later we told her the truth about the broken class. Somehow, i don't think she was surprised.

For a long time it was just Mom, Walt and me.  We called ourselves the 'Three Muskateers'   and made lots of memories together.  I remember one Saturday when the three of us got the idea to sing our conversation - like a movie musical:  "What are you doing, Wa-al-tt"?  His reply, "I'm sweeping the floo -o-or" .  So on and so on. It sounds silly, but it sure made weekend chores a lot more fun.

Our cousin, Kim shared how much he enjoyed hanging around with Walt when they were kids.  Today, they'd probably classify Walt  as A.D.D., said  Kim, "he was so energetic".

Walt did have an energy and enthusiam for life, including his passion for fishing, boating, riding his Harley and a variety of other things.  While visiting dad and his wife, Susie last summer, Walt said the fishing excursion he and dad went on was one of the best day trips ever. Not just becasue of the fish, but because of the quality time he got to spend with dad.

And his relationship with Kerri; so very dear to him. Kerri was Walt's sweetheart, his best friend, his faithful companion. Walt loved Kerri very much, they were like two peas in a pod, a perfect team; Working together, playing together, laughing together.

Our cousin Lynn in offering words of comfort said 55 years seems so young, but remember, many people at 85 years haven't made the positive impact on others that Walt has.  I then  thought about the true success of my brother's  life, and something his neighbor said the day before yesterday, " Walt, didn't have an enemy, he was good to everyone. He was a great man".

i dedicate this poem by e.e. cummings  to my little brother, Walt.

i carry your heart with me ( i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling) 
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart ( i carry it in my heart)

Portrait of Memories

Whenever I  reminesce about people I've known  and   places I've been,  it's not because I choose to live in the past, but to recall and remember an especially sweet moment, silly happening, sad event shared with family  or friends  - each one contributing to the fabric of my life, adding much  to the history of being  me. Every  individual has  their own unique history and story to tell. One that is often  marked with both  profound saddness and sublime joy.
  From the very start, my parents,grand-parents, and brother;  Aunts, uncles, cousins, school friends, neighborhood friends, church friends, work friends; my spouse and sons  - each on has colored my life with different hues of a glorious  rainbow, creating a portrait of memories I will always hold dear.

Life's Blessing

During a recent  weekend  visit with two  of my  long time friends,  we sat  for hours at our leisure,  talking about   many different things - something good friends are apt to do when getting together.  At one point,  one friend commented how she and her family were extremely blessed, and was grateful for the good life they had.
Some time later when I was alone with the quiet,  and my own silent thought , I reflected on what it means to be 'blessed' in life.  I considered my friends analogy that she and her family have been relatively free from strife, financially and personally so therefore 'blessed';  I certainly agree.   My whole life I have had  friends and relatives who are 'blessed' in just that way, due to good choices and circumstances,  and  pondered if that was the only criteria for consideration  of being blessed .
 I concluded not every one has the same opportunity to achieve wealth, or is  chosen for promotion  - regardless of how smart they are or how hard they work, nor is every parent  free from the hardships of daily living and raising upright kids, whether they are present to their children or not.  Why that is, I don't know.  What I do know is God has a purpose and plan for each of us. From the very beginning we are  'blessed' with the gift of life ;  Whether the road is smooth or full of potholes, His indwelling presence does not discriminate. It is up to us to receive His gift of faith and trust.  In doing so, we are truly blessed.

Thirty- Two

Thirty-two years of married life
thirty-two years being husband and wife
thirty-two years of  days well lived;
Building a business
raising children
making a home
Thirty-two years not all free
from strife; Challenges met, struggles
solved;  A marriage built on faith's foundation;
committment, friendship and love.

Gary and i celebrated our anniversary with early morning kisses and hugs,  reminisced  about the day we said, "I do", and marvelled  how quickly the years passed by.  Late afternoon our  young son, Gavin took us for a steak dinner;   When we protested the cost was too high  he said, "No, Mother and Dad, this is my   gift to the two of  you."

Colors and Sounds

Colors of  early Spring:
Daffidil yellow
new grass green
purple croscus
and tulip red.
Sounds of Spring:
Baby birds singing in
early morn
Gentle rain falling
like a toe tap dancing
when touching ground;
An afternoon wind
blowing through leaves
nature's music;
Hope abound

My Dream

I had a dream last night I was on the basketball court,  like in the days of my  early youth - pivoting to the left, pivoting to the right,  doing lay ups and shooting baskets .  Not  being very tall, the coach called me "Little One",  but quick and agile I moved the ball  like I was tall , and helped our team to score.  It was so long ago I  first learned to play; Girls baskeball still had a  'roving' guard.  This would be my favorite sport, from  elementary days all through high school. I loved playing basketball and being a basketball star.

Just as season's change, the sport of my dream changed, too - no longer on the basketball court, I was now holding a volleyball , standing behind the line ready to serve.  Like basketball, I played on a Volleyball team from the age of 12 , living and breathing every minute of it.  If basketball was my favorite sport, volleyball was a close second.  Still considered  the same short player, I wasn't picked for the team because of my height or being a good spiker, but  because I was good setter and very good server, placing the ball where I wanted it to go.  My body  strong. Athletic. Competitive. I was a good team player.

Then came mornng. I woke from my dream to  aching feet, a bad back and sore knees.  Slow to climb out of bed, I smiled anyway, thinking of  my dream and remembering   the day ...............

My Husband's Hands

After saying good bye to early morning guests, my husband and I   finish  up with a few routine chores, then meet  in our front room to sit quietly; Peaceful  and serene.  No music or sounds from the T.V., just our own voices if we choose to talk,  and time to listen to one another.  No hurry, no rush.  Sharing years together and knowing each other well,  we're not compelled to speak, but comfortable with our silence. 

Some days we sit on the sofa next to each other , reading a book or sharing a Bible verse.  This day Gary sits on the sofa alone,  while I sit on the chair, closer to the fire  opposite him.  I can tell he's lost in thought looking at the wooded  view through the window.  While he's looking at   the lake and trees, contemplating their natural beauty,  I look  at him, contemplating  the good man he is.

I observe his hands still  steady and strong; hands that lifted his  sons, encouraging them with words of wisdom and unconditional love.  Hands that have  embraced me , his wife of 32 years,  giving me strength whenever I've been anxious and  afraid. Hands so willing to help another, whether  friend or stranger - whenever they're in need.

I think how much I  admire this man who  believes a man's word is his bond, and lives life following that creed ,who places  hands together and bends a knee , giving thanks  to God for the blessing of  our family.

GOOD FRIDAY

They gathered along the rugged hill
not wanting to stare,
yet unable to look away
Some wept and quietly prayed;
Some gawked and mocked
and taunted the man
-both human and Divine
nailed upon the cross
the one they called,
" King of the Jews".
Some bowed  their head
afraid and ashamed
at what they had done;
Recognizing too late the
Son of Mary,
Son of David,
Son of God
At that moment
the sky turned dark
like charcoal,
the air stagnant and still
A  mighty wind
swept across the land
the heavens lashed out
with a thunderous noise;
The earth trembled; The angels cried
at  the Crucifixation of our  Lord

Sea Shell's and a Book

I was pleasantly surprised the other day when my friend Paula gave me a book and little bag of sea shells that once belonged to her mother, Dori. Dori passed away a year ago, making Paula's gift to me even more dear, especially since I know Paula and her mother were very close.

Paula suggested I read the book in one setting, periodically pausing to pick up one of the sea shells to observe and connect them with the author's life living comparison. My friend lifted me  futher by telling me Anne Morrow Lindbergh's memoir, "The Gift From the Sea" reminded her of my style of writing. Whoa ! I could hardly wait to open the book and start reading.

The original 1955 copyright was re-published in 1975 as a 'Twentieth Anniversary Edition'. Paula was right to have me read it in one setting; Once I started I couldn't put it down. I found Lindbergh's memoir both poignant and practical: Her words of wisdom aimed towards women, timely and timeless.

In Chapter III, titled, 'Moon Shell' Lindbergh writes, " Now, instead of planting our solitude with our own dream blossoms, we choke the space with continuous music, chatter,and companionship to which we do not even listen. It is simply there to fill a vacuum. When the noise stops there is no inner music to take its place. We must re-learn to be alone. Actually, these are among the most important times in one's life - when one is alone. Certain springs are tapped only when we are alone. The artist knows he must be alone to create;the writer, to work out his thoughts; the musician, to compose; the saint to pray. But women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves;that firm strand which will be the indespensable center of a whole web of human relationships."

I believe Lindbergh is saying, we are daughters and wives; Mothers and grandmothers; Employees, entrepreneur's and faithful friends. But in order to be who we are, what we are, we must retain a place of solitude and quiet within ourselves. For without taking the time to renew and refresh our spirit, how can we continue giving all we have to give?

Concluding chapter VI, "Argonauta" ( a certain rare beach world creature), Lindbergh writes, "Perhaps this is the most important thing for me to take back from beach living: simply the memory that each cycle of the tide is valid; each cycle of the wave is valid; each cycle of the relationship is valid. And my shells ? I can sweep them all into my pocket. They are only there to remind me that the sea recedes and returns eternally."

I pause now, as Paula wanted me to and pick up Dori's bag of shells, holding each one in my hand. I sit for several minutes studying the way they look, all different shapes, and sizes and colors; one round and smooth, another rough and prickly, one twisted and turned in, another wide open. For me they represent the the people and times of my life. I smile and better understand Lindbegh's words, "They are only there to remind me that the sea recedes and returns eternally." Not unlike the special people I have known throughout my life - those special ones who recede and return eternally. A very comforting thought.

Seasons Change

Winter cold , life is dormant;
Recessed , almost laid to rest
Dreary, dark days -
grey the only outside color;
The ground frost and ice.
But seasons change,
then spring; Like birth
the earth comes alive
Crocous  bloom, baby  birds sing
hope renewed , love renewed
hearts lifted , our spirit takes wing
and once again we fly high

The Answer

In saying my prayers tonight  , i wonder what my life has had to offer. Cousins and friends  so well to do -  talented  writers, artists,  and singers -  making  theirs a life of  glory and fame;  While mine so  plain and ordinary.  i pondered and thought more deeply, asking again, "what have i to give" ?  The answer  found in the quiet of my heart;  Fellowship, encourgement and  love - sharing with others the life they live.

A Lovely Irish Day

Drinking a Guinness with my friend Liz at  Kelly's  Pub on March 17,   and reading poems   our grandparents wrote long before either of us were born   made for a  memorable St. Patrick's Day and  happy celebration of all things Irish. 

With a wee bit of  the blarney,  Liz and I  discussed  other world  things -  faeries ,  leprechauns and the such and  how important we felt the connection to family is- to those both living and dead.

While my Irish ancestors came from County Cork and immigrated to America, Liz's family hailed from northern Ireland and immigrated to Canada.  Her great-grandfather, Albert Ernest Stafford Smythe published his book of poetry, "The Garden of the Sun" in 1923.   Although no longer in print, I highly recommend his work and encourage those interested in poetry to search for a copy in  used book stores or on line.  A fine example of Smythe's  writing  is the last stanza of  his poem,  "The Pilgrim's  Journey" where  that   longing for  new adventure  is felt; Until coming at last  to a place of solace and contentment.

"So the joys of the pilgrim's journey
are the summits that never cease
the crests of renewed endeavor
and the valleys of rest and peace"

The poems I chose to share with Liz are ones my Grandma Vera Cooney wrote in 1915  while she was still in high school.   The poems aren't published,  but hand written on a yellowed  old style notebook.  Grandma wrote poems on every subject - or so it seems - long verse, short verse, silly and serious.  I think " Log Cabin School" is one of her best during that period.   Seven stanza's in all,   this one  can stand alone in describing an early American log cabin school.

"In those days, no glass windows were found at all
just a hide or skin over a hole  in the wall,
The hard packed ground served as a floor
and the only opening was one little door"

Before leaving ,  Liz and I raised a  pint and clinked our mugs together  for one final toast;  To Vera  E. Cooney and   Albert Ernest Stafford Smythe. We cheered their poetry and their life, and   thanked them for sharing St. Patrick's Day with us.

WEARIN' OF THE GREEN

Long before 'Wearing of the green' was proclaimed by environmental devotees,  'Wearin' of the Green'  was meant for the Irish , and the  wanna be Irish - at least for a day.  St. Patrick's Day brings happy thoughts of  leprechauns, shillelagh's, shammrocks  and a pot o' gold, but primarily it's a day  set aside by the church to   honor the man who  brought the faith to Ireland, and according to folklore rid the land of snakes.   The building up  of  the Christian communities which he found on his arrival, and the planting of the faith in new regions give him his place as the patron of Ireland.

St. Patrick's famous Lorica (meaning breastplate in Latin)  is one of my favorite prayers:

I arise today
Througth God's strength to pilot me;
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of the devils,
From tempations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in a multitude.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through a confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

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

St. Patrick's Day (part 2)

I've always been proud of my Irish heritage and like  my Irish name. My son Gavin has a good Irish name, too - after my maternal great-grandmother whose maiden name was Gavin,  and Patrick for the Irish saint.  My husband likes to say he's Irish, but Dobbs' is really  an English name, but not Cooney.  Cooney  is all Irish, so is Norton on my mother's side - giving me a double dose of the Irish to celebrate. 

My dad loves music, especially an Irish tune. My grandpa Cooney  liked the Irish song, too and used to sing to my dad when he was little. Dad wrote the poem below telling of this sweet memory.


 MY IRISH SONG
 by Ron W. Cooney

I’m Irish heritage so I’m told,
But my mother, she was English.
Born and blessed with an Irish name,
Never had I another wish

As a boy, my dad, I’ll never forget –
Sang to me the Irish  song
I listened and learned and never forgot –
To me they’ll always belong

I always thought so Irish
I was raised to think in green
I liked all things of Erin –
All the Irish lore I’ve known and seen.

Finally I went to the emerald isle –
How long had I dreamed of this?
A personal experience that meant so much,
In my lifetime I would never miss

I visited the Ring of Kerry,
I kissed the blarney stone.
But never did  I find the poet Yeats;
Not even Molly Malone.

I walked by the river Liffey,
Went to Killarney too –
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary –
How to get there, I had no clue

Found Shamrocks and Guinness and Jameson –
Found pubs and the Book of Kells;
Found the history and culture and legends -
How I love the land of the Celts!

As I met the Irish people –
And listened to their music glad –
My heart went back to my boyhood,
To Irish songs sung by dad.

He now lives in my memories,
Where I sat upon his knee
A voice as sweet as an Irish lilt –
His singing folk songs just to me

Mothers, Daughters, a Grand-Daughter and Friends

Friday was a fun and happy day.  My mom n' me  drove from her home in Clarkston to Pomeroy. The weather completely cooperated  as there was no wind, rain or fog - but  skies bright and sunny, with warmer  temperatures than the day before.

It's not unusual for mother and me to have a fun day together,  but this day was particularly special because we met Sandy, her  darling daughter Kristen and grand-daughter, Josie  - who could easily be mistaken for one of those picture perfect 'Gerber Babies'; That's no exaggeration.   With her big blue eyes, round rosy cheeks and sweet smile, Josie is a charmer.  She makes anyone standing near want to pick her up, hold her close to their heart and  simply love her.

Sandy and I have been friends since our early high school days  - dating the same boys, going to Friday afternoon  football games  , attending  school dances   and  part of the same clique.  While I have seen Sandy several times over the years, it's been 40 years since my mother and Sandy last saw each other. It was  a tender moment to hear Sandy squeal , " Mrs. Cooney ! ", and  as they embraced,  my mother's reply, " Sandy!, how happy I am to see you !"

As we lunched, shopped and enjoyed each others company, my mom said to Kristen, " I see so much  of your mother in you". Then turned to Sandy and me, " It's almost as time hasn't passed. Watching you two  laughing and talking  together warms my heart; It's like seeing you when you were teenagers having so much fun".

Time does pass, however,  and we have grown older - much closer to 60 not 16,  but we're blessed in the connections that bind us, the memories that keep us together,  and the present we still share.

THE WOMEN

I know one woman  who is celebrating her 95th birthday today and another who will celebrate her 94th  on Saturday.  If my maternal grandmother was still alive, she'd  be celebrating her 94th birthday this year,  too - in July.  In remembering  Mrs. Wagner, Gladys and Grandma Viv I'm drawn to think about all the women  who have touched my life; Each leaving their imprint, their impact, their influence with me.

The first, and most important is my mother.  From the moment I entered the world I  knew her unconditional love and have always been guided by her words of wisdom and understanding heart. Also near were my  grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and aunts imparting to me  in  their light hearted, good natured way the lessons of joyful living.  Each of these women were courageous, persevering, kind, and easy to laugh. Traits I admire and wish I practiced more.

 After my great Aunt Nor was diagnosed with Glaucoma and her sight was dimming, yet not totally gone, she  went shopping at Brandeis's - a  department store in Omaha, the city of my birth.   As she told the story , I could picture  my slim and trim, well manicured,  classy  aunt    approach  the escalator then suddenly stop;  Frozen like an ice sculpture, unable to move and  gripped with fear  that if she stepped onto the escalator 'going up'  she would  stumble and fall. 

 After a few minutes, Aunt Nor  chided herself, " If I don't use this  escalator now,  I'll never  use  it again".  At that moment my great aunt  made a  life changing decision. She  mustered her courage,  made the effort and took the step onto the escalator.  Not a 'giant step for mankind', but certainly a giant step for my aunt,  and one for her niece as I recall my aunt's tale of courage whenever I'm frozen with fear and afraid to take that step forward.

Women  love their  dads, husbands and brothers but what would we be without the women in our lives ?  Those who gave  us guidance, encouragement and example of  life experience well lived .   I'm ever grateful to the mothers of  girlfriends, mothers like Mrs. Wagner who remained  steadfast and true during our   growing up  years -  to  Sisters of Notre Dame, the order of nuns who selflessly gave me my  early education and helped foster  my Catholic faith,  to women coaches who saw in me something special,  pushing  me to  excel to the best of my ability;  To women work friends like Gladys,  and Doris Outz  who constantly reminded me not to take myself too seriously, just  to be myself and I'd find success ; To life long family female friends, both living and dead; Women I dearly love  - wonderful and whimsical women who made a definite  difference in my life, helping  me grow and  become the woman I am today.

TODAY

                                                       
Read a book
sing a song
dance a jig
carry on

Write a letter
tell a tale
live life sweetly
let peace prevail                                                             

                                                                                                                          

ANTICIPATION

The light of day has been peeking through the bedroom window
earlier these past few days, and lingering longer before the
dark of night appears.
When I take my afternoon walk, I hear loud and clear a
chorus of birds chirping from their nests,
nestled in tall  pine trees -
and see a snow white rabbit hippity hop
across the thawing field; Each of us anticipating
the changing season and  warmth of Spring.

IN THE END

For many Christians Ash Wednesday begins the first day of  Lent - a time set aside by the church  for the faithful to repent, and reflect on the passion of Christ  that ultimately leads  to His glorious resurrection on Easter morning.

From a  very young age I remember attending Ash Wednesday services and having  the parish priest  mark   my forehead   with blessed ashes   while he intoned the passage from scripture, " From ashes you came, to ashes you shall return".  I must admit, it wasnt't until I was older and gained spiritual maturity that I understood this practice was to remind us of our own  immortality.  A rather sobering thought.

 Perhaps that's one reason so many of us study geneology, Scrapbook, blog and journal; Even try to connect with others on Face Book, My Space and pursue certain long lasting  endeavors.  It's an effort to  be remembered, to leave something of ourselves on this earth after we're no longer here. But in the end,   it won't mean a thing what we leave behind,only how we've lived our life; Loving, sharing, caring. Believing in God, trusting in our Maker.

Glorious Handiwork

I sat on the old log swing today, gently swaying back and forth and  saw a different view of the lake from yesterday and the day before. It was a   calm, tranquil water,  deep gray  in color;  Shaded light to dark, a single  ray of pearly white  separating the two. The sky overhead , a lovely robin egg blue.

The ground all around was muddy and wet, not from melting snow like last year and the year before, but from every day February  rain .  The rocky , rounded terrain close to the rim is covered with  green moss. I've never walked the moors of  Scotland, but imagine this is what they might look like.

After a while, I stop the motion of the swing and sit  perfectly still.  I heard no sound, only the quiet all about me. Not a wisp of breeze, the tall trees stand silent, unmoving - like guardsmen at the  Queen's gate.

Beautiful. Serene. I ponder the natural artistry that surrounds me,  and am moved to pray out loud and joyously proclaim David's psalm from of old , " The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims His handiwork".

PERFECT RELECTION

 I started  off walking  at my leisure today, criss crossing down the hill to the old log swing. Once there  and seeing the view of the lake and how it  perfectly reflected  the clouded sky,  I was immediatley awed and    loudly inhaled, as one might gasp when pleasantly surprised.  I wanted to take a picture and was frustrated I left my camera at the house ; The best I could do was   turn around and  hurry back   as fast as I could towards home to grab  the Nikon. So that's what I did.  

A short time later , with sore knees and labored breath, I  returned  to the swing  to get my  picture; To capture forever the  natural beauty my eyes beheld.

The separation of earth and sky seemed to oblivate and melt into one.  Only the slow passage of a single  small boat seemed to differenciate where one ended and the other begun.  I couldn't help but ponder if the captain and his crew saw what I saw, and was reminded of  Field's  Dutch Lullaby " Wynken, Blynken, and Nod".

A WALK IN THE WOODS

Most  of  the morning, into early afternoon I sat at my PC placing  ads  on the Internet to help promote our HealthQuest Nutrition web site (www.healthquestnutrition.com); not a difficult task, but time consuming and tiring.

After spending two hours on one site writing copy , trying (unsuccessfully) to upload a picture and hitting a key to continue, only to lose the page due to some kind of input error,  I finally had enough. I  threw my hands up and  shouted  a few unsavory expletives.  In a few minutes I  turned my head towards the window to  see two deer standing near; The openness, the freedom of the outside calling me forward.

My response was immediate. I got up from my chair, slipped on my North Face fleece, grabbed my Patagonia light weight rain jacket and knit gloves then headed out the front door. The early days of February are still cool, but no mounds of snow like last year and the year before; Only soft, muddy ground from too much rain and no sun.

For me, whatever the weather, walking in Dobbs' Woods always cheers me and makes me glad. I think about the pilgrim wanderers of Walden's Pond and Muir Woods and wonder about their delight in seeing the breath and bounty of the land in all its natural grandeur. This day I traverse back and forth across the treed slope , forging my own path to the ragged rim overlooking Rockford Bay. The low laying clouds and pastel colors highlighting portions of the lake make it appear other worldly; Mystical. I breath in the cool, fresh air and am awed by its beauty.

Coppery looking pine needles and broken tree limbs from winter winds are scattered across the wet earth; tiny sprouts of green grass have started to push forth, hoping for spring.

A few days ago I observed what I thought were cougar tracks on the long rock road leading to our home, so I keep my eyes downward, searching the ground to see what I might find; Sometimes even kneeling to get a closer look. Nothing out of the ordinary,though. Only the usual deer and dog prints.

It is quiet. Still. The only sound , the clicking of my camera lens when I stop to take a picture. I'd like to linger, hike another trail, but it'll be getting dark soon so I turn and head back. No longer frustrated or feverish with angst, but refreshed and relaxed.

JACK

Memories of my youthful past came rushing forward today when I spoke with an old high school friend I hadn't heard from in years. Our chatter back and forth was at once familiar and knowing; Easy. Comfortable. Confiding. Ours a remembrance, a connection tightly wound of moments shared (clandestine, and otherwise) with another, we both held dear.

"How is she", he asked. "Just fine", I said.

In that second we were teenagers again, reliving the first time he asked me that question, and all it implied. Young love. First love. Secret love.

Recalling our long ago comraderie and Robbers Roost after school, we laughed at our revelry way back then and smiled kindly, remembering
who we were
what we were
where we were
thinking the world was ours to hold and mold; Seeing ourselves as hip and cool.

With his white hair and my wrinkled skin we're no longer young, but growing old. More mellow. Mature (though hopefully, still hip and cool). Grateful for our past, more grateful for what we've become, recognizing
who we are now
what we are now
where we are now
was all in God's plan.

GROWTH

Love
laughter
joy
care;
hurt
anger
sorrow
dispair
Changing emotions
twisted round
bring you up
then tear you down;
Stages of growth
out of chaos comes
like the planting
of seed; Then spring
colorful tulips and mums.

WHAT TO WRITE

The yellow lined paper
and ballpoint pen
are waiting
and waiting
for a flow of
words to begin;
At my desk
i pause
and ponder
for what seems
forever
without a thought
in my head

what to write
what to write
what to write

My mind is blank
like an empty tank
ready to be filled
with something useful
to share

what to write
what to write
what to write

Stories of nature
or friendship old ?
Love and family
wealth untold.
Something lively
something bright
A Harrier hawk
taking flight, or
the soaring high
of a long tailed
kite; The cold
dark sky of
a starry, starry night ?

what to write
what to write
what to write

COFFEE TASTE TEST

Saturday morning. I'm sitting at the PC with my cup of decaf - freshly brewed. A mixture of Kirkland's Dark Roast and Peet's Major Dickason's. A combination my husband, Gary came up with. A pretty good one, too. Not only is the full bodied flavor good , but by combining Kirkland and Major Dickason's , we save on the cost of coffee as it lasts much longer.

For years we were strictly Starbuck's coffee drinkers, but Gary never cared for what he called, "the bitter aftertaste" of Starbucks , so we finally agreed to find a specialty coffee we both could savor. Because we drink decaf, our choices were somewhat limited as most blends are caffineated. None the less, we pursued our coffee hunt , and for months partook in our own private 'coffee of the week' taste test. We drank cup after cup of varied coffee's , including Kona, Craven's , Tully's; Ultimately it was Peet's that met our criteria, "bold, but not bitter".

The irony in our choice of Peet's, is Peet's and Starbucks have a shared hisory. Alfred Peet introduced specialty coffee to Seattle; The founders of Starbucks worked at Peet's so they could learn all they could about how to roast, buy and sell specialty coffee, and Jerry Baldwin, an original founder of Starbucks is still director of Pete's.

According to the "Passion for Coffee" web site, Pete's coffee tends to be a little darker than Starbucks House Blend because it is roasted longer.

" That's okay", my husband would say, " I still choose Pete's. Roasted longer is fine. It's the bitter after taste (of Starbucks) that I don't like".

I'm reminded of the famous Coke vs Pepsi taste test and conclude taste, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder (or in this case, mouth of the partaker of drink).

PATSY AND LINDA

Earlier this week while out taking my afternoon walk with Sam E. Beagle and Missy dog, I thought about a recent email from my childhood friend, Linda. She told me of her New Year's Eve trip to the neighborhood we grew up in ; A quiet, quaint cul de sac in the plain Jane suburb city of Bell. Hers was a bittersweet path to the past, not only because she revisited long gone days of youth, where we spent day after day roller skating, riding matching pink and white Schwinn bikes and playing with baby dolls, paper dolls and Barbie dolls , but because two days later it would mark the 21st anniversary of her mother's death.

We have a long history, Linda and me; Only 4 years old when we met, becoming instant play pals and life long friends.

From the start, our mothers were the very best of friends. In fact, I learned about the meaning of friendship from observing my mom and Patsy - their joy in being together, their faithfulness and fidelity one to the other: Good times and bad times, no matter what - they stuck like glue .

In her email Linda wrote about turning onto Southhall Court and Southhall Lane , and for just a moment envisioned her mom standing at the fence like she did so many years ago. I recall a similar image of Patsy. It was the late 1950's and my family didn't have a phone, so if someone needed to reach my parents they'd dial Patsy's number. I can still hear Patsy hollering from her driveway, " Lenore , the phone's for you". To some , it may seem quirky and unsophisticated, but in truth it was friendly and familar. Endearing and sweet.

It was sitting in Linda's driveway that her mom taught us how to play " Jacks", and the first time I ate a taco was at Linda's when her mom made homemade tacos - long before Taco Bell, Del Taco and a hundrend other taco stands on every southern California corner. To this day, Patsy's taco's are the best I've ever had.

Patsy also  taught me to crochet.  And my brother, Walt remembers she and her husband Lawrance bought him his first pair of cowboy boots when he was only six years old.  In later years Patsy  hosted my wedding shower and baby shower. It would be impossible to think about the highlights of my life without including Patsy. She loved us, and we loved her. It was heartbreaking, and seemed unreal when Patsy died at the young age of 55. Younger than Linda and I are now.

As I walked along the wooded trail , I continued to think about Linda and Patsy , wishing Linda was nearby so I could give her a hug . I wanted to tell her how special I think her mother was, and how proud I am of her for carrying on through the challenges of her own life in such a strong, positive way; knowing her mother would be proud of her, too.

No loss ever compares to the loss of a loved one. While it's true the sun will continue to rise each and every morning , just as its done for hundreds of years, nothing is never, ever quite the same after the death of one we loved so dear; A small part of us dies, too. It's only in the remembering we keep them near.

Something Good

January first , the sentiment "Out with the old, in with the new" repeats itself over and over again, as folks from all corners of the earth resolve to be
steady
steadfast
dauntless
daring;
Uncompromising
courageous
unflinching
unfailing
in the promise they've made to faithfully follow through with their
New Year's Day resolution
To retire
relinquish
and dispose
of bad habits, bad manners, bad food, bad relationships
To reshape
reform
restore
something good to better themselves, their family and the world.

A Winter Night's Walk

Late Christmas eve, after celebrating Mass and the festivities of our fun home-spun get together, my friend Jeanne and me walked down the long wintry road near my home - slightly ahead of us , our dogs gleefully raced one after the other. The outside smell was clean and fresh. My lungs expanded as I took in a deep breath. The cold, clear air felt good. Bundled up in outer wear designed to keep one warm in freezing temperatures, we stopped midway to take in the beauty all around us - to admire the bright moon giving light to the night time snow covering the ground.

We agreed that looking across the field was like looking at a billion Swarovski crystals sparkling on a sheet of silky white. Breathtaking. Brilliant. Wonderful.

It was so peaceful. In no hurry to move from where we were standing, we let many minutes pass before we started walking again

All was quiet; Still. No sound to be heard, but the sound of our own voices as we exclaimed the natural splendor of this north Idaho scene, and I couldn't help but wonder if this silent night was so unlike the night the Christ Child was born.

Christmas Eve Past

I can't truly say it was "Little House on the Prairie", but it was a white frame farm type house in the little city of Bell where my mother would wrap presents late into the night and bake brownies and cookies and make batches of chocolate fudge -many who said, " The best in all the world" to get ready for our Christmas Eve celebration.

On December 24 mom would do her job at the newspaper until 3 p.m. , then rush home to finish dressing the turkey, slice the ham, mash potatoes, candy yams. For it was to our modest home each Christmas Eve neighborhood friends, work friends, school friends and long time family friends would come for dinner and yuletide merriment. Everybody seemed to enjoy "Cooney's Open House" buffet.

Mother had everything prepared and arranged just right. Our flocked tree, standing in the corner of our living room was beautifully trimmed with lights all aglow; The baby Jesus laid nearby, snug in His crib, a quiet reminder for our celebration.

Thinking back, I marvel at how she did it - being a single mom, working full time and only a meagher income. My brother Walt and I helped where we could, but it was really mother who did all the planning and hard work; Her joyful spirit filled the house with Christmas warmth and Christmas cheer .

Ours was a small family - my mother, brother and me, and what mom did year after year was provide a Christmas Eve memory that still lingers on - a connection with others of sharing and caring in the season of Love.

Standing Near

Yesterday afternoon while I was window shopping and enjoying the holiday lights twinkling and tinkling along Sherman Avenue I overheard a sad story about a middle aged woman lost and forlorn - alienated, separted , disengaged from the family she loves. I didn't mean to listen in on the woman's conversation with her companion, but there we were standing together in front of "All Things Irish" , and the woman's voice was loud. Not wanting to intrude or appear an eavesdropper, I soon turned and walked away.

Life can be so fragile, the heart easily bruised
and broken by
unkind words
harshly spoken
thoughtless deeds
needlessly done.
Pride and envy
the enemy leading
the way to friendships
ruin. But more than that
ridicule and contant criticizm
break the spirit
like a weight around the
ankles causing one
to drown.
How much better
to encourage, to exhort,
lift up, build up
cheering one to
carry on; To persevere
with the duties of life
and dream dreams
of successful endeavor.
My hope, my prayer
this Christmas season and
every season is for
those weary souls
isolated and alone
to be reunited, reborn, renewed
by a touch of the hand, a warm
embrace, a caring look one to
the other, saying
Oh! sweet darling dear one
you matter to me ;
I'm glad you're here, standing near.

Endangered

Oh ! the pain
the anquish, the dark
dispair
self-inflicted
seemingly beyond repair
by wrong choice
and bad decision
A young woman
running towards ruin;
Drugs and lies
big lies and little lies and
prostitution.
How to help ? To
give her hope
when she digs deeper,
deeper the hole
and won't look up

Family Bible

One day last week while I was browsing the second hand shops, I came across an old, oversized Bible. It was setting on the floor in the book section of the store. I gently ran my hand over the fancy gold leaf lettering identyfing the book as "The Holy Bible and the Bible Arranged in Subjects with A Complete Concordance and Comprehensive Helps". I then carefully turned to the opening page to find the 1891 copyright and publisher, J.A. Wilmore. I had never heard of Wilmore, but surmize he must have been an early publisher of Bibles as Tyndale and Thomas Nelson are today.

Other than the well worn cover and title page being torn away from the binding, the Bible looked to be in fair condition with the remaining 1,062 pages still in tact and readable. There are several introductory pages : Contents, Preface, Publishers Announcement. I scanned quickly through them, then came to the First Book of Moses, called Genesis and read, " In the beginning God created the heaven and earth". My spirit was lifted, as it always is whenever I read the word of God.

I spent several more minutes turning the pages of Exodus, Kings, Chronicles before coming to a Family Record section. To my surprise each line was filled in with names and places of birth and death. The first entry John Wyler born October 1835 in Ragersville, Ohio; Died July 1910 was written in that cursive style script practiced in the 19th century with a fine point fountain pen. According to the record, other family members were born in Ireland, Scotland, Germany, and Iowa. The last recording was Kurt Alan born March 1963 in Tahoe City, California.

Marriage and Baptism dates are also listed, and as I flipped through the pages I found obituary clippings of William Wyler and George Lindell , bible study notes written in long-hand and a thank you note dated April 25, 1962 to "Dear Emma - Love, Sarahlyn" . One other interesting piece I found between the pages was an Edison Phonograph Owner's Certificate dated July, 1910 giving me a further glimpse into this family - telling me the one time Bible owner enjoyed listening to music.

I closed the Bible and knew it didn't belong on the floor of a thrift store or antique store or any store, but with the ancestors whose family history has been so carefully documented and recorded in these pages.

I asked the sales clerk how much she wanted for the Bible. She said, "Oh, I don't know. How about two dollars"? I said, "I'll take it". So now Wilmore's New Analytical Reference Bible is no longer on the floor of the Animal Shelter thrift store, but safe and secure on a table in my study. I don't plan on being the permanent keeper, only the temporary guardian - at least until one day I can locate the rightful owner of this Good Book.

Thanksgiving 2009

In homes today across Pilgrim's land
mothers and dads and sisters and brothers
and cousins and pals will
gather to play and repartee, to
repeat stories already told
at other holiday celebrations
and overeat turkey and
cornbread dressing
and mashed potatoes and
sweet potatoes and
cranberry salad and creamed corn
and pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread.
Many will pause for a moment
away from football games,
games of cribbage and watching old movie
musicals on DVD to recall
and recount some blessing,
some bounty, some beautiful
happening of the past year;
A baby born, a friendship restored,
a new job found, and give thanks to the Creator.
For others who have struggled with
saddness and loss; Feeling far removed
from Rockwell's "Freedom From Want"
their Thanksgiving is offered
in persevering hope, not dispair
knowing God will provide,
trusting in His care.

Looking Towards Winter

The view today from the old log swing looks bleak. The pumpkin orange and yellow squash colors of autumn are gone. The lake is flat, non-descript. The mid-range row of moutains are white with snow, like a chocolate bundt cake drizzled with vanilla frosting. The noble and evergreen trees seem staid and sober knowing the approaching winter is near. A raven with wings spanned wide sqawks loudly as he makes a solo flight across the expanding sky. I breathe in the cold, chilly air of north Idaho and am thankful for this place in time.

Splash of Color

It's been grey, drab
all day dreary
no blue sky
or sunshiney ray
Thoughts turn inward
casting a reflection
on the saddess of life
when foresaken by a friend
or a family member dies
Oh! where is the lightness,
the brightness to lift
one's spirit ?
To laugh with abandon and
carefree merriment
Then 4:10. Out the study room
window I see the setting sun
Brilliant. Beautiful. Domed between
the bland skyline and tops of trees
Reddish orange like the luscious lustre
of a vine ripened tomato
and I smile at the
splash of color added
to this colorless day.

Fall Leaves Fall

Fall leaves
gently fall
to the damp grassy earth
in my mother's backyard
covering the ground
in a blanket of
autumn color;
Like the golden yellow
of a golden delicious apple,
the green of a Granny Smith,
the deep orange of
a baked sweet potato
and pomegranate red.
I slip on
an old pair of
garden gloves and
grab the rake
to make piles and
piles of soft leafy mounds
soon to be bagged and
trucked away.
The task is not unpleasant
on this cool November day
I move and breathe
in the change of season
happening all around me
and am reminded of
pilgrims and pumpkins
and Thanksgiving Day

Lake Chelan, Ace Hardware, Friendly Service and Survial Items

I'm home now after a week at Lake Chelan with Margaret and Sandy. The three of us have been friends since high school and meet each November for a 'Northwest Gals Get-A-Way'. You might say we're a 'condensed version' of a larger group of friends who have remained close since those long ago school days in the 1960's. With Marg living in Sammamish, Sandy in Tri-Cities and me in north Idaho, the short driving distance makes it easier for us to get together more than once a year; Cherished time we look forward to, always wishing the other 'Bell Belles' could join us in our happy, carefree time.

Our Chelan days are lazy, easy - not planned before hand. No time schedules, or alarm clocks to wake us, we get up at our leisure to lounge around in our pj's , watch early morning T.V. and drink coffee. We share stories about our husbands and children and anquish over wrinkles and weight gain, and laugh out loud over silly things we've done, and hope to still do.

During our stay we visited favorite and familiar spots - Leavenworth , the marvleous mock Bavarian village named after Captain Charles Leavenworth; Apple Auntie's Antique Mall in nearby Cashmere , Mill Bay Casino and downtown Chelan. While in Chelan we added a new shop stop to the number of stores to browse; Kelly's Ace Hardware. Little did we know how fun and interesting it would be. It was only after the ever observant Margaret noticed kitchen utensils through the window that we even decided to walk in. I was looking for a certain type of cheese slicer, and she thought by some off the wall chance, I might find it there. To our surprise we did ! Not only did Kelly's have the cheese slicer I wanted , they also had the 'Life Hammer' Marg was looking for.

We were just about to pay for our wares when we learned how true their store moto , " Old Time Friendly Service From Friendly Folks Since 1925", really is. A smiling middle aged sales clerk, wearing work jeans and a plaid shirt hurried over to tell us more about the advantages of the "Life Hammer" and the importance of having one in the car. The three of us were all ears and wide eyed, when he said, "Come over here, and take a look at these survival items". His enthusiasm was contagious, so off we went like Camp Fire girls following after our troop leader, down one aisle then another.

He took time explaining and showing us a variety of survivalist items one should carry in their rig during winter weather. He made each one sound so vital and neccessary , we wanted to buy them all ! Margaret suggested they'd make good stocking stuffers for Christmas, Sandy and I agreed. He then led us over to the autmotive section and picked up a jug of alternative gas fuel safe enough to keep in our car in case we ran out of gas. According to Ace Man, it was good for 10 miles . Wow ! We wanted that , too. Although, I can't remember the last time I ran out of gas; I think college. Still, we all agreed , driving in northwest winters is full of uncertainty and requires good planning in case of some unforeseen road hazard. So everything Ace Man was telling us seemed to make good sense, and we took turns nodding to each other, saying, "Yeah, that's right", confirming his counsel.

Finally , the friendly sales clerk led us to a display of soy candles neatly arranged on a shelf towards the front center of the store; He carefully picked up each one and placed it under our nose so we could smell the scent . Being polite, the three of us oohed and aahed and said , "How nice", but by this time we were ready to move on, and head for the Hallmark store across the street. We thanked Ace Man for his help , bid him adieu and walked out the door still talking about survival items to keep in our car, and marvelled over the friendly service at Kelly's Ace Hardware.

Trio of Trees , a Skier and Halloween Sound Effects

It is blowy and blustery this morning. I'm perched at my private spot on the old log swing to gaze at the bay and autumn scenery that surrounds me. The ground is wet from the rain last night; The moss covered basalt beneath my feet, and along the rim of the escarpment makes me think of green velvet and Ireland - at least the Ireland I envision in my mind.

Some of the trees have changed color again , from a burnt orange to mustard yellow. Three white pines, the same three I've looked at a hundred times catch my attention as they sway back and forth in the wind. They stand close together, their branches intertwined. Is it my imagination ? or are they really happy and smiling, like a trio of friends with their arms around each other, grooving and moving to an old Leslie Gore song.

Unexpectantly and without warning the humming of a gas engine breaks my reverie. I can hardly believe my eyes when I see a lone boat pulling a skier , close to shore. I look more closely, the skier is wearing a wet suit, but his sudden crash, splash into the water makes me shiver. I zip my jacket and pull the collar closer around my neck. A sliver of sunshine peeks through the crowded, darkly clouded sky but quickly disappears. The lake , not the pretty blue of summer seems foreboding and black, like charcoal. I think again of the skier who is now long gone, disappearing like a thief in the night , and wonder why he chose this cool, chilly day to go skiing. The sound of the wind billowing through the trees grows louder, more menacing - perfect sound effects for this Halloween day.

Daily Routine

It is 6:30 a.m. , but outside is still dark like the middle of the night. Except for the occasional crackle of wood burning in the wood burning stove the house is quiet. I've read my morning Devotional (the one my friend Susan sends me each month), and have said my prayers. I think of my family, my friends, my home and thank God for the start of this new day and am glad and grateful for this moment, this time, this place, this space; For all that I have, all that I am. Yet, I want to grow. Be better than I am. A better wife, better mother, better daughter, better friend. Not so selfish, possessive or harbor er of past hurts, but light hearted and uplifting, giving to others an encouraging word.

Soon Gary will awaken and we'll begin the routine of our day; A cup of coffee, a game of Cribbage, the morning news. The phone will ring. It will be my mother asking how I am. Soon my son will walk up the stairs letting us know he's home from long hours working Night Auditor at the Holiday Inn. He'll share a funny story or two about rowdy hotel guests, then head for bed.

Our dogs, Sam E. Beagle and Missy scratch at the front door letting me know they're ready to go on a walk. I rub them behind their ears and pet their head, telling them to be patient, we can't go until I fill the feeders and the birds are fed.

It seems simple and easy, and it is. This everyday, ordinary life of mine. Some may long for something more glamorous and exciting, but for me, the routine of my day suits me fine.

October Twenty-fifth

Today is special
especially to me
and to my parents (and husband and sons
and to those who love me)
A day of importance
a day of exhuberance;
A day to ruminate
to illuminate,
to celebrate and rejoice
A day to dance , be
merry and full of mirth
October twenty -fifth,
the day of my birth.

59 nine years ago today, I was born to the most wonderful mother and wonderful dad who nurtured me, encouraged me, and showed me unconditional love. So young were they, when a babe in the womb was I; Their plans, their dreams put on hold to give their daughter better dreams to behold

Poetry on a Windy Night

The cold north wind blew
loud and mighty last night
whipping the shutters
on the side of the house
while inside we sat cozy and warm
reading poetry from
a stack of books
piled up on the floor;
e.e.cummings , modern
and dissident; Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
not famed like Cummings,
and other masters of poem,
but a popular poet
of her time; And Alfred Lord Tennyson
with his rhythum and prose, awed
and enthralled me
in his "Idylls of the King"
and the tale he wrote
Late passed the hours
and still I read
about good Arthur, the
knights and the
life they led.

A Perfect Fall Day

The weather has definitely changed. Not yet the cold of winter, but no longer the warm days of summer, the Fall air is cool and crisp like biting into a red Delicious apple fresh out of the ice box. I'm wearing my well worn jacket and knit cap as I sit on the old log swing. It is quiet and peaceful . I stare and study Rockford Bay, wondering if I'll ever grow tired of what I like to call, "my own private paradise". I conclude I never will. Each season brings a different, slightly unique aspect to the same view, and I continue to be enchanted anew.

Along the shore line, boat slips are empty. Jet skies and ski boats have been stored away until next spring. Large lake homes are closed and locked up, keys handed over to winter care takers. The only activity on the lake is several sea gull's circling close to the water, looking for a good fishing spot. The water is glassy, smooth; Like a mirror it reflects the forest trees in all their beauty, even picking up the warm autumn colors - deep orange, corn yellow, red and amber displayed on the deciduous maple, paper birch and cottonwood.

The sun isn't shining and the sky seems muted in varying shades of blue. I look up at the clouds and remember a game I used to play with my mother when I was very young. We would sit on the grass in our front yard , look up at the clouds and search for different images and characters we saw in the shape of the clouds and point them out to each other. That's what I do now. At first I see two cub bears , then a girl doing a swan dive from her diving board in the sky.

The scent of red fir coming from the chimney in our wood burning stove drifts down to where I'm sitting and reminds me it's time to head back to the house, that there's chores to get done and dinner to fix. I slowly stand up, stretch out my arms and take a deep breath reveling in the delight of this perfect Fall day. I think of the morrow, when I'll sit on the old log swing, and once again look across Rockford Bay .

Morning Light

Earth awaits morning light,
woodland creatures anticipate
the start of day
Clouds of grey part and
open wide
like a curtain on a stage
There the sun appears in all
its glory , lifting
shadows of the night
Shining brightly
it warms the path and
shows the way
to plump wild turkey
and white tail deer
Birds rested , now on the rise
gawk and sqawk and flap
their wings, ready for
flight across an
expanding blue sky
Flower petals drooping,
stooping in the dark , are lifted
upward, towards Heaven's gate

In Good Company

The double glass doors leading
to my place of solace
are open wide, allowing me to see the flame of the fire
in the wood burning stove, and feel its warmth
Comfortable, content
I sit cocoon like in this room of music
and books reading poetry
Quietly, silently at first,
then aloud, that I might
give voice to the phrase, the force
of Francois Villon - the edgy French poet
writing his The Great Testament in the long ago
year of 1461 with levity, and not a little pathos
and John Keats, the beloved Romantic , a favorite of
Fanny and future pursuers of poem
and Emily Dickinson, the famed Belle of Amherst
and Marge Piercy, cool and contemporary;
All good company on this golden hued
October day where
muted fall colors filter through
slat covered windows
casting dancing shadows
from ceiling to floor .
I pause to contemplate
the poet's written words
woven together
to make the perfect poem
and know I, and the world are in a
better place
for their gift to create

Writing a Picture

Each morning upon waking I look out the window to see a favorite view; One that lifts my spirit
the lake,
tall pines,
the birds
and sky

Most days I trek down to our well worn log swing so I can have a closer look at the bay. I sit , gently swaying back and forth and study the landscape. Today, I contemplate how one might describe this vision to someone without sight.

Unlike the artist who paints the scene for others to enjoy, or photographer who sets the shutter speed to capture the perfect picture, the writer must rely on words alone to show
the lake,
the pines,
the birds
and sky

The wind is blowing hard now , whipping the lake into row after row of cupped white capped water. From a distance it looks like it might have the texture of freshly made merangue . Across the bay , a crooked shoreline outlines the boundary between earth and water. Mountains ,blanketed with thousands of Evergreens, frame the background. Closer to where I'm sitting I notice hundreds of new growth pinecones - reddish brown, still miniature in size hanging from tall pines like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Another gust of wind causes clumps of old dry needles and broken twigs to fall from the trees. They crunch underfoot when walking across the wooded trail - sounding like Rice Krispies: Snap, Crackle, Pop.

Two black billed magpies catch my attention. Their white belly and long black tails give them a glamourous, dressed up appearance , as if wearing little bird tuxedo's, ready to attend a fancy black and white Ball. They are gregarious and playful; Fluttering their wings, they quickly move from one place to another other making me think of kids chasing after each other in the school yard at recess.

The sky is a softer, lighter shade of blue, giving contrast to the darker, deeper blue of the lake. The colors are calming, like eating comfort food. I look up and watch as clouds drift by and am reminded of cotton . That's how the clouds seem to me now, like big balls of cotton I could reach up and gather in my hand.

Time passes. I remain sitting on the swing and stare, as though lost in a trance, and continue to behold the beauty of nature's bounty
the lake,
tall pines,
the birds
and sky.

The Woods and a Watercolor

It's late and I'm tired. My husband is already asleep and Diana, a favorite friend visiting this week from Lake Forest is getting ready for bed. I feel compelled to post on my blog before I do the same, but am unsure of what words to write, thoughts to convey or story to tell.

I think about the weather and how lovely it was to be outside today ; To walk in the woods with my friend and feel the fresh pine scented air brush against my skin. My eyes were drawn to the glimmer of the lake as the deep, dark blue water twinkled in the sunlight. Nature's bling. White billowy clouds provided a canopy for earth's changing colors, and gave moments of shade for a hen turkey leading her long line of hatchlings single file acrosss the brush cut land.

This afternoon Diana presented me with one of the water colors she painted. Such a loving gift and so beautiful ! I wrote about this painting in an earlier blog, how I admired it. It is of two women walking together down a country road , not unlike a country road here in north Idaho. It's raining and the pair share a red umbrella. I imagine the two are friends like Diana and me. Friends comfortable together, who talk about things important to each of them; Friends who listen to one another not only with their ears, but with their heart.

Diana's painting now hangs in a prominent place on my dining room wall and is worth more to me than any Picasso, Pissaro or Renoir.

FALL

Summer days end
Fall begins
earth colors change
from shades of green
to a golden hue
Slow to rise
the morning sun
brings daylight
at a later hour;
The air is different
no longer warm
but crisp and cool
better sweathshirt weather
than sleevelessshirt weather
Migrating birds are gone
leaving their summer home
for places far away

The Villages and Time With Dad

For three years my dad and his wife Susie have been talking about The Villages, telling Gary and me about the many activities this Florida retirement community has to offer. We would always listen, nod our heads and say, "Yeah, sounds great". The truth is one can't really imagine the mecca of entertainment this place is until they experience it up close and personal.

Susie often describes it as 'Disneyland for seniors'. I think that's a good analysis. Like Disneyland, everything is pristine and clean; Uniform and orderly. Schedules run on time and proprietors and personnel are cheerful and friendly. Each of the two Village squares has its own theme, and a colorful storybook look a like town built around it.

If they choose to,Villagers can gather in either Square every night of the week and dance to a different band , or attend a live performance at any number of showcase venues like Savannah Center, Church on the Square or Katie Belle's - a western style opera house where Dad and Susie took us to see the talented rock n' roll impersonators Donna Moore and Dunning Shaw. If I hadn't known better I would've sworn I was seeing Captain and Tennille, Sonny and Cher, Elton John, Dolly Parton and Liza Minnelli. My dad has a good time whatever he's doing and always tries to get the most out of the moment. So when Shaw as Rod Stewart grooved and moved around the room and got close to where dad was sitting, he spontaneously threw his leg out and up ; Rod Stewart fell on his knees, grabbed dad's leg and crooned to him in his throaty style voice. The audience loved it ! They were hooting and hollering, cheering dad as he became part of the act. It was great fun.

Another feature The Villages is noted for is its 70 mile golf cart path , a well designed transportation system that allows villagers to easily travel anywhere and everywhere within The Villages. Most residents have their own cart, and many are very unique. Some look like a 1940's Woody, 1920's Model T, or a '57 Chevy; Others a Circus wagon, covered wagon, or lunch wagon. Since I'm not a golfer I had never driven a golf cart before, but dad gave me a quick lesson and off we went , part of the golf cart parade.

Dad also gave me a lesson in how to play Pickleball, my new favorite outdoors game. Pickleball is a simple paddle game, playing a special perforated slow moving ball over a tennis type net, on a badminton sized court. There is a total of 78 courts in The Villages, attesting to the popularity of the game there. We played Table Tennis at a Rec center that looked like a grand hotel , and Bocce. While Gary and I were the big winners in Table Tennis, we were the big losers in Bocce.

Bocce is a precision sport requiring good judgement of distance, both Dad and Susie play this competitive game of skill very well. With their 11 to 4 score , I think Gary and I may have helped boost their confidence as they practice and get ready for the upcoming Mallory Square tournament; I'm sure dad will be mailing us a copy of The Villages Daily Sun newspaper with the headline, "Ron and Susie Bag Bocce Battle with Big Win".

Shannon is Dad's youngest child and doesn't live far from The Villages, which gave my sister and me the chance to spend time together, too. She's a master when it comes to grilling food ; Twice during our visit she worked her magic with hamburger and steak. It was nice for both of us to have some quiet time to catch up on the happenings of our lives. We chatted about jewelry, the Internet and played four handed Cribbage with Gary and Brian, Shannons long time companion. I thought about Kathleen and Shannon; Perfect names for St.Patrick's Day. Two lyrical and lovely Irish songs came to mind, " Where the River Shannon Flows" and "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen". Two good songs, two good names, two good daughters.

Kayaking on Lake Miona the final day of our visit was a big thrill for Gary and me. Dad made reservations for the three of us to join a group from The Villages , take a lesson with Ryan Tolar of Discovery Kayak Tours and do some morning kayaking around the lake. For awhile we weren't sure we'd be able to go as I injured my left knee the night before causing us to forgo the 8 a.m. meeting time. My disappointment ran deep at the thought we might miss this opportunity. It was something we had talked about for days and were all looking forward to.

It was obvious I was in pain, so "Doctor" Dad came into my room with a tube of Ultra Strength Muscle Rub , squirted out a dab and rubbed it over my knee. It reminded of me of when I was a little girl and my beloved Grandpa Cooney would do the same thing if I had fallen and hurt myself . Grandpa would comfort me, dry my tears and always made me feel better. I took an analgesic and slipped on my knee brace. I still had some pain but was determined to go kayaking anyway. And am I glad I did ! Since we got there late, we didn't get to be on the lake as long as we wanted to, but it's not always the quantity, but the quality that counts. Due to our late arrival, we ended up having a private lesson with Ryan. He took extra care in showing us how to sit in the Kayak, use our paddle and maneuver our Kayak . This trip wasn't fast paced or white water kind of stuff, but slow moving and serene, allowing us to gain confidence in our endeavor and enjoy the natural beauty all around. Gary and I have only been home a day and already have contacted a sports outlet here in Coeur d' Alene inquiring about buying a Kayak. For me, kayaking on Lake Miona with dad and my husband was one of the highlights of our holiday ,and I can't wait to do it again.

Our days at The Villages passed way too fast and before we knew it, it was time to go, proving the old adage , " Time passes quickly when you're having fun" to be true. I've lived away from my dad for more years than I'd like to say, so am always grateful for our shared experiences and time together. Being with dad ranks high on my 'Making a Memory' map.

Making a Memory

Susan and I have known each other since first grade when she was a student at Zion Lutheran and I attended St. Rose of Lima. Susan remembers we met on the corner near our schools and began the ritual of walking home together . My recollection is slightly different as I recall we first met when she and her dad gave me a ride to school in their family Station Wagon. No matter. The fact is, we've been close friends for over 50 years sharing youthful adventures and the changing seasons of our lives.

For most of our adult lives we've lived on opposite sides of the country and don't get the opportunity to see each other as often as we'd like, so when my dad and his wife Susie generously arranged for us and our husbands to use their Time Share near Orlando, we jumped at the chance to get together. The adjoining suites provided a perfect get away and allowed us a couple of carefree days to laugh and play and talk, talk, talk.

Being with Ben and Susan on the day of their wedding anniversary was especially sweet for Gary and me. Not only because we love the Heick's, but because I was a bridesmaid in Susan's wedding; My mother even sang at their wedding. It seemed meaningful for us to be with our friends to help commemorate and honor their 38 years of marriage. We made a toast to Susan and Ben telling them they were a darling couple then and are a darling couple now.

Ben has a favorite saying when doing something special with family or friends, a saying I like a lot: " We're making a memory".

"Making a memory" is exactly what the four of us were about , and not just what we did I might add, but how we did it, with lots of joy and laughter. For me, making memories is similar to selecting and adding pieces of material to a patchwork quilt , it adds to the fabric and color of our being.

One night we had dinner at a quaint restaurant in Celebration - a planned community where the architechture and colorful buildings on main street reminded me of Disneyland's Main Street. After enjoying a leisurely meal at an outside table - Susan and I shared an order of fish taco's and a Caeser salad - we took a short walk to an Irish pub for a Bailey's and beer. When we got back to our rooms we changed into our PJ's, popped some corn and turned on the televsion to get our Fox news fix; Agreeing with, and affirming one another in our political beliefs , we talked about the economy and wondered about the future of health care.

Thursday we made a plan and drove to Mt. Dora - about a 50 minute drive from where we were staying. Mt.Dora is truly a little piece of Americana with a strong Florida flavor; I'm so glad Susan suggested we go there. When we bought tickets for a guided tour of the old city, we didn't know we'd be spending an hour riding around in a sweltering hot trolley car. Prespiration dripped down the sides our faces as we fanned ourselves with brochures to help cool us down. Even with all the humidity and heat it was worth it as the guide gave us a good overview of the area. One highlight of our day trip was eating at the highly recommended Goblin's Market. We were told people drive from miles around just to eat there, and I believe they do. The tasty crab cakes on a bed of greens was out of this world delicious.

After lunch Gary and Ben headed for the lobby of what once was a grand lakeside hotel so they could relax and play Cribbage. Presidents Coolidge and Eisenhower stayed at the same hotel during their terms in office. The place had a lot of character, but looked as though it had seen better days. Susan and I were more interested in finding treasures at the local antique stores; Knowing we didn't have much time before shops closed we hussled up one block and down another - like mall walkers making their early morning rounds.

Some things time and age don't change; Susan and me talking back and forth a mile a minute about a hundred and one different things, and when together taking turns calling out to each other with excitement in our voice - "Kathy, look at this". Then, a few minutes later, "Susan, over here", just like we did when we were kids.

Cribbage and shopping done, we had one more important stop to make before departing Mt. Dora; The ice cream parlor. We were almost giddy at the prospect of picking a favorite flavor. Susan chose pistachio, Gary had a hot fudge sundae and for Ben and me it was mint chocolate chip. A refreshing way to end a memory making day !

Changes

Change of seasons
change the time
change your story
change your mind
change the clothes you daily wear
change the color of your hair
change your attitude
change your style
Change. Change. Change.
Fred Astaire sang to Ginger
"Change partners and dance with me"
Change of venue
change the menu
change of heart
do impart
Change of address
change of name
nothing ever stays the same

Change can be gradual , slow; Not daily noticed. Change can be sudden and abrupt like death, divorce or a friendship lost. Some say to change is to grow and mature. However,I say too much change changes who we are and what we know to be faithful, honest and true. A little change is good; Change for the sake of change seems foolish.

Seasons

Goodbye to August
hello September
Summer nearly gone
Fall almost here
seasons change
like changing of the guard
passing time
from one to the other
season after season ;
Year after year