April Days

Baby birds. Baby bunnies. Young squirrels scampering across
rain soaked ground looking for someplace to hide their food;
A herd of elk browsing on newly sprouted grass
in an open field nearby.
Mountain Man Gary hard at work, rota-tilling earth
and building boxes ten by five
to plant his home grown garden ,
and a fence to keep deer from
reaping the harvest

Cool temps bring wind and hail, and afternoon storms -
not warm enough for me  to wear flip-flops and shorts
but warm enough for the Maple  to bud, and
tulips to bloom

BLOGGERS

Why blog?  I'm not exactly sure.  For most of us, it's not the money earned or accolades won, a new book published or literary score, but the hope of someone reading what we write, and finding it worth their time. Some blog to document the growth of babies and social events, others to rant and rave about something - anything they find fault with..

I blog to practice the skill of writing,  and   tell a story via essay, memoir,or poem. Perhaps a funny anecdote or sad plight; It might be  something heartfelt, thought provoking, or just plain silly  but whatever the story is, the words I write are  part of me, mine to share.

Another Take on Washing Feet

In my last blog I shared the happy experience of having my first pedicure and how Hannah took each foot, bathed them in a bowl of water,  and wiped them dry. There was something about her gentle, caring way that reminded me of how Jesus washed the feet of the apostles.  Even more so today,  as it's Holy Thursday. This night Christians  around the world commemorate Jesus' humble act - the washing of feet.

At first Peter squawked, " You, Lord? Wash my feet ?  No way!", but  Jesus kindly  rebuked him, " If I do not wash you, you have no part of me." Peter answered, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and head."

Jesus was showing by example the importance of serving others, and of allowing others to serve us. Sometimes, isn't just hard to let others do for us?  We feel less independent, less in control, less powerful; Embarrassed, and even unworthy.   But isn't  that the point?  Recognizing in some way we are all a broken people, only made whole again by allowing another to minister to us at certain times in our life ?  Isn't that what Jesus was saying  to Peter,  when we serve, and allow another to serve us,  we truly become a part of each other.

When you let me take, I'm grateful.
When you let me give, I'm blessed
- Author unknown


The nature of love is to humble oneself
-St. Therese

First Pedicure

There the six of us sat , all lined up in a row,  comfortable and relaxed in over sized  massage chairs that snuggled  the contour of our upper body like a baseball in a catcher's mitt. Our ages ranged from 28 years to 74, and at 60 I was at the upper tilt of that scale.  No matter, this was a big day for me , I was about to have my very first pedicure (manicure, too) ,  and was filled  with the same happy anticipation  any twenty year old might have looking forward to experiencing something new.

 Being a  somewhat cautious person, I must admit there was  a wee part of me not quite sure   how  I felt about someone I didn't know  touching my feet, and cutting my toenails. But that  feeling quickly passed   when  Hannah, a soft spoken,  kindly woman of Vietnamese descent gently took my dry, rough  feet,  bathed them in a bowl of  scented  water,  and  wiped them clean. With her experienced hands, she massaged each foot  with soothing ointment and lotion. It was wonderful !  I began to feel more  like a pedigree pup, pampered and spoiled. All the while , my aunt and  cousin, her daughter-in-law, two family friends and me continually chatted and laughed together, enjoying each others company,  and our early morning pedicure party.

 Hannah  used  her  special tools to clip,snip and file, prime and polish,  and  like a sculptor with  his clay,   she  made   my  feet and toes  into a new creation.  Yes,  my first pedicure,  but not my last !

Wedding Day

England's Prince William and Kate Middleton aren't  the only pair with big  wedding plans this month.  My grandma and grandpa Cooney's great-granddaughter, Megan was the most beautiful bride when she and her Benj were married  last Saturday, April 9. Other than unusually  cool Arizona  temperatures, a bit of desert  wind and evening rain, the day was perfect in every way.   Meg's happiness was contagious. I watched  her face,  radiant with joy,   and   thought of grandma, knowing she would be so happy,too. 

Weddings are a cheerful and merry occasion. Meg and Benj's especially so.  Parents of the bride and  groom; Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters, long time friends, and newly acquainted friends gathered together to witness two hearts  becoming one;  To celebrate the vows they made,   and love they share.

Ladies in lovely dress

men in suit and tie

flowers,  and flower girls -

(little boys squirming,  having a hard time 

sitting still)

Scented candles,  a three tiered cake

and beautiful music -

A toast   to the new  Mr.& Mrs., 

and cheers for their happily 

ever after, (eternal)  wedded bliss

A Love For Poetry

Longfellow, Whittier, Whitman, James Whitcomb Riley and Eugene Field; Dickinson, Millay,  Kilmer, e.e. Cummings and  Ezra Pound. Familiar names to me  just  like  Christy Mathewson, Dizzy Dean and Babe Ruth are to baseball fans.  That’s because from  the time I was a very little girl  my mother would read poetry to my  brother and me  - sometimes  during the day or after dinner, but always at bedtime.

I didn't understand  then about quatrain (four lines), tercet (three lines) or couplet (two lines),  nor did I know about  pure rhymes, slant rhymes or internal rhymes -  that would come much later. I only knew it was soothing and sweet to hear the sound of my  mother’s voice as she read about The Duel  between the gingham dog and calico cat., The Barefoot Boy kissed by strawberries on the hill, and Psalm of Life:

Let us then be up and doing

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait

 Because my mother so lovingly shared her fondness for poetry with me, I grew to have the same affection for reading poetry . I  found I liked poetry as story, and fitting words together like pieces of a puzzle.   One of my first attempts at writing a  poem  was when I was nine years old, and my fourth grade  teacher, Sister Mary  Wahlburg   had all of her students  compose a  non-sense verse. Here’s mine:

If I were a fish

I wouldn’t live in a dish

But in an aquarium

I’d play spish, spash, spish

If I were a goat

I’d wear a furry coat

Nibble on green grass

and drink from a glass

I thought it was brilliant, as only a nine year old can,  and made a special copy  to  give to my  grandmother Cooney for Christmas that year.  She  raved about it, telling me it was a wonderful poem, and encouraged me to write more. Now , that’s a grandma’s love for sure.

In recent years  my dad gave me the book,  How to Write Poetry .  He inscribed it,  To Kathy, my favorite poet (Now, that’s a dad’s love for sure),  I read in this book: Sometimes a few beautiful well-constructed  lines are more powerful than any thousand page novel could possibly be. So this book challenges you to always seek the few beautiful well-constructed lines.  My Love, Dad 

On the inside cover dad  made a few more  helpful  notations; Guidelines  he picked from the book:

*  Show joy, awe & love

*  Every word in a poem plays a role in creating rhythm

*Be creative, not careless

*Where do you begin ? Begin at the beginning with a thought or a phrase

*Poetry is personal and there isn’t a right or wrong way to write a poem.

I’m a lot older than nine now, but I still  write prose, poetry and essay, and because I’m no longer nine , or 39 or 59 I don’t think my writing is  as brilliant as I did when I was in the fourth grade,  but  that doesn’t stop me. I write on !

postscript: April is National Poetry Month.  Be kind to a poet !  To view my blog Solitude, Salvator and Ella Wheeler Wilcox  go to  http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/solitude-salvator-and-ella-wheeler.html

My Brother's Journal

I think my desire to write comes quite naturally.  My paternal grandmother often wrote prose and poetry, as does my dad.  My mother writes, too; Lovely words expressing moments in time, and feelings.  What I didn't know is  what a good writer my brother was.  Perhaps, the  best writer in our family.   That was a delightful discovery I  made this past weekend.

Although Walt lived in St. Louis, he stored many of his things at our mother's home, including a mid size duffel bag. Whenever he came to visit he'd go into  the garage to check on his  stuff, and would  point to the duffel bag telling  mom he didn't want her to ever toss it out, but didn't want her to open it.  She never did. It became kind of a family joke - "What the heck could Walt have in that bag, and why was he so secretive about it ?"  Mom would just shrug her shoulders and say, " I don't know, but your brother told me not to get into it, and I'm not going to."

That changed on Sunday.  Since my brother has been gone almost a year, I told our mother it was time to open the bag.  So that's what we did. No hundred dollar bills or rare coins, something much more meaningful - greeting cards and letters from family and friends , mostly dated from the mid to late 1980's - some from the early 1990's .   There were business cards from places Walt worked at while he lived in Phoenix, and lots of pens and pencils.  Then from the bottom of the bag, I lifted a file folder filled with a stack of papers. I saw immediately  it was   Walter's printing, and to my great, happy  surprise found he had kept a journal of sorts.  What a wonderful gift.  His thoughts, his words in his own writing . My eyes opened wide, I excitedly called out, "Mom, look ! Walt wrote these " , then began to read aloud:


by Walter Cooney

#1

What is it 
when they say, " I was touched by love"
I see love in her eyes every 
time I look into them
and when she talks I hear
love in  my ears, when we kiss
I can taste her love 
on my lips, but when I hold
her tight in bed, it's more 
than love, it's two
becoming one.

#2
This is it. The last day.
I have not seen everything there 
is to see, and I do not know 
what every man should know.  My
love for people is enormous, and love
for life even more. But this is it. 
 I ask myself, Where does a man go 
when there's no where to go?
Nothing left to be done
I don't know

# 3

My dad. He must be the smartest man in the world; the smartest man I know.  I could learn so much
from him. His fault is he will not listen to what I have to say, or give me a chance to raise my own opinion.
My mother is my Best Friend. I would , all though I can't talk to her all the time the way I want too.  Mom is always there trying to help me - like no one else. Never once can I remember mom saying, "Walt, you can't do it", or you won't make it. And the same goes for my sister, Kathy - I can't think of anything I am afraid of,
except going to my grave without my mother- sister- father knowing how I love them.


This last one brought tears to our eyes.  In that moment I wished with all my might Walt could be sitting there in that room with us. I wanted to hug my brother,  and tell him we did know how much he loved us, and to say,   "please Walt, always know how very much Mom, Dad and me love you".

                                                                         #


postscript:  These were just a few samples from Walt's journal.  Some of the writing will remain private as he would want it that way, some  I may share from time to time, as I want others to read his words to  see what a good writer he was...  his poems and essays  both  heartwarming and heart wrenching -    presenting a better picture of himself  during that time  than any camera shot ever could.  

*** To read my blog WRITE ON, WRITERS!  and more about my brother's journal please link to
http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/write-on-writers.html

Oh Spring, Where Art Thou ?

A few days ago I wrote a tiny poem about spring  for the Idaho Writers League (IWL) newsletter:

Spring is sunshine,
warmer days and
flowers ready to bloom,
budding trees, blue sky
and birds crooning
their early morning
song, sweet song


But I must have been delusional, or perhaps just hopeful, because there is no spring here.  Not in north Idaho. No warm, sunny days or tulips on the rise. Only

Grey clouds, a charcoal colored sky
rain and wind
slashing, bashing
through the trees,
crashing against the house
Muddy, ruddy earth
soggy ground -
too wet to be outside,
even the deer are hiding.
Where is Spring?
The sunshine and flowers
to lift ones spirit
from the drab freeze of  winter


I don't know, but please
Spring, get here soon.

March 17

Comin' from the Irish (Cooney on me father's side, Norton on me mother's),
I honor the great  St. Padraic  by
 prayin'  his Lorica:

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

and  by  wearin' of the green
I  fancy the  wee fairies
and sprite like leprechaun , enjoy a   pint of Guinness
and ancient  Celtic song
I wear the Shamrock proudly
and carry me rosary beads
I'm cookin' Irish stew
and bakin' soda bread
I listen to Irish music

while dancin' an Irish jig

Land of the Rising Sun

i lay on my bed
comfortable and warm
A lamp sits on the nightstand -
bright enough to cast a warm,
shadowy glow across the room; Light
enough for me to read a book
and write my journal pages.
Tonight i think of those
without even a blanket,
let alone a bed
without electricity
or toilet to flush
their crumpled earth
and washed out land
of broken lives,
and loved ones lost -
the people of Japan
Then  i cry,
and hope
and pray
the Rising Sun
will  shine  again

Ashes

 For many Christians Ash Wednesday is  the start of Lent, the forty days prior to Easter when the church  calls us  to reflect upon,  and contemplate more deeply the passion of Christ and   His sacrificial,  redeeming grace ; His  unconditional love for all mankind. For  Catholic Christians, we   are reminded of our own mortality when the priest uses  the sacramental,  blessed  ashes  to mark our forehead in the Sign of the Cross.

Father Jerry,  in his homily tonight made  it very clear about life and death, and   what  really matters. He told about those on the fated flights of 9/11, and how the record shows  many of the  passengers,  knowing they were going to die in a matter of minutes  used their cell phones to call loved ones to say, " Forgive me,  "I'm sorry" and " I love you".  

That sums it up pretty good,  doesn't it ? In the end, when our life on this earth is near over,  it doesn't  matter how much money we have, how famous we are, how educated,  political  or intellectual  we are; What matters most  is how we have loved, and  how we're  loved in return.

Thumbnail Drive

Since my brother's death last May, I'm thankful Kerri and I have remained close.  We text and  talk about television programs and movies we both watch; We talk  about the  weather, work, and other happenings of the day, and  in between  remember  Walt. The thumbnail drive Kerri sent arrived in the mail today.

I hear his voice

and see his face

throwing a Frisbee to his 

dog B

He looks like I remember him,

and acts like he always did;

Unpretentious and jovial,

having fun with life.

If only I could reach out 

to touch his arm,

stand by his side

and throw the Frisbee, too
and laugh together like
we used to do

(But my little  brother
 isn't here, not
 of this world,
 not anymore near;  So I slide
the mouse to  move the cursor
on the screen,  and click 'replay' -
then I see  the blue
of his eyes,  his smile,
and charming style  over and
 over again)

Snow, Seasons, Missy & Spring

Okay.  So I was wrong last week to pack away my snow shoes, winter pants and poles thinking spring was just around the corner.  I had been  fooled by  mild weathered  days,  and sunshine.  Not today. The calendar says March first, but it feels a lot more like January one.   No sun.  No puffy, fluffy cotton like clouds. No hint of blue sky.  Only grey and cold and lots of white - covering the ground like a blanket on a bed.  I'm beginning to think spring in north Idaho might not arrive until summer!  But I'm adaptable.   So once again, out come the snow shoes, poles and winter pants.  I whistled for Missy dog and off we went to forge a path across knee high snow.

 Missy enjoys being outside as much as I do.  Sometimes she takes off to cut her own trail, but when snow is deep, like today,  she  follows  behind me in the ruts I've made packing the snow down with my Yukon Jack's.   I pause and stop along the way to look up and around, awed by the total quiet and beauty of this place.  I offer a prayer of praise, thanking God for seasons and snow and  know when I take this walk in May, I  will think again of the beauty of the season, thankful for spring - warm, sunny days, and flowers in bloom.

Snow Cover

Snow covered deer
snow covered trees
snow covered mountains
snow covered streams
snow covered snow shoes
snow covered me;
Stuck in snow
trying to get back
to a snow covered house
on a snow covered path

A February Day

Quiet, alone (but not lonely)
i sit and watch out the window
as a billion, zillion
tiny ice flakes
fall gently  from the sky
drifting downward,
downward
steady and slow
to change the landscape
and color of earth
from drab winter brown
to white winter snow

The King's Speech and Hiawatha

The popular and acclaimed movie, The King's Speech has been nominated for 12 Academy Awards, and is surely a favorite among movie goers  to win the top prize. But   more than being  just a good drama with  fine acting,   the story speaks to us on so many levels about  honor, duty, loyalty, royalty, the common man, perseverance, family and friendship.

We come to admire both men, King George VI and Lionel Logue;  Recognizing  they are  decent and good.

While I was  already  familiar with King George VI and his place in history , I knew nothing of Lionel Logue.  Upon further reading   I was fascinated to learn Logue  became interested in elocution only after reading Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's renowned epic, The Song of  Hiawatha . I couldn't help but feel a little proud knowing the great American poet was held in high esteem by the Australian Logue.   According to his biographer, Logue was entranced by the words,   and  rhythm of Hiawatha  - they seemed to leap out of the page at him.

When I discovered    The Song of   Hiawatha   inspired Logue  in such a big way, it  was like standing on a springboard,  and I jumped  from one book to another.   I began reading the verses of  Hiawatha aloud, and found it pleasant and enjoyable, that I liked and understood the story better.   And like Logue, I  became entranced with the words, and the rhythm of Hiawatha:

Of all beasts he learned the language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How the beavers built their lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
Why the rabbit was so timid,
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them ," Hiawatha's Brothers."


In a funny way, one  might say it was  The King's Speech,  George VI, and Lionel Logue that  lead  me to Henry Wadsworth  Longfellow and The Song of Hiawatha.  In another way,  one could also say,  it was  Longfellow who lead Logue to George VI and the King's speech .

Valentine's Day

 Red roses
and chocolate hearts
whispered words,
tender and sweet
i speak to you, alone
my dear one
my darling one
like a lingering melody
from a favorite song,
'Be mine'
'Forget-me-not'
my forever  Valentine

WIND

Away out here
they got a name
for rain, and wind and fire
The rain is Tess, the fire, Joe 
and they call the wind Mariah

(Alan Jay Lerner from  Paint Your Wagon 1959)


All through the night, into early morn
sleep eluded me
as a  whipping,  swishing sound -
the howling of the wind
swirled and  twirled  through  trees;
thrashing, bashing, crashing
against  window panes and hardieplank
 like the constant roar
of stormy waves pounding
a  sandy shore

Me and My Shadow

I'm sure glad that famous little groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow today, indicating an early spring,  because I did see mine, and for awhile was concerned it might mean a longer winter for us folks here in north Idaho. Not that seeing my shadow, or not seeing my shadow has ever been any kind of bell weather, that's for the groundhog to forecast every February 2, so why I would be concerned I don't know.  Perhaps it was just  the day after day of January cold and skies shaded gray that cast a gloomy mood and makes me long for the light of the sun, a more temperate temperature, and the color blue

 

Words to Song

I have a collection of favorite  vinyl albums I  enjoy listening to on my vintage   turntable when I'm doing chores around the house,  sitting at the PC, or  on our well worn  wingback chair doing nothing.   Some  I play over and over, like today with Frank, Ella and Bing. Besides their voice and style,  I like the music and words they sing.  Especially the songs with words by Lorenz Hart, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Gershwin, Mercer, Sondheim (and so many more).  I'm awed and amazed at the flow of their lyrics; the phrasing and prose.

I've heard some say, " The lyric is nothing  without the music",  but  one can  also pose,  "What is the music without the words?"   Yes. Yes. Of course,    many songs  are beautifully arranged as  instrumentals only,  helping to sooth the soul and lift the spirit,  and  I appreciate those arrangements greatly, but  suggest even when listening to the' instrumental only'  arrangement, what pops into your mind are the words !

A perfect example of   a great  lyricist's  poetic flare  is   Johnny Mercer's " I Remember You" :

'When my life is through,
And the angels ask me to recall
The thrill of them all,
Then I shall tell them
I remember you'

or Hart's - any of Hart's - "Mountain Greenery", There's a Small Hotel" , I Could Write a Book", " I Didn't Know What  Time It Was", "My Funny Valentine", "Blue Moon" :

'And then there suddenly appeared before me,
the only one my arms will ever hold
I heard somebody whisper, "Please adore me",
and when I looked,
the moon had turned to gold.'

And the more contemporary Paul Simon:

'When you're weary, feelin' small,
When tears are in your eyes,
I'll dry them all;  I'm on your side.
Oh, when times get rough,
And friends just can't be found
Like a  bridge
over troubled water
I will lay me down.'

Song words. Poetic words. Beautifully written  words. Not just for a time, but timeless .

1.26.2011

This day:
books to read
songs to sing
a walk outside
dreams to dream
letters to write
a kind word said
prayers to pray
love to give

More Than Words and Paint

I find that words, as wonderful as they are, can't always describe true beauty, intense feeling  or a heart overflowing with marvelous joy.
Even the artist, while being able to paint the scene of a wooded landscape, seascape , or mountain lake with just the right shadows and hue can't completely translate what one experiences  when witnessing such an awesome, spectacular view.
 A feeling so sublime;  Perfectly at peace,  tranquil.   The spirit within is lifted higher, enriching the soul.  If even for a moment, allowing   one to  grasp the sure  knowledge,  God's grace abides.

The Written Word

Email and texting can be quick and immediate - depending if the recipient replies within a  minute, and while  most of us today would be lost without  internet connection,   and checking our e-messages  every day, I still think there's  something special about receiving a hand written note in the U.S. Mail , or card from a friend wishing you well.

The other day  I read educators in some districts are no longer going to teach  cursive writing in school. In my opinion, a sad change in curriculum.   I remember my own grade school years and thought about the dedicated   nuns and how they placed such  importance on their students  learning good  penmanship. Besides being  a discipline in perseverance , we were learning a skill  - knowing how to write our thoughts  would allow  us to communicate in another away. Everyday we  would practice writing letters of the alphabet, then whole words , and eventually full sentences over and over until it met with Sister's approval.

I then thought about the handwritten letters  and journals throughout history - many of them  held sacred , displayed   in museums and other great archives - letters of popes, poet, kings, queens, presidents and layman describing their place and time in the world.  Not only  do they tell us of a particular  era, but also   a part of  who they were are preserved in the actual writing of their own words, in their own hand.

Finally, I thought about letters and notes written to me by  those I know and have known, those  I   love  and hold dear - some  no longer on this earth. To  re-read  their  words written  personally to me brings a smile to my face and  joy to my heart. In their hand written word, a part of them still near.

Winter

Winter has fallen
upon my spirit
like it covers
the earth; Cold
and bleak
Dark days, darker nights
i search  the light of the sun.
Nature's music - a babbling
brook, the bird's sweet song
remain silent, still.
For how long?
Until seasons change
and Spring comes again

Kindle v.s. Print

The Kindle, Nook,and iPad are all the rage with readers today. In an on-line article dated December 28, 2010 the guardian.co.uk reported "Amazon e-book sales overtake print for the first time".  Wow !  That is  impressive.   In September when my friend Sandy C. and I traveled  to California ,   I thought I might want  one, too, and  even  considered putting it on my Christmas wish list, especially after a fellow passenger was gracious enough to show us her Kindle, allowing  us to  hold it up close and personal.   She  took great delight in telling us about the benefits of an e-reader - including free downloads -depending on author and story, and its many other fine features.  One of those attributes, the passenger pointed out, "No more stacks of books laying around the house."   After hearing so many positive things about the Kindle, I was ready to sign on.

But when I got home and walked into the study and saw all the books lining my shelves, I  began re- thinking  the e-reader vs print book .  I wondered  about city libraries and those row upon rows of titles and authors so carefully cataloged. What would happen to all those books?   Will our libraries now be changed to 'downloading' centers?    Then I thought  about inscriptions, and underlining and jacket covers.   Some folks , like me,   highlight  a sentence or phrase  with a marker because it touches our spirit in some particular way, and we want to find it again to read and re-read.   Not possible with an e-reader. And most importantly,  how does one inscribe something special  to another when giving an e-reader for a gift.  Can't be done.

Just this past Christmas my  son received a print book from his grandparents in Florida.   His Grandma Susie waited in line for six hours to purchase "Decision Points" and have it signed by the  former President of the United States, George W. Bush.  Gavin's Grandpa Cooney  took the time and effort to write a note describing the purchase of this book , where and when.  My  dad  wrote on the inside cover, " A piece of history, Grandpa Cooney".

I began looking at other books on my shelf.  Some with inscriptions from life long  friends, Susan and Phyllis. Others  from my mother, and grandmothers.  One book , " I've Got to Talk to Somebody, God"  by Marjorie Holmes dated 1974  is  from my brother, Walt. On the inside cover he wrote, " To my sis Kathy on her 1st Trip Abroad.  Luv Walt. Good Luck. hurry home.  As soon as possible, o.k. Sis.  Love Always .  The First of Many. (over)   Kathy, read 115 when you're on the airplane"

Walt knew I was afraid of flying, the words he chose to underline gave me great comfort then,  and  continue to  touch my heart deeply, especially now  since he passed away last May. The words he wrote to me in 1974 will continue to speak to me, as my dad's words will to Gavin - into the future.  One big advantage an e-reader doesn't have.

Advent - A New Beginning

Advent.  The four weeks prior to Christmas, now  once again  drawing to an end, but  leading to a  new beginning.   A season when we anxiously await, anticipate  something bright and beautiful.  Something bigger than ourselves. The birth  of our Lord and Savior. We plan  and prepare  with daily prayer for our hearts to be renewed , restored, reborn. We  decorate our homes with lights and  trim a tree and wrap packages for friends and family all in celebration of the one who is to come: "Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Lord of Lords, King of Kings. Immanuel."  Christmas morn  we can  envision  and almost hear the choir of Angels  singing,  " Gloria, gloria  in Excelsis Deo".  Filled with awe,  we humble ourselves by  bending  a knee and  bow  our head  to praise God , giving   Him thanks  for His gift of perfect love.

Snowy Silence

Snow covered ground,
more snow falling from a
grey covered sky
i open the  door
and grab the Yukon Jack's
leaning against the
front porch wall
After snapping the strap
onto the heel of my Sorrel's
i'm ready to head across
the field and down the hill.
i criss cross back and forth;
The only sound i hear
my snowshoes stepping
across the snowy terrain.
 i stop and all is quiet -
Centered in a circle of trees
i watch small fluffy flakes
dress the pines and
feel their wetness tickle my nose
As though in a  trance
i become lost in thought

and contemplate the lack of sound
i appreciate the stillness ; No angry
voice or misspoken words - only
a sense of peace
seeing God's
earthly beauty surround.

On Eagle's Wings

i've accepted
but don't  comprehend
i've acknowledged
but can't yet perceive
my brother now six
months dead
i only know my heart still aches
in wanting to hear his voice,
see his face
To remember together
our growing up years
the special bond of
friendship shared

As i pondered my sadness
at what i lost
and sorely bemoaned
other cares of the day
i looked out my window
to  see a pair of  bald eagles
majestic and beautiful
sweep  across the sky;
then pause mid air,  and back again
as beckoning me outside -
While on the deck i saw
more clearly their
feathered wings spread
wide,  high above
evergreen trees, their great
white head and golden eye.
Flying high, back and forth
hovering the earth  below - i was reminded
of my favorite sacred song,
 "On Eagle's Wings, " the
one cousin Kim sang at my
brother's funeral

 "And He will raise you up on eagle's wings
bear you on the breath of dawn,
make you shine like the sun,
and hold you in the palm of His hand"

i reflected further, and recalled a
prayer of several months ago
hearing the Lord speak to
the quiet of my heart:
"I am with your brother,
and he is with Me".
So i believe. i am  calm,
my spirit still. i don't see
my brother now, but trust
again i will.

ICICLES

Icicles hang from the roof
of our house
like stalactites in a cave
frozen ice, not cubed
tapering jagged
dagger sharp;
Their unique beauty
glistens like a
Swarovski crystal
in the cold glow
of the bright winter sun.

Frozen Snow

Snow today  isn't
the freshly fallen, fluffy stuff
fun for snowshoe treks
and building snowmen  like 'Frosty',
but  furrowed  and frozen
making it hard for even deer
to navigate their way
across the  white covered terrain.

THANKSGIVING DAY

Thanksgiving.  When families travel across the country,
 across town, across the street  to  gather
together in fellowship and love
around a table laden with favorite food,                                                      
offering  a prayer of gratitude to our
Creator for blessings received                                    
and hope renewed. Then, stories
shared of other Thanksgiving Days
like passing a baton generation to
generation.  Always some are
missing, leaving an empty
chair forever in our heart.
Sometimes it's a parent or
grandparent, husband or wife;
Or maybe an aunt, uncle, or
brother. Their stories
become part of  the stories we
tell;  Keeping them close
holding them dear.

                                                                          

A White Thanksgiving

Am I  dreaming of a white Christmas ?  Yes.  Just like the one Bing Crosby used to sing about . But a "white" Thanksgiving ?  No. Absolutely not. Yet, that's exactly what we're having this year in north Idaho - a very white and bitter cold Thanksgiving.

Instead of  warm autumn colors - red, soft yellow and   burnt orange  that so typically decorate the earth this time of year, and help bring to mind pilgrim's pride and Horn of Plenty,   the ground is frozen,  covered in snowy white. Trees flocked  like a picture on a  winter postcard, with  temps ranging   from minus 7 to 11.

Deer  come closer to the house looking for something green to nibble on; wild  turkey huddle together and take cover under low laying branches. Inside,  I bundle up in front of the fireplace  to  plan our  "white" Thanksgiving Day  dinner,  then pray a prayer of thanks for the beauty of   God's  creation (and long underwear and snowshoes) ,  and remember there's always much to be thankful   for.

TIME FLIES

How fast hours of the day pass by
like a bird flying
from one tree to another
perched for awhile
on a piny branch
then in a moments time
wings outstretched
he takes flight  again
and is gone

Beagle Sam

He wasn't Lassie or Rin Tin Tin
he couldn't do tricks
or fetch a stick
A bit overweight and
kind of slow;
Never did  win
"Best of Show"
Still, Sam E. Dobbs
was a "super star" dog,
(at least to us, who knew
him best)
Good  natured and
gentle, this beloved pet
captured our hearts
from early puppy-hood
Faithful and true,
he'd wait
at the door
happily wagging
his white tipped tail;
Those   naturally sad,
sweet Beagle eyes
like a beacon,
would  beckon us close
to hold his paw,  and
scratch his head.

On  afternoon  walks
he'd scamper through
piny woods, down
a thicket trail
with nose close
to the ground
following a
scent;  His long
floppy  ears
flying in the wind.
After a while, I'd whistle
and call his name.

We  miss  Beagle  Sam,
We miss him a lot.

Sam E. Beagle

Sam E. Dobbs is dying
a faithful and loving dog
he lays nestled in
familiar blankets
laboring for  breath.
When i come near
he doesn't move
except to lift his eyes
as if to call me closer
to scratch his ears
and let him know
i'm by his side.

BIRTHDAY MUSINGS

"Celebrate. Celebrate. Dance to the music"

Today is my birthday.  I sent my mother a bouquet of flowers with a note that says, "Congratulations, Mom !
60 years ago today you gave birth to a baby girl.  Thank you for the gift of life".
I think about my mother, and my father.  They were so young when I was born. I think of their love for me, their sacrifice, and am grateful.

Over the past several days, I've received many lovely cards and gifts  from family and friends - some silly, some serious, but in common they all express kind thoughts and happy wishes.  How  blessed I  am for their birthday remembrance. I think of them,  and all the people  who have been part of my life over the past 60 years, beginning with my mother - my first friend, my forever friend,  and  babyhood; I move through my toddler years, childhood, grade school, high school, college,newspaper work, church life, married life, motherhood. Beloved grand-parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, mentors and friends and how they made my life better with their presence.   I want  to give them  a gift on my birthday  - a gift  of gratitude, wrapped  with a ribbon of love.

I'm also reminded that several I've known and loved have passed away, not getting the chance to celebrate  a 60th birthday. A litany of names come to mind:

Grandfather Walt
Mike (Shirley) Marconi
Sister Mary Agnesine
Tony Moore
Tom
Bob
Grandma Vivian
Roy C.
Uncle Bob Breedlove
Al M.
Pat Sims
Patsy
Father Mike Smith
Denise
Brad
and my brother, Walt.

I celebrate their lives today, too, and  pray  they're rejoicing around Heaven's Table and eternal light shines upon them.

To some,  60 years might seem old, a long time on this earth, especially to a ten or 20 year old. It's only as we age, and each new birthday comes and goes, we recognize just how swiftly the years roll by.    Lyricist Sheldon Harnick,  in his great song from 'Fiddler on the Roof  writes:

"I don't remember growing older
 When did they?

When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?

Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears"

 How important it is for us to embrace life with joy and merriment, to let those we care for know we care for them by the words we say and deeds we do.

THIS DAY

Tonight I'm still 59 years old. Tomorrow  I won't  be.  Today I spent the day doing  everyday,   ordinary, extraordinary  things. Rising early to say morning prayers, smiling at the sound of my husband's voice, "Good morning, honey.  You stay in bed, I'll   make the coffee".   Later  we watch Fox News Sunday  and get ready for church.  I speak with my mother on the phone and read an email from my dad.  I start a fire in our wood burning stove. Gary goes to the garage and lets Missy dog out, then brings Sam E. Beagle upstairs.  A few days ago Sam suffered a seizure of some sort, so we want to keep him comfortable and quiet.

 After Mass  Gary and I  stop for breakfast at Elmer's  on Highway 95.   Gary orders  his usual basted eggs and ham; i tried something new -  a grilled chicken, white cheddar cheese  and pear wrap.  Yes, I know it sounds unusual, but trust me,   it's delicious !

We talk about our sons, and the grand-children.  The week before,  our youngest grand-daughter sent us 'Flat Stanley' with a note explaining 'Flat Stanley' is a visitor to our area and asked us if  we  would please take him to see some of the sights in Coeur d' Alene, then return him to her second grade glass in Apple Valley  with pictures and souvenirs.

We talk about  my birthday tomorrow.  60 years old.   We reminisce about our first date.  I was  only 25 then.  We marvel at how  fast the years have gone by.     Gary says he'd like to buy me a  'no-shed'  puppy.   i'm pleased and know  my husband is being  thoughtful, but am worried about our Beagle,  Sam and how he would react to a new puppy in the house... especially now when he  is so old and his physical health is on the decline. i tell Gary as much as i'd like a new puppy,  i think it best if we wait for awhile.

Instead of a puppy we decide a North Face fleece would be a  nice gift. Although my birthday isn't until tomorrow   we drive to Tri-State Outfitters.  This is a very sweet gesture on my husband's part as he absolutely hates shopping,  and anyone who knows me also knows it takes  a long time for me to make up my mind whenever i contemplate buying something new.  As it  turns out, my husbands gift isn't anything money can buy, but his  gift of  ' patience', and enduring love as he waits and watches me try on jacket after jacket.

  Although there were many fine North Face jackets at Tri- State ,  I couldn't decide on one (no surprise)  ,  and we left the store  empty handed.  At the recommendation of the Tri-State sales clerk we made  another stop at Finn - McDonald  in the Coeur d Alene Resort Mall.  There we hit the jackpot !  A perfect fit, (and color) North Face zipper fleece. Not only a zipper fleece, but a lovely multi-colored  scarf  to wear with the fleece.  The  sales clerk even took the time to show  me three or four different ways to tie the scarf.  i left the store  happy, and my husband was pleased about giving me a birthday gift he knew i liked a lot.

When we got back  home  our son, Gavin  greeted us saying,  "Hey, mom, Stacy and me are fixing the family dinner tonight.  How do taco's sound?"  

As in one voice, both Gary and I said, "Sounds great!".

I   couldn't wait to wear my 'birthday' fleece and take a walk down the hill.  Knowing Gavin and Stacy were in charge of dinner, off i went to trek through  Dobbs' Woods.    The wind was blowing, the air brisk and cool; Rays of sun streaked through broken clouds.  I stare  at the whitecaps swirling the lake, and watch two seagulls swoon high and low.  I contemplate the beauty surrounding  me,  and reflect on the day. An ordinary, extraordinary day like so many others.   I think about tonight when I go to bed I'll still be 59, but  upon waking  tomorrow I'll be 60 years old.   One decade will end, another to begin.

A RAINY DAY

A rainy day. No sun.  No blue sky.
 The temp is cool, grey outside;
A good day for staying inside.
i make my bed and clean the  kitchen.
The warmth of the  fire in our wood burning stove
heats the house and feels good
against my aching, aged muscles.
Listening to the sweet sound
of an  old  "Peter, Paul & Mary"
vinyl album lifts my mood
and causes me to reflect
on life long friends
and days gone by.

Summer's End

The season is changing
from  hot, dry days of summer
to cooler, crisp autumn weather.
i no longer wear  knee-length shorts
and sleeveless tee's
on my morning walk
but long jeans and a  light weight
sweat shirt.
The tree leaves are  a bright yellow gold,
not the deep green of
June, July and August
 while the  sun rises  later
bringing first  light to
 beckon the  day;
and setting earlier
to darken the cloudy sky -  a reminder
winter is on the way.

"BELL BEAUTIES" BIRTHDAY CRUISE

After two  long years of planning and preparation for our cruise on the Carnival Paradise, the big day finally arrived, and there the eight of us stood on the top deck - exuberant and excited, ready to set sail !  Because our first Port of Call was Catalina, it only seemed natural  we swayed  from side to side,  and started  singing the popular 1950's song, " 26 Miles Across the Sea, Santa Catalina is A-Waitin for Me".

Since all of us hailed from Bell (yes, the now infamous City of Bell, California), we tagged ourselves the "Bell Beauties", and  rarely separated ourselves from one another  for five days and  four nights, causing some to think we might be be members of an elite softball or bowling team, or some other tight knit women's group.  In fact, during dinner one night a lady approached our table telling us she had a bet with some of her fellow travelers suggesting the eight of us must be nurses !

We laughed out loud. No. Not nurses, just life long friends.  Some of us from early childhood.  All of us through high school days and college days; Weddings, divorce, kids and grand-kids.  We've known each other most  our lives, and share a deep bond of friendship - sometimes miles keeping us apart, but always close in heart. These past many months we've cheered the birth of Sandy's grand-daughter, Josie; Pauline's move to Bend, Susan's sky-diving adventure, Roberta's museum promotion and Sandy L's son safe return from Iraq.  We've mourned the loss of Manya's dad, and the unexpected death of Margaret's brother, Bill; and my brother, Walt. We continue to support each other with prayer and encouragement, to share both laughter and tears. When we say to one another, "I love you, friend", we know it has real meaning because our words  ring true and sincere.

To our amazement, we turn 60 this year!  All agreed we needed to do something really special for our annual get together.  A cruise was the perfect idea.

While the cruise was to celebrate all our birthdays,  September 23 -  the last full day of the cruise  was Margaret's actual birthday.   The gang  planned a surprise cocktail party for Marg in her cabin.  We could hardly wait to greet her, and loudly sing, "Happy Birthday" as she walked through the door.  We knew Margaret was downstairs  in the casino playing slots,  what we didn't know was she was being held captive by one !  As time passed and Margaret didn't show, we still wanted to sing "Happy Birthday" and cheer her, so designated an over sized coconut monkey head to take her place.  Even adding Margaret's bathing suit, her sandal's and sunglasses  making it  more Margaret like. It was a hoot ! As we posed for pictures and sang "Happy Birthday" to the monkey/Margaret, we got the giggles and  couldn't stop laughing. The whole thing kept getting more and more silly.  Then, like a magic poof ,  there she was - the real Margaret sauntering into the room. Each of us quickly rushed to give her a  big hug, lifted our glasses to toast her day, and started singing "Happy Birthday" again, this time even more loudly.

What a swell party it was.

Before departing the ship we discussed where we should meet next.  New York ?  Atlanta? Williamsburg?  Any of those places would be interesting and fun.  However, in the end it doesn't really matter  so much where we go.  What matters  is that  we'll  be together.

Walt and the F-Word (Edited)

September 4. My brother won't be here   to celebrate his birthday. At least not in the usual way. It will be left to us , his  family and friends -  those who hold him dear - to celebrate the day of his birth with flowers on his grave, and a  tiny Sealtest Ice Cream truck; and  special  Masses offered for  Walter Cooney RIP+

We  reminisce about his  life with  love and  laughter and  happy stories; and an occassional bittersweet tear, wishing we could hold him close and touch his hand just one more time.

 A couple years ago Walt told our mother he thought he inherited  her same easy  temperament; that his personality was a lot like hers. I think he was right.   I was the fiery one, more cautious about allowing someone new enter our sphere.

 Recalling Walt's words to mom  made me think back to when he was 15 years old  and  asked  me to   take him and his pal, Jimmy  to the store.  "Sure",  I said, "Let's go!"    We  climbed into my   red  '65  Volkswagen ,  and off we went.

I bet we didn't drive further than  two blocks, maybe three when Jimmy made what I precieved to be an uncouth , off colored, derogatory comment about Walt.  I immediately jerked the car to a stop and told Jimmy to get out, that I didn't appreciate his colorful language , especially in reference to my brother.   Poor  Walt, he  couldn't believe I was actually telling his best  friend  to get out of the car. I'm sure  Walt was mortified.    When Jimmy just sat there, I jumped out of the car, sprint  to the other side, opened the passenger door,  grabbed his arm, and told him  in no uncertain terms to get out.  Guess I shouldn't have been surprised,  not only did Jimmy get out of the car, so did my brother.

A short time later  Walt rushed through the front door  and  yelled  out , "Mom! Mom!  You've got to tell my sister she can't boss my friends!"  As our mother  walked in from the kitchen, he yelled again  "Mom",   then abruptly turned from mom to me,  and  with finger pointing at my nose loudly  roared,   "You! Ffff. Ffff. Ffff.  FROG! "

 There stood  my little brother,   so serious and  angry,   calling me a   'Frog'.   Although,  I was sorry I upset him ,  the whole scene   just made me laugh,  not a haughty, mean  kind of laugh - but a tickled, tears rolling down the cheeks  kind of laughter.   Walt's anger was  so out of character.  It was one of those  funny moments in family life.  Maybe the kind of moment   one   has to be there to appreciate  how silly it was,   because pretty soon Walt  stopped being mad, and  was laughing, too.  Then mom started in.  So there the three of of stood,   like we were a comedy team on stage, laughing out loud at our own joke.

While Walt  may   have  wanted  to let another F-word roll off  the tip of his teen-age  tongue, he exercised self control instead ,   knowing  that  F- word would never be appropriate to use in front of his mother or sister.    For many years  afterward  I would give Walt some kind of decorative frog  for his birthday.  It kept the frog  memory alive, and was always one F-word that made us smile.

Forever Lovely

Worley weather was much cooler today,  and for the first time this summer i wore long pants and a  hooded sweatshirt.  i trekked  down to our old log swing overlooking the bay. For a good thirty minutes i  sat  on the well worn  seat and swayed gently back and forth, keeping rythum to my own inner thoughts;  Thoughts not deep or profound, but by choice  carefree and loose.

The lake was slate like, the sky cloudy and grey. A slight breeze brushed against my face and moved the limbs of trees.   I watched as  several boats criss-crossed  across the water, some pulling skiers.  I could hear their  muted  voices and happy laughter, and felt glad for the good time they were  having.  

Across the lake , looking towards Harrison, i took notice of the  three layered mountain range,  and the depth of beauty it portrayed. I  wondered if i'd ever grow tired of sitting and starring at this scene,  and knew immediately i never would.

Sunflowers

It makes me smile to see
sunflowers in full bloom
like seeing happy faces
turn towards the
light of day;
Long, lanky
stems grow tall,
reaching high
basking in the heat
of hot August skies.
Yellow colored petals
open wide to
welcome birds and
bee's stopping by
for seeds of
nourishment
and a moment
of reprieve.

THESE SUMMER DAYS (and memories of my brother)

Summer days filled with love
and laughter; Happy visits
with aunts, uncles and cousins,
and very dear friends.
Just underneath all the chatter
and smiles
is the constant reminder
my brother is gone.
While  not my son, or beloved fair
he was my companion from early youth;
The one i grew up with, played with,
protected and loved.
i miss our merriment in being together,
 and how we reminisced about the past,
and doing silly things , like posing
for pictures on concrete deer.
i miss his voice, and his  chiding
me for being too serious; The twinkle
in his eye.
i mourn the loss of the 
deep, abiding bond we shared
and am sorrowed with the
final  understanding
no more birthdays to celebrate
or gifts for him to buy. No more
present or future plans to secure;
only the memory of a
gentle spirit; A kind hearted man
forever young, forever fifty-five.

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, many years ago
the cities of Bell and Maywood
were quiet southern Califorina suburbs
of unknown fame
where neighborhood kids
rode their bikes, played at the park
and went to a Saturday matinee
at the Alcazar Theater.
No dissension or marches
in the streets, foreign flags
raised, or anti-American speech
Middle class moms and dads
worked at banks, and newspapers
and hamburger stands
provided their families a
sense of security
 with   love of God and
country and fellow man.

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."