Cast Your Cares

When the dark of night seems long
and sleep escapes me
because thoughts unwelcome
replay again and again
in my head - I try to
divert worries about
my mothers health,
my fathers health,
my husbands well being,
my sons well being
about present day finances,
and future concerns;
Wars, and rumors of war;
 and the sad state
of world affairs by thinking
of a  movie I saw, a
song I heard or book
I read. Sometimes I practice
a method dear Grandma Cooney
used when she had trouble
falling asleep - to mentally name all the
presidents of the United States in
proper order. This night,  I find
by the  time I get to
Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan
I'm more awake than ever.  It's
only when I open my eyes to
see soft colored moonlight
stream through an opening
in the slated shade
opposite the king size bed
my husband and I share
that I'm reminded
of the perfect Light , Jesus Christ
and how I can cast all
my cares on Him, because
He careth  for me, and  for all (1 Peter 5:7)
The worrisome thoughts once
twirling and swirling around
like an enemy wanting to
deprive  me of sleep
are quieted now. The peace of
The Lord fills my soul, and sweetly,
sleep comes

September 4 - Blogs, Self-Help Books & My Brother, Walt

    Writing a blog has become quite popular over the past years, and for a variety of reasons. I believe many of us, including me, like to express ourselves via of the written word and pictures. Some write a blog to document their  family life, others to expound political views. Some as a pulpit to share religious faith, or  to promote a recently published book. Or perhaps tell about a hobby, recipes or game. All have their place, and shed light on topics that meet someones interest.

    I write 2 lane highway, my own personal blog of One woman's reflections of past and present - people, places and things that contribute to the joy and sweetness; the sorrow and hurt of an everyday, ordinary life. Every six weeks, I also blog   for Writing North Idaho , a web retreat for writers, news, opportunities, and knowledge sharing. 

      I posted a blog  this morning  on  WNI about self help books. While  its purpose was to share about  a genre  different from fiction, non-fiction, mystery and romance,  it  was  also to  honor my brother, Walt as it would have been his 59th birthday today, September 4.  If you click onto link below, I think you'll see the connection between the two;  Self-help books and my brother, and why the memory of what we shared will always be with me. 

http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2013/09/self-help-books-my-brother-walt.html

           

The Lake,Water Skiing & Uncle Lloyd

I put away my iphone and ipad today
and sat on the old log swing
in peaceful reverie
looking out over the bluff
at Lake Coeur d Alene
watching boats stream
by like a slow passing
parade. I heard the sweet
sound of joyful laughter
echo through the trees
of family and friends
sailing and skiing and
swimming in the
cool, deep blue water.
In memories eye I  turned
 to another summer
 and another lake a
long time ago  - 1963. I
was 12 years old,  visiting
my Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Betty
and cousins, Shauna, Kevin and
Kim. We were at  Bear Lake
in Utah, and my uncle was determined
I would learn to water ski  - and indeed
I did, but only after his persistence and
patience in teaching  me how, and calm
reassurance not to be afraid, that  I could.
For many summers after, I skied  a lot,
now that I'm old, not so much. But ever am
I grateful for an  uncle's loving guidance
to broaden my world to include
the joy of water sport,  and help  build
my self-confidence. Back in the present
I study the lake  and watch
those on the water, hoping
another uncle is  with his niece
doing the same for her
as my uncle did for me

The View

  A few weeks ago a visitor to my home asked if I ever grew tired of the view from our deck. I honestly answered, "No, not ever".  One reason , the view is never really the same - but ever changing and different, not only with each season, but day to day, sometimes hour to hour.

   In early morning  the lake glistens in the rising sun,  as though covered with a million billion  jewels. By  late afternoon,  the cool blue water is  more  like a mirror reflecting a perfect image of curvy  mountains and majestic  trees  bordering  the shore.   This evening,    the sky,  so  vast and wide is clouded in blueish gray, the   mountains  underneath  shaded with a   muted , purplish  hue. The scene  seems  other worldly and surreal, making it easy for me to envision   a land of make believe - a  distant place far, far away where dreams come true, and loved ones dance and sing through wooded land, greeting each other with  joyful embrace.    Yet, what I see isn't make believe,  but  up close and personal, very  real and nearby. It's as though nature's beauty  wraps around me,   like a cape keeping one warm in winter .

     All  is quiet, the air is still. A ray of light peeks through the heavenly sky, and  a moment of grace  engulfs my soul.  I am roused  from my reverie , and grateful for the view I see every day , close to home where family and friends come and go, building sweet  memories for us to grow.

 



    

Sundays in Summer

    One of my favorite things to do on Sunday in summer is to sit outside on our back deck  in the early morning, before my corner of the world is awake and rustling about.  I drink a cup of coffee and read my devotional; I give thanks to God for the gift of nature, and the beauty that surrounds me.  All is peaceful. Calm.  Flowers are full of color.  Evergreen trees, like royal stewards of the forest, provide cool shade for birds taking rest, and deer in the meadow. 

    Looking up at the  pale blue sky,   lightly clouded over with strands of wispy white adds to the  serene way I feel. The lake glimmers under the first bright rays of sunlight, and I'm  reminded of diamonds and glittering jewels , but that comparison  seems too cliche. While  diamonds can be beautiful to behold, and have monetary value - or can be the cherished keepsake of a beloved family member,  looking at one  doesn't help   elevate the soul, or draw us to consider ways  of the spirit or   ponder the  wonder of life  like the splendor we find in  being still,  contemplating God's glorious creation.

   A soft movement of air brushes against  my arm, I look up at the sky once more,  and smile. 

Summer Rain

No warm  sunshine
this summer day
only rain, like heavenly dew
falling from a cloudy sky
to wet the fields,
and help keep our forest
green; to splash the birds 
and bathe the deer, 
giving drink to a 
thirsty garden
like waters of baptism
refreshing  the soul

May 30 - In Memory of My Brother Walt Cooney

   May 30, 2013.  My brother passed away three years ago today. It's not the kind of anniversary one marks on the calendar and looks forward to with anticipation and glee, but   melancholy that a life is no more , gone too soon from his mother and dad, and  family and friends who loved him

    I choose not to wallow in grief, but to commemorate the life of  my beloved brother, and life long friend. I remember his walk and the way he stood straight and tall, the color of his eyes and happy smile, the sound of his voice, and how he laughed  when he got really tickled over something silly  someone did or said.

   Walt  died and left this earth to be with our Lord on the other side,  but he also lives in my heart and memory. And I know , come what may,  some things can never change. He will  forever be his mothers only son, and my little brother.

   Posted below , a  memory of Walt titled Lil' Cowboy, a poem I wrote three years before his passing. It was published in Write On ! Poetry Magazette   February 2007.   The verses  came to me as I   had been thinking of a time when Walt and I were kids, visiting our Grandmother's house in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Walt loved everything cowboy. Clothes, hats, boots.   His favorite was Roy Rogers.  Mother enjoys telling  the story, and I remember it, too when a neighborhood boy knocked on Grandma's front door. When  mom opened the door the little boy asked if Roy could come out to play. Mother replied,  "Honey, There isn't anybody named Roy  here". The boy  answered with a  definite  "Huh-huh ! My new friend, he said his name is Roy Rogers!"

                                                                       Lil' Cowboy

                                                               When my brother Walt
                                                                was just a boy
                                                                he dressed like his hero
                                                                a cowboy named Roy
                                                                in his cowboy shirt
                                                                and cowboy pants,
                                                                cowboy boots and
                                                                cowboy hat.
                                                                A holstered six-shooter
                                                                at his side,
                                                                he walked around
                                                                with cowboy pride
                                                                Eating cowboy cookies,
                                                                singing cowboy songs
                                                                his cowboy cat
                                                                tagging along
                                                                He aimed to please
                                                                and do only good
                                                                just like his hero
                                                                Roy Rogers would


                                                          

    

Memorial Day

A day  of remembrance
for the fallen brave,
those that died on the battlefield
in a land not their own, far away
from family and home - Oh!
the anguish, the tragedy of war

We decorate their graves
with flower and flag, sing
patriotic song and march in parades
And with somber thought
remember, freedom isn't free
the cost is high, 
the lives of beloved
sons and husbands
no longer here

                   *** My great-great Uncle Andy Norton
                           died in France World War I  (RIP+)

Diana , Mary Kay and Clouds

     It is a perfect May day. I  water the potted  Geraniums, then  sit down and  stretch my legs on the chaise lounge. So   peaceful and restful. For the longest time  I  look up and stare  at the vast , voluminous sky,  like I didn't have a care in the world. Its   brilliant blue draws me in like a cool pool on a hot summer day.

     I try to penetrate its depth with my constant gaze, but  it remains distant and mysterious. Majestic.  Only known to  angels on wing.

    Clouds drift slowly by until they gather together like friends at an afternoon social. I study each one  and notice their different shapes and sizes.  All look beautiful to me.  I wonder, are there silly clouds? Serious clouds?   Is one trying to lord it over the other ? To be more important and popular ? Then I notice a new  cloud roll in, all puffed up with its ego and self perceived charm, proclaiming judgement on what's best for the other clouds,  and what kind of clouds  they should be. A few  of the clouds scatter and are gone, no longer welcomed,   and lost forever  to their fellow clouds - all because of  bias   spoken by puffed up, self important  cloud. 

    Still staring up at the sky, and looking at the clouds I reflect  on the song Both Sides Now, popularized by both Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins and wonder about Mitchell's lyrics,  and what she meant by clouds. 

I've looked at clouds from both sides now,

from up and down, and still somehow

it's cloud illusions I recall. 

I really don't know clouds at all

    From the earliest days of listening to this favorite song, I  interpreted clouds meaning life - life as in friends. 

    Then,  looking more and more at the clouds, I recalled another long ago  May when I  lay in a hospital bed, my body broken and nearly left for dead after suffering an auto accident, along with dearly  beloved others,  and how two very special  clouds (friends) were ever present by my side. I had a  serious head injury. At first the doctors told my mother they didn't expect me to live, and if I did I may suffer  brain damage, and at the least I  may never walk again.   For three months I was in traction, my lung collapsed, my back broken, my femur crushed , and nearly every bone on the right side of my body broken.  Other than my  mother, brother and grandmother,  Diana and Mary Kay visited me nearly every day. They decorated my hospital bed, hung a  Robert Redford poster on the  wall, and sneaked pizza in for me to eat on Friday nights.

     While our other friends were sunning  at the beach, busy with their lives,  finding new loves and getting engaged (all in right order),   Diana and Mary Kay helped  cheer  me with  their colorful  stories  and constant encouragement.  They brought laughter to a broken spirit, and joy to a broken heart.   After being released from the hospital I  spent another two and a half months in a full body cast. When at home,   Diana came to live with my family and me, to help provide for my needs while my mother was at work, and   Mary Kay brought  over  her parents cool car and  removed  the front seat  so I could fit my plastered  body  into the back,  to  cruise the boulevard with the girls.

    At  19 years old, I don't know what I would have done without them. I  doubt I  ever  let  Diana and Mary Kay  know how much their friendship meant, how important they were to my getting well, how their example of friendship is  one I hold today  in high esteem, and strive to emulate.  To be there for my friend,  whenever in need. Not to judge, condemn or ridicule, but to listen and love.

    And looking  once again , up  at the clouds,  I think how important it is to  speak  the best of  our  friends, whether  in our presence ,  or far away.

 

   

   

  

 

     

Promise Fullfilled

As I walk around

the grounds of 

my  rural home, I feel

renewed, reborn

in seeing new growth

of  moutain greenery,

and spring flowers  

covering the hill

and across the field

How different from

the cold, grey days

of winter when only

the promise of light

carries us trough,

and our hope

the sun will rise

Let It Go

Days seem short,
the night so long 
for the troubled heart
and wearied soul
Words that hurt, 
carelessly spoken by 
'faithful friend' festers
like a boil,  and lingers 
on,  deflating the spirit
and severing the bond
of what once was. 
Which is better - to ignore 
the slight of those 
so admired?  To release
the mockery of those 
held dear? Or  hold 
forever the pain they
impart by their lofty,
haughty ridicule and 
lack of respect ? I say
goodbye to that, let 
it go and forget,  for
surely,  in another
ten year no one 
will remember

MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY - Her 80th

  

 Today is my Mother’s 80th  birthday. I celebrate this special day, and all her days,  and  how she has chosen to  live her life.  Full of joy and gladness. Gracious, generous and kind to family and friends; To strangers in the store or someone in need, Mama   offers  an encouraging word or some good deed. 

  Our Mother’s unconditional love was a safe haven for my brother, Walt and me. Mom often told us we were God's precious gifts to her, and  made us feel like we were the most  important people in the world.  Walt and I  knew we could always count on Mom. No matter what.  She laughed with us, cried with us,  and gave us confidence to pursue our dreams.  Her  example of walking in faith, and trusting in the Lord that all will be well continues to be a good guide for me,  and  her grandsons Gavin and Garrett.

  One of mom's endearing traits  is the way she always makes  time to listen to others, and seems so interested in what we have to say,  no matter if it interrupts something she is doing; working on some project, doing chores, relaxing. Recently,  she  reminisced   how for years  she never saw the end of a TV show  because either my brother or I, along with one of our friends,  would  run into the house  to share  some  exciting event  with her.  Always  10 minutes before the movie was over!  Never once did mom say to us, “No, not now" or  "I'm busy, come back later".  Mom always gave us her undivided  attention and seemed to gladly  listen  to whatever we had to share . 

   I celebrate my darling  Mother and her birthday, but know  there is no gift I can give  her to match  the precious   gift she has given me my entire  life, the sweet  gift of herself.  How blessed both Walt and I are to be our Mother’s children.  

 Happy Birthday, Mother ! With love and gratitude. 

   

   

  

Grandma Cooney's Recipe Box

    I baked cookies today, and thought of my Grandma Cooney.  In my memory there isn't anyone  who made  better tasting cookies than Grandma ! I'm fortunate to have many of her recipes. That's because one year for Christmas, when I was 13 years old, one of Grandma's gifts to me was a  small metal recipe box , so reminiscent  from the early  1960's, filled with a variety of  recipe's  - Biscuits, Bread, Cakes, Cookies,  Pastry/Pies, Meats, Vegetables, Sauces  and Salad Dressings, each one  carefully handwritten on a
 3"  x 5"   card.   On top of the box it says,  "Favorite Recipes From My Grandma Cooney".  

   That box still sits on my kitchen counter, and Grandma's favorite recipes have become my favorite recipes, especially Thumb Print cookies.   This morning while I was adding  1/2 cup  brown sugar to 1/2 pound butter, and rolling the dough into the shape of a wagon wheel, I couldn't help but smile feeling Grandma's presence very near, and the hope she  was smiling too.

 

   
    But perhaps the most important recipe Grandma put in the box is this one, the  recipe  for living  life:

"Remember, petite, to find some way to be happy. For when you are sad you grow plain - when you are plain, you grow bitter, when you are bitter, then you are very disagreeable and a disagreeable woman has nothing, neither friends, nor love nor contentment"

   Thank you , Grandma,  for your long reaching guidance, and everlasting love.



   

Greer Garson, Grandma Viv & Her Dishes

    I  worked hard yesterday around the house, taking care of chores  and cooking , and painting the front room. So when evening fell, and and the sky grew dark  I was ready to relax, and watch one of my favorite actresses from the golden age of Hollywood ,  Greer Garson starring in a movie on TCM. To me the roles she played were always women to be admired,   full of spunk, and loyal. The first thing I noted about    the movie,  Her Twelve Men  was it was filmed  in 1954, the year my brother, Walt  was born. Reading the credits I also learned Tim Considine and David Stollery  - from  Mickey Mouse Club fame also starred. A much younger Tim and Dave than I remember seeing in Disney's Spin &  Marty series.

   Her Twelve Men is a sweet , lighthearted comedy, perfect for a viewing after a busy day, one to lift one's  spirit , and make one smile.  I   remember reading   it  was Greer Garson's last movie for MGM , and  was thinking of other great MGM movies she starred in  (Mrs. Miniver, Valley of Decision, That Forthsyte Woman) when a scene with her and another young actor appeared  on  screen.They were drinking tea , or maybe  it was hot chocolate.  No matter, what caught my attention was the cups and saucers they were drinking from - the very same VernonWare  Organdie pattern my Grandmother Vivian used every day !  The same cups and saucers that graced the table whenever we had a meal at grandma's house. The same cups and saucers I helped wash and dry after dinner.  

   The movie ended on a happy note, and I was ready for bed. As I closed my eyes, I thought   how  sweet  movies used to be, and more especially  of my grandmother, and her dishes, and the dear  memories they invoke.

In Memory Of

When  I was very young
a long time ago, I had
no worries or cares. The 
world was  bright, and 
all was good. The future 
seemed a distant place, far
from where I stood. Family 
and friends filled my home
with merriment and cheer,
where we  laughed and played , 
and knew each other well.
But years have passed ,
and we grow old, some
no longer here,only the memory
of their sweet song 
softly lingers still

Between Husband & Wife

As I lay down to sleep
to night, memories
of this day swirl around 
my head; First, my husband 
greeting me with a good 
morning hug, then outside
to split some wood, while 
I make pancakes on an electric
grill, the two of us eating
our fill,and discussing the
news of  the world. 
Our voices unheard
but to the two of us, our 
concerns , and worries, 
and hopes , and fears
no one will ever hear.

Longing for Spring

 I was fooled . Thought spring had arrived. Even put my snow shoes away. But today  I awoke to snow, and a cold winter day. We kept our wood burning stove blazing bright, helping to keep the household warm. Tonight the wind continues to howl,  and  bang  against the door. I shiver and sigh, my old bones ache; I sit in the chair with my book , but think of  blue skies and warmer days.

We Remember When... Friends From Long Ago

   I'm 62 years old.  Life, or the end of life  seems to be creeping in more and more.   Of late I hear of so many I have known  who have passed from this earth to their Heavenly home, or suffering with terminal disease.  Dear ones  that helped shape my life , and will always bring sweet memories to times past.   Just  a few hours ago,  I learned about another  from my youthful days who is suffering so, and about to part from this world. I , along with his family and many friends, pray for Dave Weldon, trusting our Lord is ever present with him.

     I  remember those early days of our childhood when we attended St. Rose of Lima school  together,  learning the foundations of our Catholic faith, and giving the nuns a run for their money. We were lively children. During our grade school days, Dave played on the basketball team, was an altar boy and  the first boy I kissed  playing Spin the Bottle at our eighth grade party. After St. Rose , we were classmates at Bell High , and in later years   neighbors living across the street from one another on the modest street ,  Flora Avenue.  Our  younger brothers, Walt and Mike were pals.

    For many years Dave and I shared the same friends, including his high school girlfriend, Pam .  Eventually, we all moved on and our lives took different turns; careers, marriage, family, and we  lived  lives happily ever after.  Yet,  we  still recall that time long ago when we knew each other when., and how sweet it was.

    God Bless you, David Weldon , the boy you were, and the man you grew to be.


   

Who am i?

Who am i ?
To  think my 
thoughts are so 
lofty , and worthy
to share with others 
i am nobody, 
except for those 
i know and love - 
they are the best
part of who
i am

Snowshoeing at Twilight

     It was late , twilight, when I went out snowshoeing today. The landscape,  with its soft shadows and shaded hues was especially lovely. I made several tracks across smooth white snow before I stopped to take in the magnificence of the trees all about me. They stood  perfectly still, not even  the slightest breeze brushing their piney branches. All was  quiet, peaceful,  not a sound could be heard, except my own breathing in and out.  I couldn't seem to move, like I was  locked in place,   as though the silence held me captive. My thoughts slowly  shifted from the challenges of my day to something more lofty and grand. A prayer of thanksgiving escaped my lips, grateful for God's creation so wonderfully displayed in nature 

A Ray of Light

 A ray  of sunlight
breaks  through the
cold, gray sky
to shine on
snow-covered trees,
the frozen ground,
and bird in flight;
Bringing  hope 
for the morrow
before  dark of night

January 27

The cold of winter
with its icy roads and
snow covered ground,
and colorless days 
of muted gray 
no longer seems
like the welcome
visitor one is 
happy to see,
but a tiresome quest
who has exhausted
her stay

The Turntable

i sit alone
(my husband has gone to bed)
and listen to music;
Favorite vinyl albums
played on a Pioneer
turntable from the
late 1970's
Considered an antique
to youth of today,
for me a sweet
gem from long 
ago yesterday -
the  familiar sound  of 
Peter, Paul and Mary,
Neil Diamond, and
The Carpenter's
make me smile
remembering those
days gone by

January Days

My beautiful north Idaho
even in January
with its cold , winter days
and the earth and trees
covered in snow
lifts my soul
to praise  God's  grandeur 
and splendor of 
nature in every season
and all ways

Victor Hugo & the Musical Les Miserables

    Yesterday was a grey, snowy day in north Idaho. A good day for staying in the house to read, write letters  or go to a movie.  My friend Patty and I chose the later. We met in town at noon -   the weather didn't seem to bother the many folks  milling about, most  in  coats, many  with the identifiable North Face logo,  and colorful scarfs and knit hat. Patty and I  looked the same, all bundled up  when we  walked into Riverstone Theater to see  Les Miserables., the much talked about movie musical adapted from the stage and based on Victor Hugo's timeless novel of the same name. It was a  perfect movie to see on a cold January day. I would say  a near perfect movie in every way, to see  any day.

    This movie was wonderfully cast - from Anne Hathaway's Fantaine and hearing her sing the  hauntingly lovely I Dreamed a Dream to Samantha Bank's Eponine to Daniel Huttlestone as the child Gavroche.

    While some critics bemoaned the singing voices of Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe, I thought their voices were strong and steady, filled with just the right emotion, and  natural for the way  Jean Valjean and Javert might sound. Listening to Valjean (Jackman) prayerfully sing

God on high
hear my prayer
In my need you have always been there

He is young
He's afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed
Bring him home,
Bring him home,
Bring him home

 was only one of many times   I was moved to tears and  held out my left  hand for Patty to give me a tissue to wipe my eyes.  I thought of all the sons, including my own, and the fathers and mothers who passionately pray that same kind of prayer when their child has gone through struggles or in harms way.

    After learning his friends - the friends he  talked and laughed with, dreamed dreams with and were so full of hope   have all been killed , Marius (portrayed by the charming Eddie Redmayne) touches our hearts with his sad, lilting voice when he sings these lines from Empty Chairs, Empty Tables 

That I live, and you are gone.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain that goes on and on

and we think of our friends, the ones we laugh and talk with - so very dear to us.

    On the inside cover of the Broadway album   from 1986 is written, Les Miserables is a great blazing pageant of life and death at the barricades of political and social revolution in Victor Hugo's nineteenth century France. Yes.  But  also  so much more than that, as  Hugo himself wrote in his letter to M. Daelli, publisher of the Italian translation of LM

    "YOU ARE RIGHT, SIR, WHEN you tell that Les Miserables  is written for all nations. I do not know whether it will be read by all, but I wrote it for all. It is addressed to England as well to Spain, to Italy as well as to France, to Germany as well as to Ireland, to Republics which have slaves as well as to Empires which have serfs. Social problems overstep frontiers. The sores of the human race, those great sores which cover the globe, do not halt at the red or blue lines traced upon the map. In every place where man is ignorant and despairing, in every place where woman is sold for bread, wherever the child suffers for lack of the book which should instruct him and the hearth which should warm him, the book of Les Miserables knocks at the door and says: "Open to me, I come for you."

    It is a story of love, and loss, of sin and redemption, of hope and  moral courage; A story of friendship and faith.  Never give up. Press on. Hold to the high road. Choose the better part. Freedom .

    The blending of Hugo's novel with lyrics of Herbert Kretzmer and music by Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg is brilliant, elevating  the tale of Jean Valjean and his question  Who Am I  to new heights.

SNOW

White and fluffy and soft, 
i  first think  of cotton
falling from the sky; 
 Then of prisms
 that  glisten in the light
covering the field  
like a blanket
on a king-size bed,  and
draping evergreens in
 winter cold.  Snow.

NEW YEAR'S DAY 2013

 For me, New Year's Day  2013 starts   with  homemade huckleberry pancakes and basted eggs breakfast,  the Rose Parade and college football games, then  quiet moments sitting  in front of the fire resting and relaxing,  reading Flannery O'Connor,  and Russell Janney's Miracle of the Bells. Gary and I play Cribbage, and watch deer just outside the window as they nibble at each other's muzzle.

It's cold and grey outside, the trees  flocked with snow, but this day, like every New Year's Day brings a feeling of excitement;  An anticipation something fresh and beautiful lays ahead. It allows us to shed the mistakes and missteps of the past year, and a freedom  to renew the failed resolutions we didn't quite meet in 2012. To strive again to be more generous and kind; to forgive. To lift the spirit of family and friend. To hold a hand, to understand.

How many of us don't long for peace in our families, communities, our nation; our world? With this  first day of the new year, I have hope  peace, and love  can be found.

NEW YEAR'S EVE 2012

The last day of the year - 2012.  Some who trusted in  the Mayan prophecy  believed this date would never be. I can't help but wonder   how many doomsday scenarios and end of the world predictions have been proclaimed through the years.   I take comfort in the Lord's word to us in Scripture, 'Only God knows the day and hour."

For me, the onset of this day wasn't much different than any other day, except a quiet knowledge,  and silent reflection that another year was ending - a new year soon to begin. I busied myself with usual things - washing dishes, laundry, and after Christmas chores - putting away Santa's and taking down the tree. I took time to browse  through favorite books, share  a hamburger with my husband and watch  a classic movie , After The Thin Man on TCM.  I called my mother, and chatted with my son, Gavin about the high's and low's of his new job, and read a note from my father about his Christmas Day. I hung a picture my grand-daughter, Emily  drew of her Grandpa and me on our refrigerator door, and smiled.

I  thought of those no longer here, and cried, and reflected on life's moment's , both big and small , so grateful for family and friends who color my life with joy - this past year and every year. 

The Advent Wreath

   Yesterday  when  Father Bill Crowley, the pastor of St. Thomas the Apostle parish  in Coeur d Alene   lighted the  first candle on the Advent wreath ,  I thought about  its significance , and how it helps Christians deepen our appreciation of Christmas , helping all who participate to anticipate, and prepare spiritually  for the coming of    the Lord.  I was also reminded of my  youth where I attended St. Rose of Lima parochial school  in the small Los Angeles  suburb of   Maywood, California during the 1950's and 60's.

    It was a time when southern California colors were vivid and bright, not yet hazed over in a constant veil of smog , and the landscape  still dotted with orange groves and dairy farms. St. Rose of Lima school, built in 1933 was a Spanish style two story structure with a red tile roof  and triple arched portico's off to the side of the front entrance. The architecture  gave way to the rich Hispanic heritage of southern California , and seemed both grand and humble as it stood among a neighborhood  of modest homes with well groomed front yards.

    Upon entering through a pair of massive wood doors at the front of the school, students  grades one through eight  stepped into a protected,  and disciplined environment dedicated to religious and academic studies.  It  was on the ground floor, in the long hall   that   the entire student body would gather every Wednesday afternoon for the the lighting of the Advent Wreath during the four weeks of Advent.   The wreath  hung from  the vaulted  ceiling, and was larger than any wreath I've seen to this day.  The janitor, who was ever present around the school, making sure the toilets flushed properly, and floors were cleaned, constructed a rope pulley that allowed the wreath to be raised and lowered  to make the candles easier for one of the older students to  light;  I recall  the  thick  lush, green branches , and how beautiful they were,   and the scent of   a fresh wintry mountain smell that permeated the hall.  It's a smell familiar  from the wooded area I live in today, far from my southern California roots, and am reminded of  that time long ago, and what the evergreen branches  circled around the wreath represent - continuous life.

    My grade school days are long past, but  I  happily  remember the good  Sisters of Notre Dame, wearing  traditional habits,  that included  a black tunic, white Wimple  and Rosary beads hanging from their cincture, and how they  read   scripture passages aloud  from Isiah, then lead us into prayer, and  helped us understand about the Advent Wreath and its meaning  to our spiritual life.  We learned what the four candles; three purple,  and one pink - the base of each candle  nestled into the evergreen branches represented.   The purple candles signify prayer and penance; dark days of waiting. The pink candle, lit on the third week of Advent is a sign of hope that the long wait is almost over - the birth of the Messiah is near.

    Even now, if I  look closely through  memory's eye, I can almost  see Sister Mary Angelista blow into her small round pitch pipe alerting 250  uniformed boys and girls it was time to sing, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" , and smile. Giving thanks for the blessing of that time, and what it means to me today.



  ***Note: The word Advent is derived from the Latin adventus  meaning arrival, approach, coming.

Great Horned Owl

I heard the familiar hoot
of the Great Horned Owl
again this morning;  His loud
and persistent call
who, who, who
continued on  like 
the beat of a tom-tom
sounding an alarm 
at the break of dawn -
waking me from gentle sleep
and my  land of dreams


Note: Great Horned Owls make their home in north Idaho year round,and are chiefly nocturnal. I have seen this owl starring back at me a few times over the past years and am struck  by the gaze of  his yellow gold eyes -  strikingly beautiful  as he  penetrates the dusk, and  the focus of his vision.  According to Stan Tekiela's Birds of Idaho field guide, the Great Horned  Owl  isn't able to turn its head all the way around , and his 'ears' are actually tufts of feathers (horns) and have nothing to do with his hearing, which is excellent -  the Great Horned Owl is able to hear a mouse moving beneath a foot of snow.  Because his wing feathers are ragged on ends, the Great Horned Owl is like a thief in the night ,  stealth and silent when he takes flight.

Beauty All About Me

I may not live here forever, perhaps a time will come when I have to leave this place - but for the moment,  I delight in the beauty of my surroundings - nature at its best.

A forest of evergreen trees circle round our north Idaho home, like a fortress protecting the King's crown; There is the shimmery glimmer of Lake Coeur d Alene not far in the distance, and the sway of a gentle breeze,  like a breath of  life moving  across  the land. I see a Red Tail hawk fly low in the sky, while two Blue Jays, brilliant in color perch on the feeder hanging from the limb of a fir nearly 100 years old. I watch white tail deer follow one another over wooded trails , and a hen turkey lead her brood of eight through a thicket of   brush. It is peaceful and quiet, like the sacredness of a sanctuary. I am reminded of the Biblical verse  Psalm 24:1 The earth is the Lord's ,and its fullness, and am grateful for the bounty He shares.

  

His Birthday in Heaven - September 4

Every Sunday at Mass, after the Gospel reading and homily,  Catholics  proclaim their Profession of Faith  - the end of the  creed is this : I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting . 

By Communion of Saints the church means the union which exists between the members of the church on earth with one another, and with the blessed in Heaven. A spiritual solidarity which binds the faithful together - both living and dead.

I hold this belief dear, and perhaps because of it,  find it   easier   to  picture my brother Walt celebrating his birthday today with the Heavenly crowd.  Surrounded by Angelic well wishers, joyfully singing to him the birthday song.  Others are there  celebrating with him, too  - the faithful departed he knew and loved while on this earth - grandparents, aunts, uncles, and long time  friends.  And Walt is smiling and happy.

I hope, just for a moment Walt looks down from Heaven's door to hear me say, I remember this day,  the day of your birth and how special you were - Happy Birthday, little  brother !  Love from your Sis, always and forever.

Yard Sale

Because Gary and I live in a rural area , far away from the beaten path, we never ever  considered a yard sale, knowing very few would make the trek to  buy junk from our trunk - miscellaneous items slightly used, but not abused at our place.  So when dear friends Patty and Marty invited us to bring our  'stuff'  to their neighborhood home located near  the heart of the city,  to be part of a two family yard sale , we jumped at the chance.  

From early  morn until late afternoon yard sale shoppers of all ages  and appearance  entered the gate   hoping to find a  special treasure -  at our sale , some   bought  books, Fiesta ware, and king size comforter; Others delighted in Madonna figurines, a bedroom lamp, and whiskey crock. All  were friendly, taking time to share in conversation, and pleasant chatter; and seemed happy to be on  their  journey, following yard sale signs  one to the other.

At end of day, family one and family two  smiled big as we   not only got   rid of unwanted   items, helping to  clear out  our  overcrowded, cluttered  garages, but we earned a little money, too. ( In this  sad economy earning a little extra money would put a smile on anybody's face)

Waving goodbye,  Patty said, "Save your stuff, Kath, and bring  it  over again next year for our Second Annual ,  bigger and better  yard sale !"    She won't have to tell me twice, I'm already thinking of unpacked boxes stacked  high on the shelf, and the joy they'll bring next spring  to some yard sale shopper looking for a find. 

Circle of Friends

A circle of friends 
goes round and round
there is no beginning, 
it has no end. Each 
important to the other
for the gift they bring
of love and laughter
Like a link in a chain
their hands are clasped,
their hearts entwined; Strength.

All  are sorrowful when one
is sad, all are  joyful when 
one is glad. Fellowship.

They  stand together
against misfortune and 
woe, disease and death - 
To bring to the other 
encouragement and hope

A Grandpa's Love

I awoke this morning thinking of my Grandpa Cooney. It would have been his birthday today. To me he was the best of grandpa's - loving, supportive and fun to be with. We enjoyed each other's company, and spent time together in his backyard picking raspberries. Raspberries were a favorite of both grandpa and me. On the night grandma taught cake decorating for  adult education ( at Thomas Jefferson  high school ), she would  prepare dinner for grandpa and I before she left , then   set up the cardboard table in the front room, cover it with a cheery cotton  tablecloth , and arrange place settings for  two. And always there would be  raspberries, one bowl   for grandpa, and one for me. I looked forward to those dinner dates with my grandfather, sharing our meal and talking about the little things we did that day. Grandpa was a good listener when I would  tell him about my doll, or some make believe game grandma and I had played.

Grandpa was an upholsterer, and owned his  shop  Cooney's Upholstery in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Grandma  often told   the story of how I'd sit at the window waving at  Grandpa when he left for work, then in the evening sit at the window watching  for him  to return.   I'd  rush to greet him at the door,  and take  him his bedroom slippers. I  can still recall the smell of Borax soap Grandpa would clean his hands with when he got home, the BenGay  to help ease his tired muscles, and the sweet smell of tobacco from the pipe he would smoke after he'd  sit down in his favorite chair.

It was a special time between a grand-daughter and her grandfather, a time that  wouldn't  last forever; my parents, baby brother and I moved from Council Bluffs when I was still young girl , and my grandfather passed away when I was 12,  but the joy, and experience of knowing  Grandpa's unconditional love has lasted a life time.

A Perfect Day

The sun shines warm, not too hot
like the heat of the desert, 
making it comfortable
and nice  to be outside.
Its glow gives afternoon 
light to the color of sky
and evergreen trees; Brilliant
blue, and shaded greens. 
A gentle breeze brushes
against my skin, i look up
to watch billowy white
clouds change form, and
slowly drift by. i hear
the rapid flutter of a
hummingbird as she gets
her fill of nectar from
a potted red rose, then 
see a reddish doe at 
her leisure, browse
through tall grass and 
wildflowers.  A feeling
of peace and serenity 
fill my soul.Grateful 
am i for this perfectly 
beautiful north Idaho day