travelling across...

... the state to visit the cousin in South  Carolina. I went up to Atlanta on Friday afternoon, to attend a dinner sponsored by my employer. Celebrating people who have been with the company for years, in increments of five: twenty, twenty five, thirty and a few who have been with the business for thirty five years, which seems like forever, huh? After the dinner (average food, in a large corporate banquet facility), I went to spend the night in the attic in Decatur.

I had requested to be off work on Saturday, and was hoping to go to visit my pen pal who lives in Greenville. But he has such a busy social calendar, it did not work out with me trying to set up a visit on short notice. I still had the day off, so I called a cousin who lives in SC, and asked about driving up to visit her. That was apparently a much better plan, as she welcomed me. Then I contacted a cousin who lives in Decatur and asked if she was interested in a road trip. It came together in a remarkable manner, with us leaving Atlanta about 9 am on Saturday.

Down hill from there: it took four hours to complete a two hour drive. Traffic came to a near halt for no apparent reason in east Georgia. We diverted off the interstate, and took rural two-lane highways that parallel the four lane for a number of miles. Then got back into I-85 near the bridge that spans the GA/SC line. Missing the creeping traffic that was traveling at 3 m.p.h. for miles. Assuming there must have been an accident, as the south bound traffic was slowed when we got back on the road to Greenville.

Arriving at the cousin's house, two hours later than planned. Had a good visit, lunch, laughs. And headed back towards metro around 4 p.m., where we got in another inexplicable snarl, driving at 12 m.p.h. for about an hour as we neared Atlanta. Though I did not expect to have that problem on a weekend afternoon: there is absolutely no predicting what will happen when you are traveling on a highway that is twelve lanes wide. It finally resolved, and we got back in around 7. Causing me to finally get back home around 10 p.m., after another delay around the airport where there was invisible construction (signs, orange barrels, but no workers doing any actual work). And flopped into bed, weary from all that sitting, creeping, detouring, inching along.

'church in the yard'...

 ... is what my co-worker calls his version of peace and serenity on a Sunday morning. Though I have been badgering and pestering him for years to participate in organized worship, he is not an attender. He reports he goes out and does his communing with the universe in his yard when he gets his lawn mower out and pushes it around when the grass needs attention. Or does the pine straw raking in the fall, to rearrange as it falls from trees and needs to be put out as mulch around the landscaping.

There are many who may appear to be 'unchurched' or just not supporters of Organized Religion, who find a sense of peace that comes with time spent out in the world, in a restful environment. Taking the time to sit quietly, with a cup coffee, early in the morning before the busyness of a day begins, deeply inhaling fresh air from the back steps. Or standing there on the deck, observing the quiet and solitude of the natural world, with your glass of orange juice, as the small creatures found in nature begin their daily activities.  Sitting at the breakfast table with your cup of hot tea that is part of your getting-ready-to-face-the-world routine, gazing out at the activities around the outdoor bird feeder. Just taking a moment to put your day, life, the universe in perspective before plowing ahead into the busy schedule a new day presents.

I appreciate it too - whether you get your 'church in the yard' time of tranquility early in the day or late in the afternoon. Mine occurred when I got home from a long day at work on Sunday afternoon. I have two bright red plastic, adirondack-type chairs out behind the house, where I can sit and be still, vegetate and ponder the universe. Hopefully with a friend for a bit of conversation and tall frosty glass of lemonade. Yesterday when I got home from nine-and-a-half hours of on my feets, I took the Sunday paper and a cold drink out to commune with nature on a beauty-full day. For the first time since the fall, found the time and space, as well as need for solitude, and sat in my yard. Read the newspaper on the actual day it was delivered - pretty unusual lately, as they have piled up for days without attention.

And had Church In The Yard. Thankful for peace, a secure place to live, health, family, a long list of things that I am frequently reminded are reasons for gratitude. Including the co-worker who enjoys his version of church-in-the-yard.

book review: "Life As We Knew It"...

... was surprising, as I did not really expect I would enjoy it. I found it as a recorded/talking book, another that was randomly picked off the shelf at the library. In an effort to always have something going when I get in my car for a long drive, it caught my eye, along with another, so I took them both. When they do not 'capture' my interest, they won't be read, and will be returned without my finishing them - now that I am old enough to know I do not have to stand up before the entire grade school class, give a report, receive a grade!

Written by Susan Beth Pfeffer, and published by Hughton Mifflin. One of many surprises is that it was designated as a YA (young adult) publication. It was shelved there with all the other books on CD, reading the blurb on the back made me think it might be interesting, without realizing it was written for teens. When I started listening, and found it read by a YA, I thought I would not care to continue. But I did keep at it, and found it to be a very thoughtful story.

Science fiction - not something I usually read. About a meteor hitting the moon, and the resulting crisis on the earth. The tides changed, causing flooding world-wide. Earthquakes and volcanoes, that then caused changes in the weather patterns, ashes covering the sky, gardens withering due to lack of sunlight, then extremely cold winter. Disruption of all public services, no electricity, no broadcasting, no law enforcement. No food, no water. All from the perspective of a high-school aged girl, Miranda. She lived with her mom, and two brothers in a small town in Pennsylvania.

The plot was very well thought through. Many details considered, small worries to add to huge problems, compoounding the anxiety of the family, as they struggled to manage with limited supplies, constant doubt and fear while trying to remain positive. It was remarkably believable. I think maybe I should start stockpiling dry goods and bottled water....

the beligerent auntie...

... was really in a rip-snortin' hell-raisin' mood when I got to the care facility on Wednesday morning. I arrived a little after ten o'clock to allow ample time for persuading her to do whatever might be necessary to make herself presentable for going to the appointment she had with the doctor at 11:40. I expected it would take some smooth talking to get her to comb her hair, or brush her teeth, or put on a blouse that did not have stains or breakfast. But she was on a rant, out in the hallway near the nursing station.

Demanding the staff take her down to the basement and help her retrieve the items they had taken from her room and stored there, very much against her will. She was insistent that the things they moved belonged to her, and complained loudly that they had no business going in and removing her furniture. Asking all the workers about going, right that minute, with her so she could get her belongings and put the items back where they were supposed to be.

The building where she lives is all on one level, there is no downstairs, no basement, no place below ground level where anything could be stored. The staff has not removed any thing from her room, other than clothing when they do laundry, which is always returned to her. (They did wash a beautiful hand-made, pink, wool sweater she knit years ago, in hot water to reduce it to child size.) It is more than likely that everything that goes through the commercial laundry machines is washed in the hottest water, with harsh industrial detergents and tossed into high temperature dryers. But that is just a hazard of communal living, where everyone is dependent on staffers to care for their personal needs.

This whole scenario reminds me of her stay in a rehab center when she was released from the hospital about eighteen months ago. She had fallen and injured a hip, had been in the bed for a week, and could not be released to return home and live independently without support. She was transferred to a nursing/rehab facility, helped to regain mobility. During the stay, she was absolutely certain that she had clothing stored up in the attic there. Insistent that someone had come in her room and taken her dresses, clothing made by her mother, and moved it up into the attic. Sadly: she did not transfer there with any dresses in her possession - and there was no storage in the attic. I don't know about the staff there, but I finally just quit trying to convince her she was mistaken about both the clothing and the storage area.

She was persuaded to leave, and go with me to the appointment by one of the workers who assured her she would have plenty of time to get her furniture back. He told her he would be there when she returned, and would go with her to help her find the missing articles. She was absolutely certain people had come and taken her belongings, and it was stored below the building. Hopefully when she finished with her ice cream and cake, passed out to residents for the monthly birthday party, and returned to her room, she had forgotten about the missing furniture.

driving south today...

... to make a run to Valdosta. I have not seen the auntie in weeks, plus she has a dr. appointment today. I changed this from a couple of weeks ago, when I went to VA and knew I could not get her to the follow-up appt. Even though the facility where she lives will provide transport, I always try to get there to take her to anything medical. They are really good about taking her when needed, but if I don't go along, I do not know what transpires when she meets with medical personnel.

It is sad to think/know the auntie is not lucid enough to be a reliable source of information, while still being so conversant that she would answer any question posed with a response that might seem perfectly sensible. But she has absolutely no short term memory, and while giving the appearance of being perfectly capable, she simply cannot mind her own business. Meaning someone needs to be available to tend to her business for her. That would be me.

A friend drove with me the last time I went to Valdosta, so I could bring the auntie's car back and try to sell it. It has been sitting at her house for probably a year - at one point the battery was so dead, I had to get it towed to the dealer, where a new one was installed. I know the car ages each day (just like the rest of us!) and felt I should be making an effort to get the maximum amount of value for it by finding a buyer. It sat out on the street in front of my house with hundreds of passers-by seeing it each day, and only got a couple of nibbles. Two people were interested enough to come and drive - but nothing even close to a sale.

Drove it in to town so I could leave it in front of a business situated on a very busy street yesterday, with a 'for sale' sign in the window, and hope it might do better there. I am guessing there has been  no serious interest due to the price, but I have a concern that there will be questions from probate court if I reduce the asking price too dramatically. Even so, if it sits on the street where thousands pass by every day without a good response, I will lower the price. Knowing as I do that we are all aging, along with our vehicles, getting more miles added on each day...

book review: "Sister"...

... picked at random from the library book sale rack for $1, when I dashed in looking for a paperback I could take along, read, and toss. Written by:Rosamund Lupton, who lives in the UK. pPblicized by Target Corp as a Club Pick. Copyright 2010 by Crown, a division of Random House.

Thus far, a sister (Tess) has disappeared, days later discovered dead in a defunct men's washroom in a public park in icy cold winter weather in London. I am thinking there is no way there can be a happy ending, for any good to come of the time the surviving Beatrice has spent living in Tess' hole-in-the-wall apartment trying to come to grips with circumstances surrounding the death. The deceased sister had just been through the misery of childbirth, only to have her newborn die, and she was struggling with both grief and post-partum depression. During the pregnancy, she was being treated with an experimental drug designed to replace a faulty gene that causes cystic fibrosis, a hereditary disease that caused the  of death of their brother at a young age.

I've been reading the book since I left home last Saturday to go to Richmond on Sunday for a memorial service, so naturally I've been dwelling far too much on death and dying, grief and loss. A quote in the book really caught my attention. The book is written in the first person, so this is Beatrice talking, referring to her deceased sister Tess:

"I don't know what time it was," I reply.... "Time didn't mean anything to me anymore. Usually  time alters and affects  everything, but when someone you love dies, time cannot  change that - no amount of time will ever change that - so time stops having any meaning."
When I saw your strand of hair, I knew that grief is love turned into an eternal missing." (pg. 55)

I'm not finished, and keep reading, hoping for a fact to be revealed that might alter circumstances. Create a change that will bring Beatrice some sense of peace, as well as understanding about the disturbing facts surrounding the death of Tess. She is just now trying to make arrangements for the infant to be buried with his mother, while the mother of Tess and Beatrice finds this ghoulish and completely inappropriate. It is both hard to read and difficult to put down, impossible to walk away, just close the book and quit.

a sweet remembrance....

... today at the memorial service for my brother in the church where he was a faithful member for over forty years. He and his sweet wife raised two sons there in that congregation, who have become fine young adults with families of their own. They were/are committed to many of the programs their Baptist family supports: local, national and international missions, education, Boy Scouts, Habitat for Humanity, providing food pantry items for those in need, partnering with a neighborhood school.

The service was well attended by many of the members who know and love that family. People who have worked beside him in many of the volunteer projects he diligently gave his time and skills to when the need arose. People who participated in mission labor with him, or helped on the kitchen/meal prep. team on Wednesday nights. Fellow church members who hammered and sawed with him on Habitat builds. Sunday School members who sat on the back row of the class, goofing, where they acted like teenagers in the senior men's group. Co-laborers who showed up on a Saturday morning to pull weeds in the flower beds, where they appeared unannounced, ready to do the job that needed doing.

I learned things about my brother I would have never heard, no one would have mentioned about his diligent work habits. Over a forty year career of working as a super smart computer guy, IT specialist. One man told of early on, years ago, when their team would break for lunch, the group would spend fifteen minutes eating, and the rest of their lunch hour playing cards, laughing and cheating. My brother was the guy reading computer manuals. On his lunch break.

A long time co-worker told of the group being presented with a problem requiring technical skills far beyond their collective expertise. Giving credit to their success in creating the necessary software to the one everyone else wanted to collaborate with: Brother.  Another told the story of a guy who worked elsewhere in the building, would come down a stairway to ask for help with resolving a problem. Then return to his desk, only to discover the go-to guy figured, tinkered and provided a solution by the time he made it back up the stairs to his own workspace.

I believe at times like this that the person whose life we are celebrating is also the one who would most have enjoyed the party, but sadly not present. All those others gathered for that time of remembrance are in someway connected to the grief of loss and the Joy of Home-going by that one person who is at the center of the Venn diagram, where the intersection lies. I am so thankful I was there to see and meet, talk and share with all those people who were parts and participants in his life for all these years. Amazed at how frequently I heard: 'you look so much like your brother.' But so sad to think that rich full life is over.

up early...

... too early in fact. When I thought we were supposed to be ready for our hired ride to the airport at 4:30. Obviously not paying attention, after I turned the logistics over, knowing that they would get me where I needed to be when I was supposed to be there. So I set my alarm for 4 a.m., and got myself dressed and sitting on ready. Only to discover, we were not leaving the house until 5:30, for a 7:30 flight. They definitely were not waiting for me!

I worked for several hours on Saturday morning (at my paying job), then went to a volunteer project: one of many where I give my time away. Reported here ,you have read about the work of Keep Columbus Beautiful, an organization devoted to just that: promoting and supporting work, often with a huge outpouring of volunteer labor, that help make our town a nicer place to live. Funded by grants, donations and city tax money, running programs that help to raise awareness about litter prevention, recycling to reuse reclaimable trash, environmental protection of our land and water.

I have participated in city wide events to collect Rx meds., prevent people from dumping in the landfill or flushing into our waterways. Assisted on advertised days for the community to donate shoes: giving an option to putting used shoes in the trash, by delivery to a collection point where they can be accumulated and sent to third world countries where even shabby and worn shoes are better than no shoes. And on Earth Day, collecting papers people want to destroy. Announcing a day for people with tax documents, bank statements, financial records to bring papers to be shredded. The shreds baled and sold to companies that used them as an ingredient in pulp to make more paper. Like those cartons you see that say: '40% post consumer paper products' right there on the cereal box or cracker container.

After my two hour shift at the shredding site, I drove to Decatur to spend the night.  Got up Too Early for the flight from ATL to RIC. Where a sweet service in memory of mybrother took place in the church where they have been members for over forty years.

beauty-filled...

... spring blooming still here in Virginia, when it is over in middle Georgia. I have enjoyed a second spring since arriving last Wednesday morning. Lots of trees that are fully leafed out farther south are still in glorious bloom here. It has been loverly!

The dogwoods are just starting to get past their glorious peak. I have seen so many out in the woods, naturalized, obviously volunteers that are so pretty when all the other trees are bare and you see those drifts of brilliant white blossoms that are so eye-catching as you ride along. Others that have been planted around homes, having grown and matured, placed where they are the centerpiece of carefully manicured landscaping.

The redbud trees. Overlooked and nondescript most of the year, simply not noticeable growing out in the forest. Until early spring when every thing else is gray, drab, virtually colorless: then those brilliantly colored tiny little blooms open and put on a fabulous display. Multitudes of wee little lavender blossoms that appear along each branch of the tree. They are actually unusual in that the blooms develop on the twigs and limbs, without any sort of stem between the bark and flowers. Even though the blooming period is long over in middle Georgia, they  have been beautiful out in the wildness of wooded areas her in Virginia.

And - amazingly - still some daffodils blooming. I know there are innumerable varieties, that will put on a show over an extended period of time through many weeks. But the performance of bulb plants has been over for so long farther south, it has been a delight to still see some at their peak here. Most of the ones I have seen, planted in large clumps for best visual impact have been palest yellow, with heads gently nodding in the breeze. Along with some sort of brightly blooming ground cover that is likely Thrift, creeping along in lavender and white. Planted to prevent erosion on the steeply sloped verge of a driveway in an effort to retain soil, where it is turned loose to grow unhindered and be more attractive from year to year.

Then there are the hardwoods. I have sat here in the sun room at the breakfast table over recent days and seen the deciduous trees begin to leaf out. With rain over the weekend and warming sunshine each day, you can almost see them growing. Putting out the lime green wee leaves that will mature over the coming weeks to make create a thickly shaded slope behind the house, down toward the creek running through the slough. Knowing it will eventually become so dense the neighbors' homes will disappear from sight.

It is delightfully entertaining to sit here and observe cardinals and blue jays flitting through trees, with their amazing navigational skills that allow them to avoid  crashing.  See them scatter leaf mulch as they unearth tasty tidbits. Watch the squirrels optimistically visiting the (empty) bird feeder each morning,eternally hopeful of raiding the seeds meant to attract feathered friends. And see spring arrive inch by inch, day by day.

it would not be...

...appropriate to have April 15 on the calendar without taking the opportunity to remember my dad. Today is the day everyone in the USA is required to submit tax returns, often accompanied by a check made out to the IRS. My dad, a devoted patriot, found the IRS despicable. I can only assume the animosity was in a convoluted way due to his work ethic. Meaning he worked hard to support his family, was self employed most of his life, and knew he earned every dollar that came his way. Making him profoundly reluctant to turn it over to the government without a whimper. He never failed to write the check and send the funds, according to the bottom line of the convoluted document he faithfully deciphered and completed each year. But he did wait until April 14 to mail the check. Determined to never give them more than due, or a moment before the law prescribed.

 My dad knew long before the US became involved in armed conflict that caused him to serve in the European Theater of WWII that he wanted to serve his country. When he went off to college, he chose a military school, and was an active participant in the ROTC program at the two year school he attended. He transferred to a four year university  (if I am correct, the University of Georgia was the first one established in the state and possibly the nation?) and continued to be active in ROTC. Upon graduating with a Business degree, he was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the US Army.

The details get a little obscure here, and I am not so sure about the specifics. He returned to south GA. awaiting orders, where he settled into small town life living with his parents. Armed conflict was brewing across Europe and he surely knew it would only be a matter of time before he was called into active service. He found a job, and went to work. I have a clear memory of him telling about the news flash on the radio: the Japanese bombing in Hawaii. He was driving home on that Sunday morning, and said he turned the car around and went back to tell his supervisor at work he would not be returning to his job.

He was activated, called up to serve, trained in artillery, given a company to command, went to England and then to France.  After the armistice, he returned to GA to go into business with his dad, was discharged from active duty, married, raised a family. But continued his service in the National Guard (taking a reduction in rank to get into the local Guard unit) as well as years spent in the Reserves. I know he received retirement income,as well as some very good benefits through the VA as a result of his devotion to service, that provided care and Rx for both he and my mom.

My brain is programmed to be hyper aware of April 15. It will always cause me to think of him and his very strong feelings about the IRS. The man who faithful in giving Uncle Sam his due, but not a minute early.

post script: When April 15 falls on a weekend, the IRS generously allows extra time for people who knew on January 1 that 4-15 was coming. All those foot-draggers who waited until last week, scrambling to get receipts, documents, medical bills together had until today, when the gov'mit relocated the 15th to the 17th. Thus my tale about my dad arriving two days after Income Tax Day.

while sitting...

...in the quiet with my brother over recent days, I noticed that his wife had started writing his obituary. This may sound maudlin, but she knew. The surgeon had given a very clear picture of what the future held when these two people made the decision to return home upon discharge. They chose: no rehab, no nursing facility. Like so many people who have the sense of' being held against their will' in hospital beds: he just wanted to go home. To the place of comfort and safety he had known for so many years.

She had been keeping a journal to help document meds., give sitters a place to make notes, and just generally keep tabs from day to day in their profoundly fractured lives. There, on the back page of the lined, spiral bound notebook, she had begun to gather her thoughts for the inevitable. I sat in the quiet, just being nearby, listening to him breathe. Began to look over the notes about meds. for the past weeks and months, glancing through the history of what their lives has been like since mid-January. I came to the condensation of seventy years of a full, rich, busy life. And added a few lines to the page she had written. There is always a narration, in chronological order, from birth through the years of education and career, but often nothing to help readers better form an image of the man who walked through this world and made an impact on so many diverse lives.

     "His mother said of his Dad, 'He was happiest when something was broke and needed fixing'. This is even more true of Tom  - the inveterate tinker-er. He was the consummate problem solver, a career trouble shooter. A man who would, like his dad, much rather take anything apart, repair and re-assemble than purchase a replacement. Tom was beloved by coworkers who believed wholeheartedly there was no technical glitch on the planet he could not puzzle out to figure a solution. He was loved even more by his family, who daily witnessed his ability to ponder, consider,  'sleep on it' and come up with a creative, ingenious out-of-the-box method to fix any appliance, tool or broken toy presented to him that needed attention.
     Tom was raised by generations of people who loved the Lord, in an extended family faithful in their attendance and attention to the needs of church and community. As a long standing member of New Bridge Baptist, he was generous with his time and skills as well as financial resources. Often the first to arrive and last to leave, he loved his church family as devotedly as the wife, sons and those delightful grandchildren he leaves behind.
     To his family, friends and coworkers over a long richly blessed, joy-filled life, he was a caring compassionate, God-loving man. We will all miss his wisdom, wry wit and bad jokes, good attitude and tinkering skills. And with great anticipation, await the Joy of what comes next: ...'today, you will be with me in paradise.' (Luke 23-24)"

The memorial service will be next Sunday afternoon at the church they attended for over forty years.

finding the joy...

.. that can be had hiding within the heartache. My brother died yesterday, after a long lingering as his health declined over days and weeks since the horrific diagnosis the end of last year. He had become bed bound and immobile, so as the sons came in and out for brief visits, his wife was the faithful-est of faithful providing round the clock care for months. There were some paid caregivers who came through, often overnight, and occasional day sitters who provided little bits and shreds of relief. We  are all thankful he is no longer struggling. He knew where he was going, and we can rejoice through tears.

As she has begun to sort out the process of the final goodbye, talking to pastors and end of life personnel, there have been spots of gleaming sunlight streaming through the gloom. She and I have spent a good deal of time in their breakfast room, with windows on three sides, where you literally sit out in the woods. Nearly twenty feet above the ground, up into the trees. Sharing meals, talking about Tom, reminiscing, remembering, telling stories that are sometimes brand new to other ears, often repeated and embellished over time.

Oddly enough, as it was obvious the end was near, she found it more difficult to go in the room where he was lying, nearly immobile, when each breath was a struggle, in a slow heart-wrenching decline. While I found it easier to sit with, hold his hand, talking to him, or just being near without words.  It has been mentally, emotionally, physically exhausting for her as the constant, round-the-clock caregiver. So even though grief is a sharp pain, constant companion, there is comforting knowledge that he is at peace, feeling none of the things that made us all ache for him as we were helpless to change the course of this awfulness.

If you have been to memorial services in recent years, you have seen a collage that condenses family history to a series of interesting and amusing photographs that depict years of an individual life.  The ones gathered here on the floor of the den have laughed and cackled, groaned, and giggled while looking through boxes, albums, envelopes filled with the past forty years, memorialized on paper.
Looking at photos of spiffy little guys dressed in stiff new clothing for on Easter Sunday. Galloping high energy little boys in hilarious costumes at birthday parties filled with super heroes. Family gatherings  including generations now departed. Young guys in cap in gown as they progress through the years: graduating from kindergarten, high-school and college. Serious young couples, dressed to the nines, with astoundingly bad hair, headed off to the prom. And a few photos of the guy who was usually the one behind the camera. Where Tom's beloved face showed up often enough to provide a number of candid photos, allowing those in attendance a sweet remembrance. When they gather in a week's time at a service for friends, family, co-workers, fellow Baptists to view a long happy life of a devoted family man.

It has been good to be here with them, to share the companionship, and see them interact. To have the time to spend unhurriedly conversing about things of importance, as well as trivial words of little consequence. To be here, offer the small comfort of presence, during this season as they experience and learn another of life's hard lessons.

'that close'...

... to (possibly) being detained and incarcerated. I thought I had come dangerously close to being classified as a criminal with terror in my heart. And would have likely been terrified myself if the tale had ended differently, and I had actually been locked away.

When I got put out at the airport before daylight on Wednesday morning, I had to stop and search on those big lighted displays right for a Delta flight. Then decided I'd best make a stop by the facilities before getting in the long, meandering, slow line, that might could stall out (like Atlanta traffic!) as we laboriously, obediently made our collective way through the screening process. So naturally, while in the 'Ladies', as I was carefully guarding  my person and baggage to prevent tampering by miscreants, the gate info. slipped out of my brain, requiring me to return to the big lighted displays to confirm.

Then on to the dreaded inching-along line to be squeezed into the system, scanned for contraband. Over time I have figured out to have a plastic zipper bag handy, drop everything in the clear bag and zip it shut, contain all that must come out of pockets. With wallet, change, phone, misc. to keep up with, it seems like a simple solution to empty pockets and put it all in a bag that you can just grab out of the plastic bins at the far end of the scan process.
 
The last couple of times I have been through the pre-boarding routine, I decided to wear my knee brace on the outside of my pants, to ease the process of being frisked. If they can see it, and wipe it down for trace elements, it just simplifies the necessity to be assured of safe passage. Plus it makes me look disabled, and gives the workers the opportunity to shunt me off into the shorter line where people in rolling chairs, transported to their flights by airport personnel.

I completely totally forgot about that folding knife in my pocket. When I reached in to get out my phone and insert in the zipper bag, out came the knife. After I said: 'Oh, s#!t', I immediately reached over and dropped it in the nearby trash can. Probably placed there for that specific purpose. Instantly, without hesitation, just tossed it in where it landed with a small 'clang'. Gone forever. I cannot even begin to imagine what the response would have been if I had put it in my zipper bag for all to see, or tucked it away in my luggage.

Sadly, I had just found it the day before when it appeared in the bottom of the washer. I must have left it in a pocket and it came out during the agitation process with a load of dark clothing. I was so pleased to recover it, as it had been missing for some days leaving me thinking: Long Gone. But I did not for one instant think of how I might hold on to it  - just leaned over the opening in that trash can and let it go.

Interesting to look back over that seconds long event of me disposing of my accidental weapon and see that I did not hesitate. I am now surprised as I consider the fact that I made no effort at all to negotiate... I guess I just wanted to get through that screening and on to the plane-train, move on in hope of being allowed to board when I got to the gate, wanting desperately to fly, that I knew conversation was not an option?

book review: "What Made Maddy Run"...

... written by a correspondent for ESPN, Kate Fagan. Subtitled: 'The Secret Struggles and Tragic Death of an All American Teen.'  Published in 2017 by Little Brown. I did not know anything at all about the author, only have a vague idea about ESPN: a sports channel, right? Not particularly interested in sports, and don't devote my time to television, so I have no knowledge of the author or sporting activities.

Madison was a great soccer player in high school, well liked by all who knew her, team-mates, fellow students, teachers, community members. Just a sweet tempered good kid who was also an excellent athlete. She began to run as a way to build endurance, make herself a better at soccer that she had been playing since grade school. Obviously driven to excel, she was even better at track than on the soccer field. Noticed by college recruiters she was offered a scholarship to be part of the track and filed team at Penn. University.

When she finished high school in New Jersey and started to Penn. in the fall she struggled to fit in, did not seem to adjust to college life. Even though her expressed desire as a high school student as to be accepted at an Ivy League school, she was acutely unhappy as she attempted to settle into a routine around athletics and classes, study and social life at the university. She knew something was not right, could not identify the problem and sought help through the counseling program. Constantly in touch with her family, they believed she to find her groove, and settle into a life that was vastly different from living at home and being surrounded by her teammates and close friends in high school. Her parents tried to get her in with a private doctor, to try to figure out why she was having such a hard time, seemed to be so unsettled.

She talked of transferring to a different college, thinking she needed to make a change that would allay her anxiety. Her family, though worried, felt she could adjust, find the help she needed, and be successful.  Maybe it was a chemical imbalance, that could have been resolved with labs and an evaluation. Maybe she could have met with a counseling expert, had some talk therapy, figured out why she was so stressed out. Maybe there was something that happened in her life she could not ever share or unable to talk about.

Maddy was nineteen when she jumped from a multi-level parking deck. Left a bag of gifts for family members on the top level of the deck before she ran and jumped over the guard rail. And a lot of unanswerable questions.

The book was hard to read: a sad story, with the knowledge from the title it would not have a good outcome. Also difficult to read as there were pages of text messages back and forth with friends and family. And messages lifted from her computer files that the family provided access to. Just a heart wrenching narrative that attempted to decipher what went wrong - when ultimately it doesn't matter.

cheatin' songs...

...on the country/western radio station come to mind when I am motivated to make a confession.  Believing I should own up before the time comes when I get caught in a situation where the cops come into the interrogation room and give me the 'third degree'. I will go ahead and admit to having the feeling of cheating on my BFF by going to Taco Bell without her.

People in their church family have been very thoughtful, dependable and generous providing meals on a regular basis over the weeks they have been in need. Signing up on a rotating basis to deliver delicious eats twice a week to relieve some of the stress of care giving. I've done my best to be helpful by eating leftovers and consuming home cooked meals as often as possible: one of those things that could be classified (with a smirk) as a 'dark and dirty job, but someone has to do it'. Most of which has been excellent - pretty much my opinion about anything I do not have to prepare myself.

But today, just for a change of pace, we decided to get take-out and I made a run several miles down the road to a newly completed Taco stand. So new, in fact. that they have not marked the lines for parking lot on the newly pressed asphalt. With customer service people who are so freshly trained, they don't know where all the buttons are on the screen to punch in orders. Causing confusion and panic when I came along and order something they had never heard of when required to memorize the menu.

If I were at home, the Bell is The Place my friend PC and I consistently go when we think it is time to meet and talk. Which we do on a regular basis when we have news or concerns to share, things we need to confess or talk about, solve the problems of the world over tray full of ninety nine cent tacos.  I'm feeling badly that I went to the Taco store and did not meet PC, as she is the most best taco eating friend in  my life. A sneaky thing for me to do, as well as unpardonable of me to unwrap tacos without her presence. Trying to justify away my guilt with the knowledge that they were not eaten there on the premises, but put in a bag to take back to the house and eat off paper plates.

I have a poor but hopeful theory about personal mishaps: if there are no witnesses, it didn't really happen. In the way people have dreamed up additions to Murphy's Law, another consideration is: If You Don't Confess, They Won't Know You Are Guilty. Meaning I just won't tell her I have been to Taco Bell and she did not get invited. All well and good until someone goes without inviting Me!

readily admitting...

... to being technically inept. I make no apologies, though I will repeatedly say "I am sorry I cannot do this (or that)" - just my offering of a non-explanation for the fact that any chore having to do with electronics (including the phone in my pocket) is beyond my expertise. I find text messages on my phone days or weeks after the missive was sent, when I accidentally come upon the words asking questions and needing prompt responses. I do not know how to open - much less provide a quick words to shot back in return... so when the messages eventually appear it is pure luck when they pop up - long after the need for assistance has passed.

My sister-in-law reported none of the computers in their house work, even though my brother spent his adult life working with and around technology. As he began to struggle with the problems in his brain he gradually lost the ability to deal with all things technical. There are a number of electronic devices here in this house, but the only thing that responds as needed is her phone: the one he bought so she could receive photos of grandchildren to show on demand.  At some point one of their smaller devices: a tablet, notebook or something that size had some internal problem. He took it apart to see if it was something he could repair - and could not reassemble the electronics. It eventually went in the trash. This from the guy who, years ago, was the only one to figure out how to make computers on opposite ends of a huge building communicate with each other when employed at AT&T.

The latter part of last year, as his mental acuity was beginning to fail, he was so frustrated with their desk top computer, the one he had built from scratch - he decided to replace it. Went to the big box store and purchased all the needed components to have what he needed. But could not make it work. The smartest guy I know, the one who loved to tinker, could take anything apart to figure it out and put it back together in perfect working condition. By the time they received the diagnosis that hit the family like a runaway freight train, it was too late to return hundreds of dollars worth of electronics for a refund.

He has done so much in this house, making improvements, adding small conveniences to make life easier. Putting in ceiling fans, installing appliances, wiring for outdoor lighting. The sort of guy who loved to be presented with a challenge, and would ponder for hours or days before putting the solution into action. Thinking things through, doing research, analyzing, considering, working it all out in his head, mentally stepping thorough the maze of options before reaching the best possible outcome. Amaze-ing guy.

This is a guy who was began his education in the era of pencils and lined paper, working problems out with your brain and a slide rule when he was in high school. Obviously found his niche in math, calculus and physics. I recall at some point when there was geographical and emotional distance between us as siblings, hearing that he made a wooden frame for his slide rule, mounted it on the wall, with a little plaque that stated: "In Case of Emergency, Break Glass." Knowing that when the whole world goes to hell in a hand-basket, the grid is compromised, all technology is worthless, he would get out his slide rule and continue to solve problems.

book review: "Ordinary Grace"...

... another written by the author William Kent Kruger. This guy is one I have read quite a bit in recent months, but even though it is by someone I have really enjoyed, it is vastly different from all the previous books I've reported on. Different characters formed by the same author, living lives that made me think this book is possibly more autobiographical. I have not googled Kruger to know about his personal life, or actually read any of his work in print, in true black-and-white book form. As I was listening to this story, I had to wonder if this story was based somewhat on his life: telling of a son of Methodist minister, raised in a small rural community in Minnesota, with an older sister and younger brother

The way this man writes is so 'readable' even though as I said, I have not actually literally put my hands on any of his published novels. He has the ability to imbue his imagined families and communities with such detailed, ordinary, unremarkable but believable, life-like-us characteristics, those individuals seem to be here, walking around, breathing humans. This tale is about the Drum family, with the father being the shepherd of three small churches as his 'charge', preaching the word, ministering to the needs of the people, comforting those in pain, offering advice and support to all who ask for guidance.

The story is told in retrospect by Frank, who lives in the (probably fictitious) town of New Bremen, Minnesota in 1961. Frank is a young teen, relaying the events of one summer: starting with the death of a small child who is killed by a train. There are several other tragic events that have devastating effects on the Drum family, in the weeks prior to his dad being relocated to a different church and the family moving away. A sweet story, even in the distressing parts of loss and grief, as Frank learns to accept things he cannot change, as well as realize he will have little control over the actions of other people who impact his life. He grows into teenager-hood, learning some difficult life lessons, including the uselessness of revenge and the gentle blessed relief of forgiveness.

getting there...

... was the easy part. Uneventful travel from Atlanta to Richmond this morning. Even when you have to manhandle the suitcase up above your head with brute strength to jam into overhead bin. Today was the first time in my travels since Jan. 1 that some manly man has not risen to the challenge, jumping up help me wrangle my luggage to deposit in the storage compartment. I commented to my seatmate as we were preparing to disembark how it is much easier to lift things down as opposed to up, work with gravity instead of against it.

We knew my brother would not be getting better, as the prognosis before he was discharged as an inpatient in mid-January was dismal. The family had agreed to hospice care before he came home, with lots of medical equipment in place before his release. At that time, he was weak from being in bed plus the effects of anesthetics, but mobile and able to maneuver around the home where they have lived for nearly thirty years. He has not been out of bed for over two weeks now, losing muscle mass and mobility, seems to be heading steadily downhill.

My sister in law called on Tuesday evening, to provide a report, make me aware of changes that have occurred since I was here several weeks ago. It did not take me long to come to the conclusion she did not need to be here struggling along alone. Even though she has many friends, a good support system and a caring church family, unless she has paid sitters arranged by hospice: she is here with him by herself much of each day.

He continues to decline. I pray for peace, mercy and grace, for this family so consumed by heartache.

taking a trip...

... again on the Buddy Pass plan courtesy of my friend the Delta Airlines retiree who can get me a really good price on tickets. Just have to be willing to go to the airport with your toothbrush in hand, and get in line, hoping there will be an empty seat left when all the people who paid full price are buckled in. I had planned to go to VA next Monday, but after receiving a call on Tuesday evening, I decided: "Damn the Torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead."

(Previous quote attributed to Admiral David Farragut of the US Navy, reportedly spoken at the Battle of Mobile Bay during the Civil War. The torpedo reference is to floating mines/explosives in the water, designed to prevent ships from the northern forces from entering the Bay. This version of the quote is incomplete, according to Wikipedia, but provides the gist of the command issued by Farragut.)

If you are so determined to live a life filled with taking chances (traveling stand-by), you can also enjoy the benefit of 'people watching' at the greatest place in the world to see sights heretofore unseen. Making me want to ask many travelers: 'Does your mama know you left home looking like that?' Hours later, I am still astounded by that young woman in skimpy midriff-baring top and short-shorts prancing down the concourse, wiggling and jiggling her way to the boarding gate.

There is also the option of attempting to get the next flight out as 'standby' passenger indefinitely. If it was filled, I would have been directed to the next Delta flight headed to my chosen destination, and could have spent the day, or week waiting for space available. Trekking from one concourse/gate to another until met with success: an empty seat! My friend who made the travel arrangements reported that the ticket was valid for a year, allowing the owner to travel any time within the next twelve months should situations occur necessitating postponement. Assuming you could make your own movie like the Tom Hanks production from some years ago when he was stranded in an air terminal for weeks due to political unrest. This 'good-for-a-year' option also allows for the opportunity of arriving at your destination, and lingering 364 days before using the second half of the ticket for passage home.

I got on the flight I had hoped for, so out on the early morning flight, leaving ATL a bit before 8 a.m. arriving in RIC shortly after 9. Met with a pre-arranged ride, a Lyft guy who drives for hire in a nice big comfy SUV. Much more satisfactory than the last time I landed there and got in that taxi with a man who was not  fluent in English. This guy was, thankfully, a native. Not sure where he was raised, but he reported having relatives who live in GA, and a mom who lives in NYC. We commiserated about having people we love who reside in places with lunging, snarling, chaotic traffic problems, and agreed to enjoy living life in the relative peace and harmony of little burgs with minimal congestion.

not meant to...

... be a disaster, but it did not pan out at all as intended. My boss at work gave me a ticket for a free lunch in the deli. When some deserving deed occurs, the managers can give employees a pass for a sandwich the deli workers make to your specifications. After I got a lunch ticket yesterday, I decided to take it across the store and get a sandwich today. Sadly it did not work as planned.

Wanting a wrap, that would not have all the bread a sub. would have, I asked for the green one. The person who was making sandwiches came close to telling me green was  not an option, but finally found the spinach tortilla to use. Then I asked for chicken, only to discover that chicken was not one of my choices. The only chicken available is the expensive Boars' Head brand, that I would have to pay extra to get: since it was free, it would defeat the point of free to have to pay for the meat, right?

Deli person offered me ham or roast, but I declined. Then she suggested using chicken tenders, but I don't eat fried anything. So I got my chicken wrap without meat. Cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, sweet peppers, bell peppers, but no chicken. Then I thought: 'you should get the chicken on the side, and take the tenders to put on a salad for the man who will eat anything. So I said: "Well, go ahead, and let me have the tenders, but don't put them on the sandwich."

I finally got my wrap, and went through the checkout line to hand over the free ticket. Went over to the cafe area to sit down and eat, expecting half would be adequate for lunch, and save the other half for tomorrow. But planning to take the tenders home and dice up for adding to lettuce at home. Opened the little packet of still warm chicken, only to discover it was not tenders, but wings: boney wings! Back to stand in line to ask the deli clerk about the not-tenders. Only to find that there were  no tenders available: "If you want tenders, you have to wait for them to cook, come back in fifteen  minutes."

Was I going to stand around on my lunch break for a quarter of an hour waiting for the chicken to get done? No. Did I completely forget about the chicken when I finally got ready to leave the store hours later? Yes. Will I go tomorrow and ask for my tenders? Absolutely.

what is a word....

...that would adequately describe tired-er than tired? Whatever it might me, I'm feeling it, that thing that will provide a description of how I feel after going in to work at 6 a.m. and working until after 5 p.m. Following  a desperate call to persuade the produce guy to say: 'you will be spending your day helping out in the floral department.' That is ten hours of being on my poor weary feets. I did take a break to run an errand mid-morning, but it still adds up to a very long day.

Mostly due to it being 'prom season', when all the schools across the continent think it is time to pay for teens to dress like adults without the knowledge, experience or skills to act mature enough to accompany their appearance. Probably safe to assume there will be much misbehavior going on in those expensive dress and rental tuxedos. Most have no idea how what the appropriate behavior for formal events should be. And will be acting the fool in  more ways than their parents want to know.

All those dressy dresses get skimpier each year, baring more and more skin, with absolutely no place to pin a corsage: and very little to cover things that should not be exposed. Guys who are fully prepared to take every advantage offered, and girls who provide temptation without knowing how to say 'no'.  Plus the freedom to stay out most of the night, and opportunity that leads to more mischief than they are prepared to resist. Something about teens and being unaware of the inevitability of 'consequences'  that come with freedom.

they did it again...

... those feathered friends who built a nest hanging on the side of the house once before. They are back. I was hoping they would not return, to that same location on the back side of our home. Thinking the more recent odd-ball nest still sitting right on top of the spherical glass light fixture (by the front door) was their new home. Possibly not even the same type of bird, but no reason not to be optimistic that the ones who made their home out of scavenged moss and bird spit would not come again for a repeat performance.

I was out in the yard putting out some mulch and noticed that the family who thought attaching a nest to a wall was a smart move, returning to raise another family. It sits above a window, where the there is a very narrow ledge of about one-fourth inch. Hold your fingers that far apart and you will see how tenuous the perch is where this contraption sits. Amazing that they could pull up all soft, cushion-y green moss growing in shady spots around the yard, and glue it in place with saliva. Create a construction that will hold together well enough to hatch a clutch of eggs and raise the little ones to maturity.

It was too late in the day for a photo, getting dark when I looked up and noticed they have returned and rebuilt the nest. It has been a couple of years since they were last in residence. After they departed and I was sure it was unoccupied, I climbed the ladder and pulled the old  mossy cup-shaped nest down. Where it was attached at the exact same spot: which is why I am so confident it is the same pair, or one with a new mate.  Up under the wide overhang of the roof, well protected from weather, and high enough to be safe from that irritating neighborhood cat that roams around licking it's chops.

I do not know how long it has been there, but the moss is still green, so I suspect recently harvested and assembled. I will go up the ladder for photos, and peek in to see if there are any eggs. I am deliberately practicing not having a heart attack when I get scrunched up,wobbling on top of the precarious ladder, out there under the eaves when a mother bird comes barreling out to startle the s#@t out of me.

w

grancy greybeard...

... growing under the tree canopy of pines in front of my house. As well as numerous plants that are a bit more well established I noticed on the drive to Valdosta and back on Wednesday. I first noticed this unique bloomer as a child when my grandparents had one growing in their yard. I recall it had lichens, and moss, so would be considered mature, where as mine is only about ten or fifteen years old. Their blooming period is fairly short, so most of the time they are not much to look at, rarely noticed in home landscapes. But when they bloom, eye-catching enough to make you circle the block for another look.

Also known as Fringe Tree (chrionanthus virginicus), it seems to be more and more common, occasionally seen in the woods, but mostly cultivated in gardens and used for landscaping in commercial developments. The tiny white filaments bloom in early spring, usually following azalea season, and have a delicate fragrance with blooms lasting about two weeks. Then they revert to being insignificant until fall when the leaves turn a brilliant yellow before shedding and leaving bare limbs until tiny green sprouts start to grow in early spring. Research indicates they can grow to be thirty feet tall, so a large shrub, or small tree.

My two plants, both now in full bloom, covered with lacy 'beards' were a gift from a friend. A dear person who did some baby sitting when daughters were young. She taught the girls how put ketchup on their macaroni and cheese. Pretty memorable for young people, when their mom was constantly promoting healthy foods and nutritious eating. They still talk about some of the hilarious antics of this grandmother who never acted her age, always good fun and cheap entertainment.

more bloomers...

... called Solomon's Seal (polyganatum biflorum). Comes up from a little rhizome that you think is dead, deceased, completely lost when the greenery dies off in the fall. Making you forget about it in the bleak winter. Then suddenly a little green shoot starts coming up from the brown drab leaf mulch and you say: Oh! Wow. Having forgotten it was ever even planted there - then before you realize it has blooms, appearing on the underside of the stalk between the oval leaves, with tiny bell shaped flowers. And say: Spring!

The name comes from a scar on the rhizome that appears to have a similarity to the 'seal' used by King Solomon, son of David from the Old Testament. Biblical history reports he was wise and fair, and that small circular 'seal' or scar that is named for the King supposedly gives an indication of the age of the rhizome. Count the number of scars to judge the age of the plant. According to my research, the berries are poisonous, but the rhizome/root has a number of natural/homeopathic uses for medicating skin, heart, bones, etc.

I bought it several years ago at the Callaway Gardens plant sale, and put it in a bed that gets nearly no direct sun as I knew it was a shade lover. But it did not seem to thrive, and I thought perhaps it needs more light than it gets up close to the house under that three-foot-wide overhang. After I relocated to a different spot where they do get full sun for a couple of hours each day, especially early in the year before the deciduous trees begin to leaf out, they seem much happier.

Well mulched, and in some really good dirt that appears to suit them better. I expect they will grow (some think it invasive!) as it is native to the south and midwest US, get to the point that they will reproduce, so I can dig and spread out to fill that shady bed better. I love things that have variegated leaves, with lighter colors mixed in with the green. And really like those tiny little bell-like blooms that remind me of those wee little white flowers on the earliest bulbs when the snowdrops appear. Yay, Spring!

filling boxes...

.. by taking grocery items out of one box and putting in a different box. Volunteering this morning at the local food bank: Feeding the Valley. We were recruited from all the local Publix stores to go and donate our time. Some were filling boxes and others were digging in a small island in the middle of the parking lot, preparing for building the forms to start a raised bed garden.

I was with a group of about two dozen who spent the morning putting supplies in boxes that I assume will go to people in need who live in the surrounding counties. I readily admit that the combination of staples being put into each small corrugated box was an odd assortment, but suppose if you are struggling to find food and provide for your family you wold be thankful for anything. Into each box: a gallon jug of water, a half gallon of juice, a small jar of peanut butter, a small box containing an assortment of snacks including granola bars and crackers, two 2 pound bags of dried beans, two bags of dried figs. Lastly twenty tiny packets of jelly, similar to what is provided when you go through the sausage-biscuit drive through. No carbs, no rice, nothing veggie-like.

Someone started the process by taking a flattened carton from a stack and turned it into a small rectangular box. Closing up the bottom and starting it along the assembly line, with items being added by workers all along the twenty foot section of rollers. Liquids, snacks, non-perishable items, across a U-shaped connector, and pushed back along another twenty foot section, where the rest of the items were added. Top flaps folded in to close the box. Shoved into the taping machine, then stacked on a pallet and shrink-wrapped to keep the boxes securely together for transfer with a fork lift.

About every twenty minutes we would come to a complete halt while an employee went off with a pallet jack and brought back another stack of cases of whatever we had run out of. Or the machine that had gigantic rolls of tape to seal the top and bottom flaps of the box would run out and we stopped while someone from the food bank reloaded the huge rolls of tape. Or the guy driving the fork lift would be called to come in and haul a palletized stack of filled cartons to store in a different area of the warehouse.

My commitment was only for half a day, so after we all stopped for a lunch break, I left. Taking my sandwich and bottle of water with me, departed to take a stroll down the bike path that meanders all the way across town to the river, and enjoy the scenery. Where I happened upon some beautiful native azaleas someone (possibly the city, as they maintain the walking trail/path?) planted along the verge, where the grass turns back into woods as the trail winds through the area where along the rail bed where freight trains traversed long gone rails.

last weekend...

... when I was volunteering at the plant sale at Callaway Gardens, the native azaleas were just beginning to bloom. There were places where a number of them were planted together, and certain types were fully open. Gorgeous. And other places where there were plants with dozens of buds,  showing just enough color to know how delicious they would look in another ten days or so.

There are a number of different varieties, most of which have likely been propagated and deliberately planted in various places to appear naturalized in the wild. In a remarkable variety of colors, in addition to the ones remembered from childhood in the piney woods of south Georgia that were pink.
Similar to the ones in the two top photos, in my memory, growing unhindered in the under-story of tall pines among the palmettos.

At Callaway, the colors appear in sequence through the blooming season. Bright shades that are so eye catching out int the woods, illuminating the landscape. Brilliant rusty red, flame orange, pink and yellow. I am not knowledgeable about the names, but think all the colors are native to the southeast, and can now be found in commercial nurseries. There was a grower at the plant sale last weekend who lives in Harris County, specializes in natives plants, including the many colors of the azaleas. He had a booth that was very busy the two days I was there, constantly calling the nursery workers back on the farm to deliver another truck load of plants as the selection sold down. Likely that he supplies nurseries through out the southern states, and probably does a good business on the Internet.

my grandmother's...

... pickle dish went on a road trip to Decatur, for Easter lunch. I have a very clear memory of the glass dish always being on the table when we would be invited for a special meal. Not necessarily celebrating a holiday, but times we got together when there were guests - family members visiting, or someone not routinely present in our lives. My cousin in Decatur now enjoys that table with chairs, now in her dining room, and possibly a table cloth or two our grandma used. Sitting at that table is a sweet memory.

One of the things often prepared and served when there was occasion to be invited to sit at the dining table (as opposed to family eating in the kitchen) was Brunswick stew. A one pot meal, served with cornbread/saltine crackers, easy to prepare for a crowd. With simple side dishes of pickles and stuffed celery (cream cheese, mayo and diced green stuffed olives spread in the groove of celery sticks). No one seems to be able to tolerate the taste of celery in my immediate family, so when I thought of grandma's glass dish, I knew it should serve gerkins instead of that highly undesirable celery. 

photos from the past....

... one from a really long time ago. You can tell from the appearance of the black and white print: those deckle edges you would see in photo albums found in your grandmother's closet. Plus just the fact that it is b&w, which was the only option back when the picture was taken. My guess is that it was early spring, as my mom would have had more clothing on me if it was winter. I remember as a child wearing dresses all the time, regardless of season, and how cold it was with the north wind blowing on my bare legs and up my dress, while guys were wearing long pants. I suspect most of the long pants I had for 'play clothes' were hand-me-downs that my brother had out grown.

The photo was taken in my grandmother's back yard, where they lived out in the country several miles from town on a small farm. I am standing just outside fenced in area where the chickens lived, scratched around all day looking for bugs, worms, bits to eat, and at night went into a coop, where one of the hens had obviously laid an egg. Yep, that's me, appearing to be about two years old. You see those high top white leather shoes that every child wore from that era? I still have them someplace: my mother had them bronzed so they would last for all eternity.

The other photo must be from the early to mid-1990's. Hard to believe we were so fashionable as we dressed for Easter. They picked out the patterns and the cloth and their mother made the Easter dresses. I still have a box full of bits and pieces of many of those dresses and play clothes, tediously hand made from years ago, thinking that they would magically turn into quilts at some point. Maybe when we downsize to move to Florida, I will be able to part with that which has been lingering around for twenty years?

It is difficult and horrifying to recall when those dresses with the huge collars were in fashion. At some point we all had  white blouses with wide 'platter' style collars, and possibly even jumpers to match. I think they were seasonal, maybe a print that was tiny holly leaves all over. In my sporadic years of substitute teaching, I have seen some school system employees still wearing various seasonal dresses/jumpers, printed with pumpkins, candy canes, shamrocks, or Easter bunnies over T-shirts, but not the big collared blouses. Admittedly they were really cute when worn with jumpers, but hopefully they were given a decent burial.

we've decided...

... to move to Florida. Where all the senior citizens go to get away from the ice and snow. Where anyone who ever shoveled off a  snowy sidewalk, or put snow chains/tires on their vehicle thought of as Nirvana, and looked forward to moving when they retired. Even though we do not live in Minnesota, amongst those who put on their boots and down jackets in October and wear them until early May, we are going south. I'm not much excited about the prospect of sorting, packing, donating, down-sizing, and the actual event of relocating, when we get settled in Sunny Florida with all those other snow-birds it will be nice and warm.

Will I miss Georgia peaches? Yes. Will I miss the changing seasons? Yes. Will I miss trying to grow tomatoes, with frustrating lack of success? No. Homegrown tomatoes are nice, if you don't lose your religion in the process. I have had such poor luck in recent years, I swear by mid-summer I will not, no, never plant tomatoes again. Then spring starts turning things green, and before you know it my promise is on the compost heap. Meaning: I have come home with seedlings, digging holes and hoping I am holding my tongue right for success.

I will continue to plant things, but have learned the best path to success is perennials. I'm hoping I can be content with some little pots of dirt on the patio, where I can dig, and stir the dirt occasionally. Maybe even have enough space to plant some fruit trees: citrus things that do well in that climate, and maybe some blueberries that tolerate the long hot summer.  Wonder if there are other fruiting things like apples or pears that will do go in the blistering heat of Florida summers?

Not sure specifically where: this means there is at least one road trip involved for scouting out the lay of the land. I would prefer, as I am sure anyone who even remotely considers moving to the Sunshine State, to be near the beach. Which also means close to the part that will be underwater and return to the inland sea when the next hurricane comes barreling along. But that is a chance you take when you decide to go south. Part and parcel of escaping the misery of winter, though I do recall weather so brutally cold back in January that The Man Who Lives Here worried about the citrus crop. More specifically his little bottles of shelf-stable orange juice tucked away in the bathroom. Standing by for him to consume at 2:17 or 3:49 when he wakes up with precipitously low blood sugar due to not eating right.

Though we have talked about this move in general terms, there is nothing specific decided. We'll have to talk to some property/real estate people and get an idea of what's available to even know where to start looking. I expect there are lots of options, all of which are expensive. Possibly put this place on the market to sell and have the funds to be ready to purchase when we go shopping, sometime after April 1.