Happy New Year

I have been conducting an unofficial poll regarding the changing of the years. A significant number of folks have said 2009 can't come to an end soon enough.

Today I encountered a group of people who told me that they intended to celebrate the end of the year by consuming enough alcoholic beverages to ensure 2009 would be forever wiped from their memories.

I don't know that I'm prepared to go to that extreme - there were some good things that happened in the past year. There was the ah..... Well, there was... uhm, ah... That is to say there was....

Anyway... here's to a Healthy, Happy, and Hopeful New Year.

Unnatural Silence

I was struck this evening by the complete lack of noise when I walked out my back door.

There were no murmuring voices carrying from neighboring houses, no dogs barking, no doors slamming. Not a single automobile could be heard, neither was there the drone of an airplane engine. Not a bird chirped, not a leaf rustled, not a critter scurried.

Silent as a grave came to mind and I was suddenly anxious for even the annoying yap of the dog down the street. I stood willing some sound - any sound - to reach my ears, but none came.

Hurrying inside I was greeted by the stereo playing. Reassurance that the natural order of things had not been disrupted. I wondered if the outdoor world would still be unnaturally quiet should I step back across the threshold - then decided I didn't want to know.

Eskimo Chill

Blue sky, sunshine, scattered clouds, rolling surf.

Sounds like the perfect day at the beach doesn't it?

Indeed it was a great day for watching the ocean - from inside my toasty warm car.

Others, hardier than I, decided it was a great day for actually frolicking on the beach. Wind chills that would make an Eskimo shiver necessitated that said frolicking be conducted beneath multiple layers of clothing. Blue, red, and green parkas trimmed with white almost-fur were the attire of the day.

I watched a few people return from the water's edge with cherry red cheeks despite woolen scarves pulled up to their noses and wondered what they had been thinking before setting out for their stroll. Surely the angry howl of an untamed wind should have served as warning against a December sojourn.

The arrival of a family dressed in nothing more than long sleeve T-shirts, vests and earmuffs set my teeth to chattering. Despite the hot air blasting from the dashboard vents, I found myself shivering on behalf of the under clothed contingent and I abandoned the parking lot overlook in search of a steaming hot beverage.

Christmas Rediscovered

I frequently hear it said that Christmas is for kids. It's true that Santa and gifts wrapped in colorful paper certainly capture the attention of children.

But traditions passed down through the years, gathering of family, and visits from friends make the holiday season special throughout our lives.

I very nearly didn't decorate our house this year. My ongoing search for full time employment had me feeling less than enthusiastic about the approaching holiday. Once the decorations were up, I found them to be more reminders of better times past than harbingers of hope.

But once College Dude and Language Lass arrived home to complete our family I realized how much I had to be grateful for.

Sitting in front of a blazing fire and brightly lit Christmas Tree, we were the family we have always been. A family that values being together and sharing love for one another. A family that appreciates both quiet companionship and jovial exchanges.

In this difficult year, I rediscovered Christmas for what it is meant to be. The celebration of family.

Happy Holidays

Whatever your religious persuasion, I wish you all a happy holiday season.

Almighty Holidays

I've been remembering a time when the world stopped on Christmas - and all major holidays.

I've been remembering a time when we made sure we had our errands finished by the eve of the holiday because on Christmas, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July nothing - and I do mean nothing was open.

Gas stations, grocery stores, hardware stores, bakeries, butcher shops, drug stores, they were all vacant - locked tight. Everyone, with the exception of hospital staff and members of the armed services, had the opportunity to gather around a backyard barbecue or a Christmas tree because family came first. Folks attended parades in honor of the servicemen who fought for freedom, gathered around tables to give thanks for families, and went to church to give thanks to God. There were priorities, and while the dollar was important it wasn't yet the almighty dollar.

When the title of Almighty switched from the Supreme Being to the greenback things went into a downward spiral.

It seems to me we've come darn close to the bottom of that spiral - and it seems to me that this unhappy place is where we're destined to linger until Almighty is set back in its proper place.

Light, Hope, and Promise

Here it is, December 21st, the day of the year with the least amount of daylight.

It's a turning point day. From here on, we get a little more daylight each and every day for the next six months.

So I view December 21st as a day of promise. We need a little promise and hope in our lives right now. The unemployed need the promise and hope of a job. People without power and buried beneath feet of snow need the promise and hope of electricity. Members of the military who have been overseas for interminable periods need the promise and hope of being reunited with their families. Homeless people need the promise and hope of a warm meal and a place to eat.

Let's all pray that this December 21st is the start of a long run of promise and hope. Let's make it the start of a new beginning by doing something, however small, that will have a positive impact on another person's day.

Think of it. A single person could add encouragement to the lives of 182 people by the time of the summer equinox. Multiply a single person's efforts by billions and quickly hope and promise would grow into a rushing river of optimism.

Ready to pitch in? Smile at someone tomorrow, buy someone a cup of coffee, help someone dig out from under the snow, give someone a lift to work - anything. Then ask that person to do the same for another.

It might come back around to you just when you need it most.

Snow Silence

The first thing I noticed when I walked outside at 6:00 a.m. with snow shovel in hand this morning was the silence.

Yes, it's always quietest just before the dawn, but this morning even more so. The three inch layer of snow that coated roads, shrubs, and rooftops alike muffled even the sound of my shovel scraping across the pavement.

Just as someone might step through a doorway, I stepped into the silence and traveled back to 1986. It was eight o'clock on a February night. The snow had reached a depth of ten inches since beginning only hours earlier and was showing no sign of letting up.

The only sounds were the squeak of my rubber boots in the wet snow, wind howling in the trees, the panting breaths of my dog, and - oh, yes, an occasional rumble of thunder. I was struck by thought that I had somehow stepped outside of time; that my extended stroll through the neighborhood was taking place between one click of the second hand and the next. Everyday sounds lay on either side of that click, and I suspected that when the second hand finally jumped to that next hash mark on the clock face the blare of car horns and the spinning of tires would infiltrate the quiet.

The absolute quiet that occurs only between seconds in a new fallen snow.

Empress of the Universe

I refuse to acknowledge the weather outdoors.

I refuse to accept that after thinking our pocket of the world was going to deal only with rain, that some of other form of precipitation is occurring.

I refuse to acknowledge that morning will bring anything but sunshine and dry roads.

Motivated Mom, Empress of the Universe has decreed that it shall be so.

With the decree having been issued, I can go to sleep knowing that my dreams of Calypso music and sun block will be premonitions of the morn.

Four Letter Forecast

The four letter word beginning with S is in the weather forecast.

A lot of folks would consider snow on a Friday night to be a non issue. They're planning a weekend in front of the fireplace with holiday music playing.

I would have felt the same way at one time, but now that I'm part of the workforce that makes their way to their place of employment before the rising of the sun on Saturday, I'm seriously bumming over this unwelcome forecast.

Preparing to type today's post, I accidentally clicked on a bookmarked link to an earth-cam site showing the beaches of Aruba.

Eighty-eight degrees with palm trees waving in the wind looked more than a little appealing. Much as I enjoy Christmas, I would trade steel drum music for holiday carols in the blink of an eye.

Hmmm... perhaps I should investigate employment with the cruise line industry. I could handle being at work on a weekend morning if I were surrounded by sunshine, blue water, and warm breezes.

Over the River and...

...through the woods to Lancaster County she goes.

Motivated Mom is preparing for the annual Christmas cookie bake at the home of a friend in Lancaster County. As I write this, Motivated Mom is mixing up gobs of dough for the big event.

Every year at this time a devoted group of women descend on a single home with bowls of premixed cookie dough and set about baking said cookies in production line fashion.

I've never attended this holiday extravaganza, but I've heard of the no nonsense management incorporating rotating job assignments, specifically timed tasks, and intense quality control that allows ten women to turn out 150 dozen cookies in an eight hour shift.

Nine of the ten women refer to the leader of this event as the Cookie Nazi. Absolutely no finished products are allowed to be sealed beneath plastic wrap until they have been decorated to the Cookie Nazi's satisfaction.

I guess that's why the Cookie Leader provides copious amounts of wine. The Nazi has to squelch the ability of the work force to coordinate a mutiny if she is to guarantee 1800 sugary treats by the end of the shift.

Obviously the effort is enjoyed by all as this year marks the 20th anniversary of the Great Cookie Bake.

The Chicken Answer

At last I have the answer to the age old question Why did the chicken cross the road?

The answer struck me just as I nearly struck a chicken yesterday. Chickens (plural) actually.

There were a pair of fowl strutting on the shoulder of the road in front of a nearby farm. They were busily foraging for food amidst the gravel when they suddenly decided there might be better pickings in the road itself. The very stretch of road that the tires of my car were eating up.

It was during my perfectly executed accident avoiding swerve that I noticed the wire mesh gate hanging ajar. The adrenaline surge of the near collision brought my surroundings into crystalline clarity and the unlatched gate shone with the promise of ancient knowledge. And in that moment of oneness - that instant of universal understanding - I knew the answer.

The chicken crossed the road because someone left the gate open.

From a Zen Master

I recently came upon a fascinating excerpt from a work titled Genjokoan, written by the Buddhist Zen teacher Dogen.

I found the words so thought provoking, the mental image so defined, that I feel a need to share.

...Moon reflected on the water:
The moon doesn't get wet, nor is the water broken.
Although its light is broad and great,
The moon's reflected even in an inch-wide puddle.
The whole moon and entire wide sky
Lie mirrored in one dewdrop on the grass.
- Dogen, Genjokoan

Adopt-a-Pet

I can say with absolute certainty there is nothing that will shake you from the beginnings of an afternoon nap like the words Daddy, I have adopted a dog.

Media Girl uttered those very words to me just as I was battling heavy eyelid syndrome brought on by the afternoon sun streaming through the window.

Do you want to see the dog? Media Girl asked.

It seemed obvious to me that my daughter was looking for a early inheritance. First shocking me emotionally with the news of a new canine, then sending my heart into irregular rhythm by bringing the dog to our doorstep.

My near death experience lasted only as long as it took me to spin in my chair and find Media Girl holding her cell phone up to my face. The screen on the phone displayed the picture of, I had to admit it, a cute puppy.

With the realization that the dog was not going to be panting in my ear, I was able to draw life-giving breath. The bright white light faded into the background. I wouldn't be crossing over after all.

My friend's dog had puppies a couple month's ago. Media Girl explained. My friend hasn't been able to find a home for the runt of the litter. I agreed to adopt the puppy and I've been visiting her as often as I can. I want to bring her home now. Can I?

I had the feeling that Media Girl already had a counter-argument prepared for each and every objection I could come up with.

Media Commentary

Warning, I am straying from my usual format and going into commentary mode here. I know some of my readers share my blog with their children. I urge those readers to review this particular post before sharing.







Two days ago I read the article about the Inappropriate Frosty The Snowman.
Most of us are familiar with the holiday cartoon classic of Frosty the Snowman.
Someone chose to pervert the happy go lucky snowman into a collector of adult entertainment that comes in various media formats.

Today I saw the photo-shopped picture of Sarah Palin dressed in hunting garb, holding a rifle, and standing beneath the mounted head of a certain reindeer with an unusually colored nose.

While adults are certainly entitled to adult level humor, we as a society need to remember that today's world of mass communication makes virtually anything available to virtually anyone.

It becomes the responsibility of today's adults to censor themselves before committing anything to paper, microchip, DVD, or any other permanent format.

There is too little protection for children these days. Let's not destroy the little magic left to children - the magic of holidays.

Days and Nights

It has been a long, busy day preceded by a restless night.
My creative juices have taken flight.
I'm trying to keep my eyes open but am losing the fight.

The rhyme is lame but it's the best I can do.
So for now good night from me to you.

Of Maps and Summer Strolls

I've been using Mapquest a lot recently and I've been wondering how the service began.

Did the company hire people, give each employee a key to a car, and instruct them to take copious notes on distances and turns as they traveled across a geographic region?

Yeah, right - you're saying to yourself.

Well, it's possible.

One of my first jobs after high school was a summertime gig with the state. I was given a car and a measuring wheel, and told to make mileage notes to within a tenth of a mile.

I drove to specific developments, parked the car, and started measuring mileages from the nearest main road. I walked up and down every street in the development, taking every conceivable combination of twists and turns. The reason for my daily strolls was to establish boundary lines between school districts.

It was a great job. Folks would come out of their houses to ask what I was doing, then walk along and chat for a block or so.

If Mapquest builds their database the same way perhaps I'll submit an application. I've always wanted to see more of the country. To get paid while I'm doing it.... well you couldn't beat that with a stick.

Phones and Simplicity

I made a phone call today and was shocked when there was neither an answer nor an answering machine at the other end. I let the phone ring over twelve times before realizing the ringing would continue until I hung up.

Oh my gosh, I thought, I'm going to have to keep calling this person back until I catch them at home. Who doesn't have an answering machine these days?

I was brought up short by the realization I was feeling inconvenienced by the prospect of having to make multiple attempts at reaching my party. Me, the guy who was dragged kicking and screaming into the cell phone era. Me, the guy who used to view the blinking light on an answering machine as an unwelcome intrusion in my schedule.

It really wasn't that many years ago that an unanswered phone was commonplace. Those same relatively few years ago, friends were appalled that I didn't run to answer my home phone when it rang.

Whoever it is can call back, I would say with a shrug.

Perhaps, instead of feeling inconvenienced, I should applaud the person with the unanswered phone. Just maybe they have taken the first important step in simplifying their life - or maybe they never allowed the world to encroach on simplicity in the first place.

Baking a Home

Yesterday evening marked the beginning of Motivated Mom's holiday baking season.

There is nothing that turns a house into a home so much as baking cookies.

When you read the above sentence, the first thing you probably thought of was the smell of freshly baked cookies.

And while the aroma is a big part of the happy to be home experience, there's so much more.

There's the toasty warmth of the kitchen heated by the oven. A warmth that can only be equaled by snuggling under a down comforter or spooning with your loved one.

The clatter of cooking sheets and the scraping of spoons in pots and bowls tell clearly that the chef is at home in the kitchen.

Then there's the ringing of the cooking timer that brings family members from all parts of the house.

The sound of the timer is quickly drowned out by the chatter of family members reliving holiday's past while impatiently poking at the piping hot pastries - waiting for the treats to cool just enough that they won't burn salivating mouths. Almost without fail, patience runs out too soon and the anxious cookie samplers end up blowing on fingertips or trying to simultaneously chew and suck cool air into their mouths.

These are the things that make four walls a home.

Sleepless in the City

I don't know how people who live in the city manage to sleep.

It's been a long time since I spent the night in a private home within city limits. I had forgotten that life in the city never stops.

I was fortunate to get a reprieve on my first night at College Dude's place in Pittsburgh. The city was dead on the eve of Thanksgiving. Things were so quiet that even College Dude remarked on the lack of noise.

But in the wee hours of Friday morning, the city's pulse returned. I was repeatedly awakened by night prowling pedestrians, horn-happy drivers, police cars, fire trucks, and med-evac helicopters.

After twenty-two years of country and suburbia living, it was impossible to ignore the racket.

I don't think I could have ignored the noise even if I had been an accomplished city dweller.

Patchwork Jeans

I was sewing a button back onto a pair of pants last night and I got to thinking about the lost art of patchwork jeans.

These days it is a fashion statement to have tears in a pair of jeans, but back in the 60's torn jeans were not cool - patches were the thing. No, not those navy blue iron on patches made of some variation on fiberglass, but bright colorful patches. Anything from a NASA commemorative patch to the logo of a favorite sports team was acceptable.

I had several pair of jeans with more patches than denim. In fact the waist and belt loops may have been the only denim remaining. I suppose I should have accepted the need to move on to a new pair of pants when I started spending entire Saturday mornings sewing new patches to the existing patches. But by that time the pants (I couldn't really call them jeans anymore) had become a piece of art.

Yes, I did all the sewing myself - by hand. I could thread a needle with one eye closed. The tip of my right index finger was permanently imprinted with the scaly texture of a thimble. It was tough going driving a needle through two or three layers of overlapping patches, but I was an accomplished craftsman.

So why was it that sewing on that one button last night took more time than running to the store for a new pair of pants? Perhaps it stems from my need for a magnifying glass to supplement my magnifying glasses.

Mailbox Contortions

I want to know who designed the Postal Service's curbside mailboxes. The mailboxes with the extended necks that allow you to drop off your mail without getting out of your car - supposedly. I'm curious to know about the designer because I want to satisfy my suspicion that her or she had arms as long as an orangutan.

Because unless you're in a van or SUV, trying to get mail into the curved neck of the mailbox is like trying to scratch a giraffe behind its ears.

I pulled up to one of these curbside conveniences yesterday. I was in my Honda Civic and the first thing I discovered after lowering my window was that I would need to release my seat belt. Naturally the obnoxious buzzer immediately alerted me I had violated safety protocol.

Even with the freedom to lean out the window, it was obvious that from the confines of a compact car the deposit slot would remain elusive unless I could somehow mimic the circus contortionists who twist themselves into pretzels.

I wedged my right foot against the firewall in an effort to leverage myself upward - and quickly realized I should have first set the parking brake. The mailbox was suddenly half a car length behind me.

Fortunately I was the sole visitor at the time and was able to shift into reverse. With the car now repositioned, I set the brake, boosted myself out of my seat, twisted to the left, and snaked my arm into the mouth of the mailbox. Had I been anywhere other that in front of a faded blue mailbox, onlookers would have been calling 911 to report a man having a seizure.

How Much Longer

How much longer until we get there?

This is the question that has come to define road trips with children in the car.

Let's face it - kids just aren't good at sitting still for extended periods of time. Put a kid in the backseat of a car, drive more than twenty miles, and THE question is going to come.

If the trip is less than an hour, parents can breath a sigh of relief at being able to cheerfully say we're over half way there at the twenty mile mark.

But if the destination is seven hours away what do you say to your child - Hey how about that stock market - rebounded nicely today didn't it?

So I sort of cringed when, on our way to Pittsburgh this past weekend, we ran into one monster of a traffic snarl. I knew The question was coming as soon as we slowed to 10 miles per hour.
Media Girl didn't disappoint, she threw THE question out there with no hesitation whatsoever.

....And then THE answer came in a blinding flash of brilliance. I asked Media Girl how many bars her phone had.

Media Girl was instantly plugged into her friends back home, diffusing the possible hysteria caused by a seven hour drive turning into a nine hour drive.

Of course, I did have to listen to the eternally repeated question so what 'ya doin' now? as Media Girl tried to discern what the person on the other end of the phone was doing that might have been different from three minutes earlier.

I was on the verge of asking How much longer until that call is done?

Extended Family

The passing of my great uncle on Thanksgiving morning has me musing on families. Not wives, sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers. I've been thinking more about great grandparents, great uncles, etc.

Ordinarily, the "great" relatives leave this earthly existence before younger generations really have a chance to know them. It's the simple mathematics of average life spans. Many of us probably remember meeting a great relative in our early years. Meeting them is probably about all remember.

My Great Uncle Lec was just a few months shy of 100 when he passed away. To me, he was always the elderly relative who lived on the other side of town - or, after I moved, the relative in the other town.

Reflecting on his passing, I think I missed wonderful opportunities by failing to know him better. Opportunities to hear about life in the early 1900's. Opportunities to hear about relatives even more "great' than my great uncle.

It's not often we are given such an opportunity to learn history first hand. I regret letting it pass me by.

Rock Tour

We weren't exactly Sly and the Family Stone - but we were close, and I'm thinking we should take our act on the road. Fame and fortune surely await.

Well, okay, maybe not.

But our family sure had fun hanging out in College Dude's apartment over the Thanksgiving holiday. College Dude introduced us to the video game Rock Star.

Remember singing along to your albums, er-ah, eight tracks, I mean cassettes, as a kid? Perhaps you used a pencil, hairbrush, of empty paper towel roll for a microphone. Almost assuredly you played a wicked air guitar.

I must confess to being a lip syncing junkie in my teens. All of the skills I developed during those teenage performances were put to good use the past few days as I rocked the house with songs by Boston, Jethro Tull, Steve Miller, Queen, and more.

My family saw a side of me that I don't think they've ever seen before. I think I can say in total confidence that they were overwhelmed.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

It's been a rough year for many people. Here's hoping we are all able to spend the holiday focused on something, however small, to be thankful for.

As we offer up our prayers of Thanksgiving, let us include those in dire straits as well as the men and women in our armed forces.



I'll be away from the internet for a while. Look for a new post on Monday, November 30.

New Tradition

Along the turnpike and through the tunnel to College Dude's apartment we go.

Yes, it's a new twist on over the river and through the woods.

A new twist to the song is fitting because this year marks a new twist to our family tradition. Since College Dude's obligations prevent him from coming to us - Motivated Mom, Media Girl, and myself will be heading to him.

It's kind of exciting actually, like taking the first step on a new adventure.

The change in venue has me thinking about Thanksgiving evolution. For me, Thanksgiving memories begin with my grandparents' dining room table burdened with food and the smell of a slowly roasting turkey permeating the entire house. Later years saw my sister and I seated in my parents' dining room.

Thanksgiving then alternated between the families of Motivated Mom and myself. Now we are heading to our son's house. It occurs to me that, with a couple of exceptions, Motivated Mom and I have somehow skipped being Thanksgiving hosts. Perhaps our turn will come in the future - as grandparents. Now there's a scary thought.

Lights and Colts

It was a near thing today. My neighbor almost stole my coveted position of being the first person in the neighborhood to decorate for Christmas.

I had come home from work, popped a cold brewsky, and was settling in to watch the Indianapolis Colts hopefully continue their perfect season - when across the street there arose such a clatter that I sprang from my recliner to see what was the matter.

My neighbor was putting up his Christmas decorations.

Oh my, said I.
This cannot be.
Someone decorating earlier than me.

I turned from the window
Looked back at the T.V.
I sorely wanted to watch Peyton throw for T.D.s

But my decorating title was in jeopardy
There was really no choice
I cranked the volume so from outside I could hear the announcers voice.

Outside I hung colored lights from the eaves with care,
Fixing my neighbor with a murderous stare

I went up and down the ladder more often than I should
Sometimes to fix wires, sometimes to check the Colts were still good.

All in all it was a celebratory day
My title was not lost - though it now will be shared
My team marched onward with hardly a care.

Significant Absence

Motivated Mom is absent this weekend - visiting friends in the mountainous terrains of upstate Pennsylvania.

There's something about one's significant other being away that makes the house feel different. A quiet settles in that is both relaxing and unnerving.

The relaxation comes from things like choosing to wait for a couple hours after a meal to wash the dishes, choosing not to return the dozen decorative pillows to the bed after rising, or choosing to set the volume on the surround sound to levels that would preclude conversation if Motivated Mom were around.

Yet the absence of Motivated Mom's footsteps in the hall, or her yawn coming from the bedroom, or the fizzling in the kitchen as she pours Caffeine Free Diet Coke into a glass of crushed ice results in an unnatural silence. A silence so loud that I cannot help but realize an important of me is missing, that I am incomplete.

Pruning and Samwise

I was pruning bushes today. Today being one of my weekend days that isn't really a weekend.

While I was attacking the shrubbery with assorted shears, pruners, and clippers, I recalled a scene from the first Lord of the Rings movie. In the scene, Gandalf hoists Samwise Gamgee through an open window and accuses Sam of eavesdropping. Sam insists he was simply attending to his gardening duties - even though his eavesdropping takes place in the middle of the night.

I can't get that scene out of my head. So, now that dusk has fallen and I find myself alone in the house for the evening. I guess I'm going to have to drop the DVD in the entertainment system, crank up the surround sound, and lose myself in the goings on in the Shire.

When Weekends Aren't Weekends

It's a big adjustment adjusting to weekends not being weekends.

It's an even bigger adjustment when your spouse doesn't have to make the adjustment.

My world involves working Saturdays and Sundays on a regular basis while Motivated Mom still calls those days her own.

To me Saturdays and Sundays are now just other days in the work week. My days off in the week come one at a time - sometimes not at all. I carry a daytimer at all times just to know what time in the week it is.

It has given me a whole new appreciation of people who work in 24/7 service industries.

It has also helped me to appreciate that time is relative. One day blends into another, days disappear into weeks, weeks meld into months, and soon the better part of a year has passed without mile markers.

I know there is a holiday season approaching, I'm not sure if I will recognize its arrival.

Bespelled Geese

Sunrise this morning revealed a wispy haze swirling across the surface of the pond outside my window. Twelve geese stood like sentinels along the water's edge. They stood still as statues and equidistant from one another - as though they had been set in place by an unseen landscaper during the night.

The geese stood between me and the rising sun so that even though sunlight was reflecting from the surface of the pond, the geese themselves stood in shadowed profile.

When a golden sunbeam finally fell directly upon the feathered crown of the lead goose, he took a step forward. His companions followed immediately behind. I could almost have believed the beam of golden light had released the geese from a spell that had kept them locked in place throughout the night.

Meteor Adventure

I meant to check out the Leonid meteor showers early this morning. I had considered setting my alarm a little early so that I would have leisurely viewing time, then decided it wasn't necessary because I'm always up before dawn anyway.

Problem is, I forgot my brain operates on auto-pilot when I first rise. An earlier wake up alarm would have alerted my processors and synapses that something was different about today. Lacking that change in routine, I followed my routine and completely forgot about viewing the heavens.

Meteor showers hold the same fascination for me now as they did in my childhood. There's something about dozens of "shooting stars" slicing across the night sky that encourages my mind to unfold and view the earth, the sky, and the heavens in a different light.

Slouched in an Adirondack chair or lying on a quilted blanket and studying the stars while dew settles on the ground around me, I sense an adventure in the making. For a short while the work-a-day world ceases to exist and a step into another dimension does not seem far fetched at all.

Peace and Shadows

Time has gotten away from me today.

Here's a short meditation.

To find peace, one must step away from one's own shadow.

Mad Elf

I passed a sign today advertising Mad Elf Ale. I couldn't help but notice the neon-blue digital lettering in the gray light of another rainy morning.

I couldn't help wondering if Mad Elf referred to an angry elf or an elf that, well, wasn't quite right in the head.

Then I started contemplating whether the ale was a new North Pole enterprise or if it was being brewed in a more tropical climate like Rivendale.

The ale has to be a product of Rivendale. I can't see Mr. S. Claus being okay with the brewing of an alcoholic beverage on his home turf.

Perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Mad Elf Ale has nothing to do with alcohol. Perhaps it's a beverage carefully blended to soothe the irrational tendencies of an irritated elf.

That would mean there are elves living among us, otherwise there would be no reason for the sign. Unless of course I wasn't meant to see the sign. Maybe the oppressively humid conditions altered the atmosphere just enough that I was able to see what is ordinarily invisible to the human eye. Sort of like a prism breaks a beam of sunlight into the individual colors of the rainbow.

Or maybe I'm getting cabin fever from days and days of endless rain.

Twenty-Third Year

College Dude celebrated a birthday on Thursday, his twenty-third.

Motivated Mom and I visited with him via cell phone. Part of the discussion included College Dude telling us that he and Language Lass have started exploring their home buying options. One of the options was building a house rather than buying an existing one.

Home buying? House building? College Dude? How did this happen? I can still clearly see he and I sitting on the family room building towers with blocks - suddenly he's talking about building a house - a real honest to goodness house.

Well, okay, it's not really all of a sudden. It has been twenty-three years in the making. But, hey, take pity on an old man, work around to this kind of subject gradually. I'm still adjusting to the fact that College Dude's mailing address doesn't match mine.

Next thing you know he'll be talking about marriage. Oh yeah, he's already done that. It was just about this time last year he proposed to Language Lass.

Well, he'll be talking about kids. Oh, ah, that subject has come up too.

I guess I can just wander down to the end of the dock with my fishing pole. It seems my work is done.

Things To Not Do

Most of us have an ongoing "to do" list. While I was out and about today, I started putting together a list of things to not do when a tropical storm is lingering in the area.

Do Not go up in a lift truck to repair the sign on the front of a coffee shop. Given that the sign was most likely damaged by high winds, hoisting yourself skyward in those same winds is probably not a good idea.

Do Not go hunting. Animals are smarter than most humans. Certainly they're smart enough to remain deep in the thickets and curled up in their burrows when rain is falling fast enough to sink a ship. Which means hunters are almost certainly going to return home empty handed - and a lot wetter than the animals they were hoping to catch by surprise.

Do Not ride a moped without rain gear and facial protection. With rain being blown sideways, simply squinting your eyes while trying to pull your neck down inside of your sweatshirt like a turtle retracting into its shell isn't going to get you where you need to go safely.

Gods and Horrors

The gods are angry. That's what has been going through my mind for the past two days as our area endures the remnant of Hurricane Ida that has stalled directly over top of us. It is now projected that by the end of the day Saturday we could see a total of fifteen inches of rainfall.
Roads are being closed and beaches have disappeared, chewed away by twenty foot waves. The bay to our west has met the ocean to our east turning the area into one enormous swimming pool. The governor has declared a state of emergency, schools have closed, and the few boats that are still in the water now look like orphans - the docks they are tied to having disappeared below the level of the rising waters.

Nearly continuous wind gusts of sixty miles per hour create a sound that has me picturing gigantic demons howling just beyond the walls of our house. Those same walls creak under the strain of standing against the unrelenting wind and suddenly our house seems less sturdy than it did three days ago.

I learned an important lesson today. Do not lean into the open trunk of a car during howling winds. A particularly strong wind slammed the trunk lid down onto my back earlier. I felt like I was in a modern day Little Shop of Horrors - being devoured by a metallic monster rather than a famished plant.

Weather Portal

We are in the middle of another interminable period of rain as the remnants of Hurricane Ida travel up the Atlantic Coast.

Our cats are unhappy, and frustrated in their efforts to find better weather. They seem to feel that the weather on the other side of the front door should be better that what waits beyond the back door and vice versa. When one door is opened, the cats puff up like a sponge in a bathtub and head for the opposite side of the house.

As much time as they spend patrolling the perimeter of the property, I would think that by now the cats would know that mother nature's offerings are the same front and back.

Perhaps our feline friends can't make the connection between inside and out. Perhaps they just don't understand that both doors lead to the same yard. Perhaps they expect one door to be a portal to a different weather destination.

Ah, if only that were true. I would come in the front door at the end of a work day, shed my insulated jacket, and head out the back door to enjoy blue sky, gentle breezes, and palm trees.

Chilling Hotel

I happened upon a television documentary about a hotel in Iceland that gets rebuilt every year... because the hotel is made from ice and melts with the arrival of spring.

Talk about an exercise in futility! Granted, a hotel of ice is a novel concept, but when the structure first melted with the arrival of above freezing temperatures it seems to me the designer and builder would have put their heads together and said Oops, bad idea, should have seen that coming.

Not so. The folks involved immediately started harvesting massive blocks of ice from flows that spring hadn't yet managed to thaw and putting the blocks in temperature controlled storage for the next year.

Now maybe I'm missing something, but if you're going to build a climate controlled building big enough to hold the ice needed to build an entire hotel year after year why not just construct the hotel the traditional way, build it only once, and install an air handling system that will take the indoor temperature down to twenty degrees?

Better yet, why not build a hotel that's warm? Personally I'm not keen on the idea of trying to fall asleep on an oversize squeeze pop no matter how many seal skins are thrown on top.

And as for honeymooning in an ice hotel (which some folks do) - well there's that whole issue of certain things failing to achieve a workable size when the body as a whole is turning blue from cold.

Flower of Sleep

First a big thank you to Matt, one of the readers of this blog, for the info he sent about flower extracts and getting a good night's sleep.

Another thank you to my acupuncturist, Gerry, who reminded me about the importance of the primary chakras in the body.

Combining Lavender oil and the Heart Chakra, I am once gain back to nights of seven and eight hours of sleep. A real treat after weeks of tossing and turning.

I didn't realize it at first, but the oil and chakra combination is a double whammy of flower power. Lavender oil is extracted from the Lavender flower and the Heart Chakra, I learned later, is symbolized by a lotus flower.

The info I received from Matt suggested misting my pillow with a lavender scent. I chose to place a few drops of Lavender essential oil (available anyplace that sells aromatherapy supplies) on my chest directly at my Heart Chakra.

The first night I tried this, I found the lavender smell to be rather weak - being as how my chest was buried under a down comforter - so I decided to place a drop of essential oil just below my nostrils as well. I was out within fifteen minutes and slept straight through.

So my advice to anyone dealing with insomnia is: get thee to a supplier of essential oils and let flower power put you to sleep.

Arm Signals

My work vehicle is beginning to show its age. The aging has become pronounced since the arrival of cold weather. When the truck is first started in the morning, it rattles like the proverbial bucket of bolts, puffy white exhaust billows out from more locations than just the end of the tail pipe, and the turn signals don't work until the outdoor temperature rises above forty degrees.

A new vehicle is not in the cards at this point, so I say a few extra prayers on cold mornings.

As for the turn signal thing, I guess I'll have to use the arm signals usually relegated to bicyclists and motorcyclists - for as long as the driver's power window works.

I'm shivering at the very thought of a winter of driving with an open window.

Maybe I should just get a bumper sticker saying Warning, vehicle makes sudden turns

Leaf Schedule

I've been raking leaves the past few days and almost feel like I've made a dent in the cleanup.

Despite the sense of progress, the unfortunate truth is that I'll be dealing with leaves for weeks to come.

Because not all trees drop their colorful foliage at the same time.

It seems to me that mother nature dropped the ball here. There should be a specific date - say November 5th - that leaves fall from all the trees. Then there could be a single massive cleanup campaign and the de-leafing of our lawns would be behind us.

Why November 5th? Well, as near as I can figure that's half way between the two equinox's occurring in the latter half of the year so it seems an appropriate date.

Hmmm... I wonder. If all the leaves fell at the same time would there be rumbling ground tremors across the continent? I guess only if someone was there to hear it.

Enlightened State Part 2

I was checking out some books in the the bargain bin of a local department store when I came across an oddly shaped book with a cover in the eye-catching color of brown mustard.

Lacking the pen I usually carry with me, I did my best to commit the title of the book to memory - and promptly forgot it when my senses were overwhelmed by the newest HDTV technology in a neighboring department.

I digress. The book title was something like 150 Indispensable Things You Need to Know to Be a Well Functioning Adult.

Thumbing through the pages I found references to truly important things: How to sew a button back on, How to jump start a car with a manual transmission, How to get a baby to go to sleep, and .... How to Roll a Joint.

I wonder if the author of the book lives in Colorado?

Enlightened State

Those of you who remember the television show Green Acres, please start humming the tune to the theme song as you read below:

Co-lorado is the place to be.
Co-ountry living is the life for me.
Plains spreadin' out so far and wide.
Keep big cities, just give me that countryside.

Okay you can stop humming now.

I decided Colorado is the place I need to be after learning of job opportunity there. A certain newspaper in that great state is looking for a freelance writer to review the state's marijuana dispensaries.

It seems the enlightened citizens of the noble state of Colorado have approved the legalization of marijuana in certain situations.

And at least one newspaper has decided they need a dedicated individual to keep tabs on how the process grows -er, ah, - goes.

Well move over Bob Woodward, I'm the man for the job.

Of course accurate reporting will require a certain intimacy with the substance in question. Which will make the job all that much easier. After all, who can't wax poetic after sampling some righteous weed?

Yep, pardner. I'm ready to stuff a change of clothes (along with a pack of rolling papers) in my saddlebags and set out for the great state of Colorado. I'm convinced the grass grows greener there.

Three Isn't Eight

I'm stuck in a vicious sleep cycle. Actually the correct description would be sleepless cycle. I fall dead asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow but wake up three hour later - and am awake for the rest of the night.

I'm one of those people that needs a solid eight of hours of sleep in order to function. I'm here to tell you that three is definitely not eight.

I'm starting to feel like a walking zombie. I've tried all sorts of home remedies as well as prescription sleep aids to no avail.

If anyone has a tried and true method to overcome sleeplessness PLEASE drop me a note at scripterbwk@verizon.net

Disappearing Carousel

I recently came across information about the slow but steady disappearance of the carousel (merry-go-round) from American culture. Of the nearly 4000 carousels that used to be scattered across the country only 150 are in operation today.

It's a sad statistic. If you think about it, carousels were engineering marvels in their heyday. There was an incredible amount of synchronization required in the gears that spun the ride while raising and lowering the horses. Then there was the musical wonder that stood in the center of the attraction. Tinny music blared through flared horns while drums and cymbals miraculously beat and crashed on their own.

As kids we would stand in line sizing up the different horses until the perfect specimen galloped into view. We would keep our eyes fixed on the object of our desire so that when our turn came we could race directly for the colorful stallion or mare before it was snatched by someone else.

Of the few remaining carousels in our area of the country, the accessory that has mysteriously disappeared is the wooden or metal arm that would swing out and dispense metal rings. Most times the collection of those rings got you nothing more than the chance to toss them back into a wicker basket at the end of the ride. But the challenge of balancing in one stirrup, clinging to the pole with one hand, and stretching out for that silver token added a special thrill to the spinning amusement.

Double Step Temp

I've noticed that people walk with an increased sense of urgency these days. I'm not talking about folks hurrying back from lunch or racing to appointments, but the dedicated walkers who get their exercise with daily laps around the block.

The change occurs this every year at this time. The casual stroll encouraged by warm summer temperatures is replaced by a hurried double step brought on by the November chill.

While the need for daily exercise still calls out, the call of indoor warmth is louder still. There's nothing like the lure of logs crackling in a fireplace or a teapot whistling on the stove to make us hurry back to our comforting homes.

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween

I find myself alone in the house tonight so I intend to rattle the rafters by cranking up the decibels on the stereo and shaking loose all the ghosts and goblins.

Here's hoping your Halloween is equally rewarding.

Too Poor to Die

Now I know the financial worst is yet to come. How can I deduce anything else from the internet headline that Walmart is selling discount caskets?

Obviously the writing is on the wall - a growing percentage of the population is unable to afford a final resting box for the dearly departed.

I submit that a better approach would be a modern day version of bring out your dead. Instead of a filthy, limping man driving a mule drawn cart loaded with dead bodies, a biological entity recycling vehicle will make weekly rounds to collect bodies recently evacuated by the life essence.

Does the new improved version sound sufficiently politically correct? I wouldn't want to offend anyone's sensibilities.

The non functioning biological entities would be taken to a perpetually burning pyre where they would be reduced to ash and packaged as fertilizer.

The only cost to the departed's survivors would be a nominal pick up and processing fee.

Got'ta run - the local patent office closes soon.

Clown Fear

Media Girl recently reminded me that she is terrified of clowns. The reminder sort of came out of nowhere - there were no clowns to be seen at the time nor had there been any recent close encounters of the red nose kind.

My daughter's fear stems from the movie It, based on the Steven King novel.

Media Girl's statement reminded that as a child College Dude also had a fear of clowns, though his fear had no tie to a specific movie or book so far as I know.

Earlier in my life, when my hairline first started to recede, I had said that when the hair on top of my head got too thin I would go for the Bozo the clown look. I had decided that I would shave the top of my scalp, leaving a ring of hair about ear height that I would douse with hair spray so that the hair stood out on end.

Given that both my children grew up with a fear of clowns, I guess it's a good thing I never followed through on the Bozo hair style.

Hershey Coasters

Our family celebrated my birthday on Saturday with a trip to Hershey Park. We've been there several times in the past, but this was our first night time experience.

Motivated Mom and I are roller coaster fanatics. We were thrilled to discover that park attendance in the dark was low enough that we were able to get on each coaster with virtually no waiting.

Much as I enjoy roller coasters, at the top of the first drop I almost always find myself wondering what form of dementia caused me to misplace my common sense.

Saturday night was no exception. Our first ride was a new coaster with a ninety degree drop on the first hill. That's right - straight down.

Just before gravity took over, I found myself shouting - bad idea, I've changed my mind.

Of course at that point it was too late. The coaster plummeted earthward and I aged an additional year. Then the coaster looped, spun, pointed skyward again, and left terra firma behind.

My screams changed to laughter, I briefly encountered my childhood during a barrel roll, and when the ride was over I hurried on to the next coaster so I could once again laugh at certain death.

Imaginings & A Break

What captivates me during evening walks at this time of year is the warm light coming from inside of the homes I pass.

I think about mothers standing at stoves in the kitchen. I imagine wooden spoons clicking against the inside of metal pots, electric can openers whirring, and kitchen drawers sliding open and shut.

I picture fathers in overstuffed chairs, reading the newspaper, and sipping their favorite beverage.

These images are cliches, I know. The reality is that both parents are probably contributing to the evening meal. Spoons and pots have long been replaced by beeping microwaves -at least on weeknights, I accept that.

But somehow the reality of express living seems less warm, less inviting. So I allow myself the imaginings of what was.

********
I'll be away from the internet for a few days. Look for a new post on Tuesday.

Needles and Zen

Media Girl had her first acupuncture treatment yesterday - and became an instant believer.

Suffering from a lowered immune system resulting from stress, Media Girl accepted my recommendation to give acupuncture a shot.

I knew the results as soon as I walked into the treatment room at the end of her session. Media Girl was sitting on the edge of the treatment table with a mellow half smile, drooping eyelids, and a faraway look in her eyes.

None the less I had to ask, So how did it go?

I could have poured out half a jar of molasses by the time Media Girl finally turned her head in my direction, raised a finger to her lips, and shushed me into silence.

I was envious. On a day when I was rushing from one appointment to the next Media Girl had found Zen.

On the drive home, my daughter commented that she couldn't believe half a dozen needles had turned every muscle in her body to jelly and that she couldn't wait for next week's return visit.

I'm wondering how many readers have discovered the benefits of acupuncture. I'd love to hear about your experiences. You can e-mail me at scripterbwk@verizon.net.

Struggle to Think

I'm struggling to think tonight. A monstrous head cold has my usually creative thoughts ending in fog enshrouded dead ends. I've changed the subject of tonight's post four times and still cannot seem to come up with one cohesive paragraph.

I'm wondering now how the word cold ever came to the name for the annoying ailment that makes our noses run, our eyes water, and our heads feel like they weigh fifty pounds. It seems to me sludge would be a more appropriate name for the malady.

When we get the sniffles our thoughts flow as slowly as sludge, we sludge through the day, and cough medicines taste like sludge.

Yes, all in all I think sludge is the better choice. It certainly invokes more sympathy. If we hear someone has a cold we dismiss it with a wave of the hand. But we would feel genuinely sorry and concerned for someone who told us they had sludge.

There's no way your boss would expect you to come into work if you had sludge. In fact I'm betting you would be instructed to stay the heck away until you were sure the sludge was gone.

I'm off to find my sludge relief tonic now.

Jack Frost

I can't believe I have had to scrape thick coatings of frost from my windshield the past two mornings. Apparently Jack Frost doesn't understand we're only a month into post-summer and that his invitation to the area isn't valid for another two months yet.

Jack Frost's existence first became known to me in early childhood. Our family lived in a house with a storm door which always frosted up on cold Christmas season days. The crystaline patterns on the glass would prompt my mother to say that Jack Frost had paid us a visit. The very thought of an elf who directed flows of air cold enough to ice an entire door was enough to make me shiver inside my footed pajamas.

It was the holiday cartoon Frosty the Snowman that put a face to Jack Frost. A mischievous imp who delighted in bringing chilling strife to the lives of people and snowmen alike.

If it's all the same to you Mr. Frost, I'd appreciate it if you'd bundle up your annoyances and slide on out of here. I understand Manitoba is beautiful at this time of year.

Anxious Gum

What a disappointment to find that the one television show I watch religiously was superseded by a baseball game that had run into extra innings.

I lost my interest in baseball many years ago. The game just moved too slowly for me. But I was reminded tonight of the excitement that can still be found in the game.

The reminder came in the form of a young boy's face filling the television screen. The boy was sitting in the stands and wearing the hat of his favorite team. Just beneath the lower edge of the hat, flexing jaw muscles suggested unbearable tension. The young man had one end of a generous wad of chewing gum clamped between his teeth. The other end of the sticky string was wrapped around the tip of his index finger.

This was a study in anxiety. The boy's team had the bases loaded with no outs and was surely poised for a win. And yet.... those jaw muscles clenched. And yet... the gum wrapped first one, two, then three times around the index finger.

As it turned out, the unthinkable happened. No runs were scored. The boy was long since lost in the crowd. I wondered what happened to the gum. Was the chewy wad released by a jaw that dropped in disbelief or did it snap in half when the boy pounded his hand on his knee in frustration?

Media Girl & Poetry

Media Girl is going to be a celebrity. She will be reading some of her poetry at a public venue this Tuesday.

Since Halloween is just around the corner, the theme for the evening is masks. Media Girl's poetry will fit in well. For a teenager she has some very mature views of the world. Her writing often bores into the dark, hidden agendas of relationships at all levels.

My daughter is taking the event in stride and I'm impressed by her calm demeanor. It takes a lot of self confidence for a seventeen year old to get up in front of a group of adults she's never met and read her one of her own creations.

I'm sure I'll be more nervous than her. It's always been that way since the days of elementary school plays and concerts. I would sit in the audience with clammy hands and beads of sweat on my forehead while my daughter performed her part flawlessly.

Picture Process

I'm rearranging my office space and I'm undecided on which of two pictures to hang above my desk.

It's a big decision because the picture will inevitably influence my thoughts when I raise my eyes from the keyboard to ponder the direction of a chapter, short story... or blog post.

One picture is an oil painting of a country scene in the post-summer season. A gravel road winding between a barn and shed would invite my thoughts into the carefree enjoyment of a warm afternoon.

The other picture shows a lantern carrying gentlemen dressed in the garb of the 1800's standing in the shadowy entrance to a crypt. Obviously an iron gated crypt leads in a decidedly darker direction than a country walk, but since a lot of my writing deals with the paranormal, perhaps this is the more appropriate of the two.

Then again, perhaps I should just leave the wall above my desk undecorated and let my musings create a scene unique to the moment.

Eyebrows and Spas

I frequently pass a spa on my comings and goings - the sign in front of the spa advertises massage, hot stone therapy, essential oil therapy, etc.

Today I noticed the list of services had changed to include eyebrow threading.
I have no idea what eyebrow threading is but it certainly doesn't sound like anything I would associate with the other relaxing services offered. In fact it sounds downright painful.

I'm picturing the client lying on a bed while the "threader" uses a needle and thread to weave a pattern into the skin along the eyebrow hairline.

Do you suppose the client needs to remain immobile during the threading in order to prevent the hot stones from sliding off the chakra points?

I shouldn't make fun of something I don't understand. I'm a firm believer in alternative health therapy. It's just that the term eyebrow threading conjures up some very peculiar images.

If anyone out there knows what this treatment really is, I'd love to be enlightened. You can shoot me an e-mail at: scripterbwk@verizon.net

Or perhaps I'll just knock on the door of the spa and ask.

Topsy Turvy

It's been a topsy turvy kind of day so here's a short meditation.

The problem with the future is that by the time we recognize it, it has become the past.

Cork History

I found a cork from a bottle on the beach the other day and started wondering about how it came to be there.

Had someone been drinking a bottle of wine on the beach and left the cork behind or had the cork come in on the tide?

Perhaps the cork had originated from a seaside restaurant on the Riviera and traversed the ocean to arrive on the Delaware shore.If so, had the restaurant patrons been celebrating a special event like an anniversary, or had it been nothing more than a casual dinner party?

The cork could have had more mundane origins. The captain of a local fishing boat could have inadvertently let the cork fall from his grip.

What if the cork had been in a bottle containing a note? Had the note been found and the cork discarded or had the cork come out in the ocean and the note lost forever?

If the note had been lost forever, and if the note had come from someone stranded on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, what had happened to that person? Had they died from lack of food and fresh water or had they learned to survive on coconut milk and roast lizard?

It's amazing the world of possibilities that a single cork can open.

Race Cab

I was sitting at a traffic light yesterday when a dragster pulled up beside me.

The rumble of a high performance engine made the fillings in my teeth rattle. The sound waves had the rear view mirror of my car vibrating so much that the cars behind me were a blur in the mirror.

The light tuned green and the dragster raced off. Except it turned out to be a taxi cab making all the racket.

I guess removing the muffler saves on horn honking.

Time Flies

I can't believe it's already been a year since I last talked about Greyhound weekend in Rehoboth Beach and Dewey Beach.



That means I've been doing this blog for over a year now.



How time flies!



For those of you who are new readers - or old readers who have forgotten what I posted a year ago - Greyhound weekend is when dogs are welcomed at most establishments in Rehoboth Beach and Dewey Beach in Delaware. Retail stores have bowls of water and doggie treats available for canine companions and restaurants allow dogs to accompany their owners for a declicious meal. Over half of the hotels and motels allow canines during the annual event.

This started off a an event to promote the adopting of greyhounds, but has expanded to include canines of all shapes and sizes.

For more info about greyhounds you can go to: www.adopt-a-greyhound.org

Glow Worm

There's a children's song that includes the words glow little glow worm, glow and glimmer

The song has always conjured up images of a cute little worm glowing in the dim evening light.

That image was shattered forever by an episode of the television series Planet Earth. It turns out glow worms are disgusting little critters that spit out sticky strings of mucus with which to ensnare unsuspecting insects.

When I hear the song in the future I'm going to picture a slimy worm sucking a fluttering insect into its mouth and chomping the life out of the captured bug.

Glow little glow worm, chew your dinner

Tough Catering

Competition must really be tough if caterers are willing to haul bulky seating to outdoor functions.

That's what went through my mind when I passed a house with three sets of benches sitting in the front lawn. I'm talking about the type of bench seats found in Mom and Pop diners - cushioned benches that back up to one another. A vertical strip of dark wood covered the seams where the backs met and the seats themselves were upholstered with an appetizing pumpkin colored vinyl.

I guess the tables hadn't arrived yet - or maybe the benches were the first items to be moved out front for an upcoming yard sale.

If a yard sale was the true reason for the presence of the benches, I can't imagine the kitchen or dining room they were pulled from.

Because surely nobody would haul bench seats from a diner just to try to sell them in their front yard - would they?

The Price of Status

Two years ago we were forced to shop for a new car for Motivated Mom after the car she had been driving was totaled by a careless driver who ran a red light.

We ended up getting a used BMW. It wasn't the BMW name so much as the heated seats that sold my wife on the car. Motivated Mom and I share an intense displeasure of cold weather so I could empathize. Since her daily schedule includes a lot of driving time, I figured Motivated Mom was entitled to a warm butt.

I hadn't foreseen the cost of maintaining a status car. We recently scheduled service for the vehicle because of a warning light on the dashboard. What we thought might be a leaking coolant hose turned into hose repair, thermostat replacement, brake overhaul, belt replacement, and axle boot replacement.

It seemed we were assuredly heading for a budget breaking thousand dollar repair bill. I was stunned when the total came in at over two grand. (I wonder if the cashiers at the dealership have to be trained in CPR.)

I'm convinced half of the price was the BMW logo on the replacement parts.

Now I remember why I loved my first car - a Volkswagen Beetle - so much.

Subjective Classic

When it comes to music, everybody has their own idea of what constitutes a classic song.
For some of us the classics live in '60's rock and roll, for others the early years of rap are where a classic is found.

Last night I had the opportunity to watch the performance of a band whose members believe the true classics are the hits by Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin, Nat King Cole, and Tony Bennett.

I must admit that I rarely listen to music from that era, but Eddie Sherman and his "orchestra" put on a very enjoyable show. The music was interlaced with history of the original songs. I was surprised to learn that some of what became the greatest hits of that era were songs that had been hidden in bureau drawers or tossed into rejection piles only to resurface by chance at just the perfect time for the perfect artist.

I imagine that to the original songwriter, the rebirth of the song must have seemed miraculous.

The same resurrections must continue in present day. It's nice to think that miracles still happen.

Chernobyl Grapes

While packing my lunch this morning, I reached into a recently purchased bag of grapes, then quickly withdrew my hand in surprise. I must have bought the wrong item. Yes, whatever was in the bag grew in bunches, but each piece of fruit was big enough to be a night light bulb.

I checked the markings on the packaging. Red seedless grapes - Imported

Imported from where - Chernobyl?

Exposure to radiation seemed the only explanation for the gargantuan size of the grapes. I briefly worried that I would glow a sickly green color if I ate the fruit, then decided that might be just the perfect effect for the upcoming Halloween season.

I guess I'll get my answer when I go to bed tonight. If it turns out I can read by the light emanating from my hands I'll know I should have trashed the grapes.

Winning the Jackpot

I won the jackpot today - the coupon jackpot that is.

I was doing the weekly grocery shopping. Once all of my items had been scanned and bagged, I handed the cashier my special discount card - you know, those cards that by and large have taken the place of coupons.

As soon as my card was swiped, the printer spat out one of those endangered coupons, followed by another, followed by nearly a dozen coupons after that. The cashier nearly collapsed in a giggle fit and I was tempted to start looking around for the hidden candid camera.

Oh if only I had been in Vegas and if only it had been a slot machine paying out big time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the coupons. It's just that I'd rather be having to worry over the taxes on a hundred thousand dollars than where I'm going to put the extra 3 bags of kitty treats I need to buy in order to collect my 75 cents savings.

Microscope Moon

The full moon was still high in the sky when I left for work this morning. At ground level, bands of fog shifted on eddies of air so that at one moment the moon was a blazing white circle and the next a muted gray puddle of light.

Perhaps because of the other-worldliness of the morning, it occurred to me that the moon resembled the eyepiece of a microscope. Which made me wonder if maybe I was being scrutinized by a greater being.

Was the progress of my car along the road being studied from above just as I had once studied the seemingly frantic travels of amoeba in a drop of liquid during science class? Was the fog surrounding me in fact a drop of liquid on a glass slide? Was I as minute a part of the universe belonging to the watcher in the sky as an atom is to my world?

I would have liked to have traveled further down this road of hypothesis but the beams of light from an oncoming car brought my attentions back to the here and now.

Perhaps as I fall asleep tonight I will return to my pondering of being part of a larger organism - what I would call the universe, but the watcher might call a petri dish.

The Beginning of Tomorrow

It's been a full schedule today. So here's a short contemplation.

Tomorrow begins with today.
To look past the present is to miss the future.

Hair Glue

I firmly believe the strangest collection of items in any house can be found in the bathroom.

On the vanity top the other day I noticed a jar labeled Spike Glue for Hair.

Now I don't know about you, but as my kids were growing up I spent a lot of time trying to keep things like Elmer's glue and Play Dough out of their hair, so this product was quite an attention grabber.

I couldn't understand the need for Spike Glue in our house. Neither Motivated Mom nor Media Girl sports a hairstyle resembling a rooster's comb and for that I am very grateful.

I'm sure you're familiar with the hairstyle I'm referring to. A narrow row of hair running down the center of an otherwise clean shaven scalp. The gravity defying strands are frequently multi colored and downright dangerous in appearance. I always assumed such a look was achieved with an aerosol can of spray starch and perhaps an iron. I never imagined maintenance required someone smearing their hands with glue and then combing their fingers through their hair.

What happens if they have to sneeze? Do they dare reach for a tissue or do they just Windex the bathroom mirror when their hair preparations are complete?

Tomatoes & Fruitcake

It was a disappointing season in my backyard vegetable garden this year. My normally green thumb morphed to brown. The tomato plants were lackluster at best and the pepper plants never managed to grow beyond eighteen inches in height.

So I didn't experience the normal pangs of regret when I cut all the plants back and pulled out the roots this past weekend. It wasn't like I was marking the end of a plentiful season.

I'll miss Motivated Mom's homemade spaghetti sauce over the post-summer months. Usually we manage to "put up" at least a couple dozen jars. This year, nothing.

Still, there's other things to look forward to - like the fruitcakes I 'll start baking in another six weeks.

Right now College Dude is rolling his eyes at the mention of those fruitcakes. He believes them to be good for nothing more than a door stop. I keep telling myself that one day he will develop an educated palate and recognize the cakes for the culinary delights that they are.

Writing Prompt

I participate in a writing group that meets Wednesday evenings. Time got away from me today and I missed the meeting. I am totally bummed. I really look forward to that weekly event.

When we meet, the leader of the group reads out a short prompt. The group members spend 3 to 5 minutes writing something incorporating the prompt, the pieces are shared, and we progress to the next prompt.

Writing prompts are also e-mailed once a week. Since I missed the meeting, let me see what I can do with the e-mailed prompt of: These are the things I remained silent about...

My fear of heights, my colorblindness and the torn ligament in my shoulder that had never healed properly. These are the things I remained silent about, the things I elected not to disclose on the personal information sheet. How was I to know that this year's summer scout camp was to include repelling down the face of a cliff? I couldn't possibly disclose the information now. Not here at the top of the mountain. The other guys in my patrol would think I was chicken. Refusing to look behind me,I allowed myself to be backed up to the edge of the rock where the undergrowth thinned to moss growing in crooked tendrils from the crevices in the stone. My left foot slipped on a thick patch of springy moss. The rope had not yet been fed through the metal rings on my harness. Falling backward, arms pinwheeling, I finally summoned the sense to grab for the rope. I grabbed with my right hand. It was my right shoulder that had never healed. The pain was like an electric shock. I hung there, parallel to to the ground a hundred feet below, one heel hooked on a crooked piece of stone and one failing hand clinging to a rope. It was then that I noticed the approaching string of clouds that looked like a herd of galloping horses. Maybe they would arrive in time to rescue me.

Before signing off, let me point out this is a fictional piece. There is absolutely no factual basis for the five minute story.

Return to Post-Summer

The signs of post-summer are popping up everywhere.

(For those of you who are new readers, when I moved to the beach area I took the liberty of renaming the seasons of the year. The four seasons as I now know them are pre-summer, summer, post-summer and Christmas.)

Morning dew on car windshields, hay bales and dried corn stalks decorating front porches, and mums blooming in all of their flower button glory all announce the change of season.

Motivated Mom has hung Indian corn on the front door and decorated the mantle with strings of colored leaves.

This time of year used to leave me down in the dumps. I would begin thinking of the dark evenings and barren trees soon to come.

I'm taking it all with quiet acceptance this time around. Just another shift in the unstoppable march of time. Soon enough I'll be announcing the arrival of pre-summer and all will be right with the world.

A Short Break

I'll be away from the internet for a couple days.

Look for a new post on Wednesday, Sept 30.

Cat Scratch Weather

We have a cat, Ginger, who, scratches at the door like a dog when she wants to go out. That was one of the reasons we installed a pet door - so that our cats could come and go as they please without the human folk having to act as doormen.

This morning Ginger refused to consider the pet door and went back to door scratching accompanied by mournful howling.

So, being the attentive doorman that I am, I slid the patio door open.

...and Ginger just sat there.

I finally figured out what the problem was. It was pouring rain and Ginger didn't like it. She had obviously been hoping the human folk door would lead to better weather than the cat door.

When that proved not to be the case, Ginger gave me an accusing stare - as though the weather was my doing.

Then it occurred to me that Ginger very well may believe I have the power to change the weather. After all, I can change darkness to light with the flip of a switch. So why wouldn't I be able to switch the rain on and off as well?

Nascar City

It's Nascar weekend at nearby Dover Downs. I'm always amazed at the city that springs to life for Nascar events. The surrounding fairgrounds, empty for much of the year, fill with campers of all types.

Pickup trucks with aluminum homes that drop into the bed, trailers that transform into tents on wheels, and forty foot long mobile castles begin to converge on Dover Downs as much as a full week in advance of the big event.

The transformation reminds me of the magic of a circus. Only circus magic occurs overnight rather than over a week. One day there's an open field, the next a community of tents, wagons, entertainers, animals and more.

Personally, I'll take the circus over race cars any day - but to each his own.

Dream Scream

We've all had them. Dreams where we are trying to escape something but can't make our legs move. Dreams where we are walking up to something we don't want to see but can't turn away.

Last night I had a dream in which I was trying to scream at the approach of something terrifying but couldn't. I tried and tried but just couldn't force the scream out of my mouth.

Except that I did. Motivated Mom shook me awake and asked my god, what's wrong?

What? I asked, realizing I already knew the answer to that question.

Motivated Mom informed me I had emitted a series of blood curdling screams.

I don't think that's ever happened before - achieving in real life what I couldn't accomplish in a dream.

I wonder if this is the start of a trend. Will I start waking to find myself running through the house to escape whatever is chasing me?

I'm going to be really concerned about those dreams where I find myself in a public place without my clothes.

Is It Enlightenment?

I've been writing all day today - working on my novel.

Time goes into hyper drive when I'm writing. Hours pass in minutes - sometimes faster.

I sat down this morning with the intention of working until noon and the next thing I knew I had to turn on the light to see my keyboard.

I'm sure I did things other than write between dawn and dusk but memory of it escapes me. Today the real stuff, the important stuff, was how the characters in my book were dealing with the latest obstacles that had befallen them. Their lives, and therefore mine, took place in fields of winter wheat, abandoned houses, and church rectories. The office space around me might as well not have existed.

When the day disappears the way today has - eight hours gone by in the span of forty minutes - I find myself wondering if I have made the mental shift that shaman, yogis, and wizards achieve. The shift into transcendentalism that allows those learned people to see life for the dream that it really is. The realization that time is a farce.

Absolute Absolution

Oops! I missed a day after committing to getting back on a regular posting schedule.

I guess I better hope for absolution. Fortunately I can afford it.

What, you ask, absolution can be bought?

Uh-hum, yeah, ah, well that was one of the crazy turns my mind took this morning when I saw the neon sign advertising Absolute $29.99.

I got to thinking what if the sign were to be in front of a church instead of a liquor store, and what if Absolute were replaced with absolution?

Would the church be filled to capacity? Would people be willing to spend $29.99 to have their slate wiped clean?

I'm guessing they would - unless absolution mandated keeping the slate clean afterward. Then I'm thinking the response would drop dramatically.

We've become a society that wants instant gratification. Having to work at holding onto the sense of well being following gratification doesn't seem to be on our agenda anymore.

A Boatload

At some point we have probably all used the expression: a boatload of..... to express an enormously large quantity of something.

Well, yesterday I really did see a boatload of bananas.

Sunday was one of those sunny, blue sky, see for ever kind of days. Motivated Mom and I were at the beach enjoying nature's gift. On the horizon the western coastline of New Jersey stood out more clearly than I can ever remember having seen it before.

I dug out a pair of binoculars to see if I could zoom in on anything more specific than the lighthouse at Cape May. Just when I nearly had the binoculars in perfect focus, something obstructed my vision.

Making the necessary magnification adjustments, I found myself looking at a cargo ship. Emblazoned on the hull of the ship was the word Chiquita. The ship was loaded down with metal containers that could only be filled with bananas.

I started counting containers, wondered how many tons of bananas a single container held, how many individual bananas were in a ton, and started working on hypothetical equations.

After losing my place in the multiplication process for the third time I decided I didn't need to know the exact number of bananas. Boatload was good enough

Sweatin' Dad

I couldn't help but overhear the interactions of a family sitting behind me in a restaurant tonight.

It was a family of four. The young boy, somewhere around eight years old I would guess, had a serious case of the squirms. Mom was trying to keep her son occupied by asking him an extensive list of questions.

What's ninety-nine plus one? What's fifteen plus ten? What's your favorite color? Who's your favorite mother?

The young boy shot the answers right back as quickly as the mother could rattle them off... until...

Who's your favorite father? the mother asked.

The question was followed by a prolonged silence.

Mom repeated the question but still there was no answer.

I pictured Dad tugging at his shirt collar as beads of perspiration collected on his forehead. He must have been worrying over the delay. Why was his son not pronouncing him dad of the year?
What terrible secret was about to be revealed?

"My father is my favorite father," the young boy finally answered.

Whew! Disaster averted.

Speak of the Pirate

I was in the convenience store today when who should walk in but a whole crew of pirates.

Speak of the dev... eerrr pirate.

I thought the motley crew had come to haul me away for disclosing the secret of their rich but not so famous lifestyles.

It turned out they knew nothing about yesterday's post. I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Relieved that I wasn't going to be made to walk the plank. Disappointed that my blog wasn't read by those sailing under the Jolly Roger. Wireless internet is fairly prevalent these days after all.

I asked the swill drinking group if they were out promoting National Speak Like a Pirate Day. Turns out they knew nothing about it.

They must have been pretenders.

Pirate Day

Shiver me timbers. I've been told that Saturday is national talk like a pirate day.

So ahoy there matey and avast ye swabs, let's talk about them scurvy devils.

Pirates seem to always be portrayed as the worst of the lot. Even when they're not on the high seas doing their plundering, it seems they're always in dimly lit taverns tugging on the skirts of frightened serving wenches.

My question is... why?

I suspect that the poorly groomed and inarticulate persona pirates present is just a front to scare the poor folks on the ships about to be ransacked.

Once they heave to and put to shore, I would imagine that with all their ill-gotten loot pirates would be living in secluded estates, not hanging out in dingy taverns. There would have to be a household staff to attend to things while the looters and pillagers were away. So when the pirates returned home there were surely enough servants to cater to their every whim. They wouldn't need to go yanking on the skirts of ... well, okay, maybe there is a need to tug on some skirts after months at sea.

Me thinks that for all these years, pirates have been pullin the sailcloth over our eyes.

A Finding Opportunity

When I sat down at my computer I knew exactly what today's post was going to be.

By the time my blog site loaded, the flash of creative brilliance that was going to awe my readers had disappeared like a spark being sucked up a chimney.

Opportunity lost - which makes me think of opportunity found.

Just such an opportunity - a finding opportunity - presented itself to College Dude when he was visiting the other week.

College Dude, Language Lass, Motivated Mom, and Queen Bee had gone to the book sale at the local library.

And what did College Dude discover there but a first edition printing of Jerle Shannara Isle Witch, a novel by Terry Brooks. Talk about finding the proverbial needle in a haystack!

Sometimes magic works and we find ourselves the recipients of incredible good fortune.

College Dude is an avid fan of Terry Brooks so the finding of the book was indeed a thrill for him.

Maybe the magic will work again and College Dude will have the opportunity to have the author sign that first edition.

Multiplying Flies

Fruit flies must be the fastest reproducing insect in this world.

Somehow I manage to forget that from one year to the next.

There is always a basket of fresh fruit sitting on the counter in our kitchen. The basket is laden with whatever fruit is in season along with the ever present bananas.

Every year about this time three or four fruit flies appear. And every year my memory fails me. So I fail to react to that first insurgence. I neglect to immediately move the fruit to the refrigerator - to cut off the food source.

It only takes a day for four fruit flies to multiply exponentially.

So every year about this time, I reach for a piece of fruit and stagger backwards as a tornado of insects rise in a spinning mass from that treat I was about to consume.

...And since the annoying little buggers continue to multiply exponentially, I battle with the things for weeks on end.

Washington Diplomacy

Representative Joe Wilson was "rebuked" for shouting out during the President's speech??!!

I don't usually touch on religion or politics in my blog but...

Wasn't this country founded by esteemed gentlemen voicing their displeasure with the status quo?

Okay, shouting out you lie to the President of the United States is a little uncouth. But surely such a goof is the sort of thing usually handled behind closed doors. You know, a private meeting between esteemed gentleman where someone asks, Jeez Joe aren't you getting any right now? Maybe you should find a female intern who likes cigars.

Of Cats and Screens

Life was hectic today. I was juggling multiple priorities and almost missed the frozen cat outside the patio door.

The cat was fixed in a museum quality pose - ears slanted forward, teeth exposed in a fierce snarl, front leg permanently locked in what might have been the tail end of a vicious swipe, and fur standing on end as though a hundred kilowatts of electricity had just coursed through the animal.

Incredibly lifelike I thought before hurrying on to my next task.

Wait a minute. That was our cat.

I turned back and discovered I had caught only half the picture. The neighbor cat was in the opposite corner of the deck, locked in a similar pose. The two felines looked like prize fighters waiting for the bell to ring.

I opened the patio door and - neighbor cat took off at a dead run. It ran right through the screening of the screen room on the patio below.

Had it been a carton, the screen would have had a hole in the shape of a cat with four appendages splayed out like an X.

Cartoon it was not, the screen offered momentary resistance before giving way in a six foot long diagonal tear.

I guess I'll be dining with the mosquitoes this evening.

Shack in the Back

Motivated Mom and I were out doing "empty nester" spur of the moment stuff today.

We're not really empty nesters yet, but the planetary alignment was favorable to being spontaneus.

In downtown Rehoboth Beach we spotted a home that had escaped our notice before. The one-and-a-half story building sat at the back of a narrow lot and looked to be the perfect size for a pair of fairy tale creatures - maybe two of the seven dwarves.

The white clapboard house had gingerbread trim painted sky blue. The roof slopped so steeply that I could imagine an elf skiing down the incline on a January afternoon.

If I were single, I thought, that would be the perfect home.

Then I remembered a childhood friend who had lived in such a house. He called it The Shack in the Back. Chip and his mother lived on a property with a small A-frame building in the backyard. The A-frame had once served as a studio. When Chip hit sixteen years of age, the studio became his home. He was the envy of every teenager in the area.

Come to think of it, two people could have lived comfortably in that converted studio.

When Motivated Mom really do become empty nesters, maybe the fairy tale home in Rehoboth Beach will be available. How cool would it be to live in a cottage that was half a step distant from the everyday world - a house where daydreams come true.

Golf Futility

I was heading out in the pre-dawn hours today and spotted some cars in the parking lot of a nearby golf course. Surely the cars had been there all night. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to play golf when the sodium lights in the parking lot were still on.

I was wrong. Four men were pulling bags of golf clubs from the trunks of their cars.

Now I realize that, unlike me, there are some folks who are just naturally early risers. But I failed to see the point in arriving at a golf course before the sun.

I wondered how the men would find their golf balls. Were the balls painted neon colors? Did they have tiny microchips that sent out homing signals?

With rain in the forecast, it all seemed like an excercise in futility to me.

Early Morning Demons

I looked out my window this morning expecting to find I wasn't in Delaware anymore. I was certain my house had been sent spinning through the sky while I slept and had landed in some locale where logic did not apply.

That was the way it sounded in the early morning hours. A combination of driving rain and howling wind had me wondering what the wind shear rating was for the nails that held the shingles to the roof and siding to the walls.

The sound of rain pounding horizontally on the wall behind my headboard woke me somewhere around 4:00 a.m. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and a thousand demons shrieked outside my bedroom window. Well, okay maybe a hundred.

It's usually on a cold winter's night that I am grateful for the warm blankets layered on my bed. Last night I was grateful for warm blankets, sturdy roof, and solid foundation.

First Assignment

On Tuesday I made note of my expectation that the first day of school would result in parent homework. My expectations were met.

My nephew's junior high teacher went a little bit further than the standard emergency information forms. She sent an actual honest to goodness homework assignment home for the parents of each of her students.

Write a 500 word essay about your child. The assignment was accompanied by the explanation that since the students had just advanced from elementary to junior high the teacher had no past history with the students. The parent essays would allow the teacher to quickly build a knowledge of the kids in her class.

Now I'm fairly comfortable with putting words on paper - but I can picture the horrified expressions on the faces of any number of parents. An essay? Me? You've got to be kidding!

I know exactly what my father would have done. He would have lowered his newspaper, flicked the ashes from the end of his cigarette, taken the assignment paper from my hand, mumbled incoherently but vehemently, and dropped the assignment in the waste basket.

And if I had moaned about a resulting black mark on my record, my father would have said from behind his newspaper - If your teacher thinks she's sending homework home to me, she's got another think coming.

Certainly times have changed since I was waist high to an adult, but I'm betting better than fifty percent of today's parents would view the assignment as an inexcusable incursion on their time. Hopefully I'll find out from my nephew and hopefully I'll be proven wrong.

Whose at the Corner?

I was heading out for an appointment yesterday afternoon when I noticed groups of people gathered at the entrances to local developments.

The groupings certainly weren't school kids waiting for the bus... were they? My internal clock has been out of whack recently but surely I hadn't misplaced an entire half day. No, of course not, it would be pitch black were it three-thirty in the morning.

They certainly weren't students returning home. Kids scatter the minute they're off the bus. They don't linger on street corners.

Once I was close enough to make positive identification I realized the groups were comprised of adults.

A light went on. These were parents of elementary school students waiting for their children to arrive home from the first day at school.

I reasoned they had children in first or second grade. By third grade the novelty wears off. Come to think of it, by third grade parents get blown off. Hi Mom, Dad, got'ta run Tommy and I agreed to meet by the swings right after school. See ya.

Back to School

Media Girl heads back to school today. The first day of her senior year in high school. Where does the time go?

Of course this means Motivated Mom and I will have homework tonight - forms of all kinds to complete. Emergency contact info, authorizations to participate in functions off of the school grounds, offers for life insurance, etc.

At least it won't be as bad as when we had two children who were in both elementary school and after school childcare. Back then it was emergency contact forms in triplicate (not carbon copy but three separate and distinctly colored forms requiring completion of the same data) health histories, checks for lunches and snacks. All of this was required for school and childcare both. So we were looking at four informational packets.

Motivated Mom and I never could figure out why the information couldn't be entered into a database and reprinted or forwarded as needed. Computers were fairly commonplace after all.

Looking back on those times, I can't imagine what it would have been like to have had three or four children in school at the same time. Either Motivated Mom or I would have had to take a vacation day in order to get all the paperwork completed.

Parting and Promises

College Dude headed back to Pittsburgh today. Parting with my son at the end of a visit is always a difficult time for me - though I get better at dealing with it as time goes on. I always find myself feeling like we should have talked more, should have done more things together, etc.

Usually our visits are exactly what they need to be, a periodic opportunity to acknowledge our continuing love for one another (an enormous gift really). Sometimes we truly do have too little time together and I am left bemoaning the geographic distance between us. Occasionally we are together long enough that I am reminded why it is that children go off to lead lives of their own.

This past visit was better than too short and less than too long. We had the opportunity to banter over margaritas, briefly discuss work and school, enjoy a day at the beach, and simply be around one another. I could almost say, in the words of Goldilocks, it was just right.

And yet that desire to have had just one extra hour still lingers.

I guess that's a good thing really. It has me looking forward to the promise of another visit, another opportunity for companionship.

Lest I leave her feeling like the odd person out, I must make a point here of saying that I also enjoy the opportunity to visit with Language Lass. Since she benefits from a solid family base of her own, I trust she doesn't feel slighted but appreciates the unique relationship between parent and progeny.