The Real "Help"

I recently saw the film, "The Help". Having read the book, I can truthfully say that although a good read as well as a fine movie, the book and film left gaps in the real stories of "The Help". I am also sure that there are a million or more sites where one could read similar stories. So in the interest of preserving, for my kids, a bit of family history, I offer this little story.

I grew up in a multi-generational household. Mother was an only child of a working mother and an alcoholic father. Her father had been a successful banker who had built a nice house in a new neighborhood for his young family. Her mother had a very nice career working for doctors, since she'd been denied a nursing education by her own father. That is another story for another time. The stock market crash happened and my grandparents, like so many others, lost their home and most of their money. Granddaddy had enough cash left to buy another house in an older, but still "good", neighborhood, so they moved. Both of my grandparents worked, so Mom was the original "latch-key" child. She told stories of learning to cook by pulling a chair up to the gas stove in order to light the pilot before cooking dinner for her parents. By today's standards, my grandparents would have been reported to the social services department! They didn't have hired "help" until much later. After Mom and Daddy married, they stayed on in the same house with my grandparents, because as Mom said, my grandmother needed them. Granddaddy was a handful during his drinking days, I was told.

That brings me to the blessed event, my birth, two years after my parents wedding. Mom had gone to a junior college and was working when I was born, so what was there to do but hire someone to "look after" the baby? With all the adults in the house at their jobs all day, the care and feeding of me was left to a series of "maids". They were never called "house-keepers" in those days. I remember a few of them; most notably the one who hid me from her "friend" . She also made long-distance phone calls to a northern city, resulting in a very large bill which she didn't pay. Needless to say, Pearl didn't make it in our house. Reflecting on it now so many years later, I can only imagine how my parents must have agonized over childcare! Perhaps, our sons and daughter can relate when searching for good daycare people or places for our grand-darlings.

Enter Annie O'Neill, our "help", and Mom's lifeline. Annie became a fixture in our home because not only was she bright but trust-worthy and kind as well. I remember watching her as she walked from the bus stop with all the other maids into our little cove. They were a happy group, laughing and talking carrying brightly colored parasols to their jobs. Annie's parasol was red and I thought it was swell. Back then I knew all of their names, for whom they worked and, most important what they cooked! Their names are lost to me now, but I can't forget their foods. Mrs. Carruthers' maid made fabulous cookies and invited the neighborhood children to tea parties with Alberta. You see, Alberta was a grown woman, who I realize now, had Down's syndrome. She would hug us and offer tea and cookies on her lawn. Some of the kids were afraid of her, but not I. The cookies were too good to pass up! Annie didn't cook much. Mom loved to do that, so Annie did other stuff. After my sister was born and my grandmother retired; life changed. Mom was at home all the time, having given up her job and Annie didn't come everyday anymore. I don't remember missing her at first because I had a baby sister, Mom and a grand-mother to dance to my tune. However, on the days that Annie did come, I knew that the two ladies of the house would be out for the day. Mom and Mama would dress-up, put on their gloves and hats and head to "town", leaving me screaming while Annie held me. Town was the mysterious place where they shopped and had lunch, only returning in time for Annie to catch her bus. Those  days with Annie were spent following her around while she did all the housework. Sometimes she'd sit with me to show me a book or tell a story. My favorite story was about the "other little girl" at the other place where she worked. That story always raised the green-eyed monster in me, because the "other little girl" always did what she was told and minded her manners. She, unlike me, didn't take her shirt off when she got too hot nor did she give her mother and maid "hissy fits'. I always promised to do better, but miserably failed. Years later Mom told me that the "other little girl" never existed and that Annie made her up to keep me in line! Annie would work like a house afire to get everything done in time for us to do the ironing so that she could watch her "stories". I say "us" because Santa had brought me a small ironing board and a real miniature iron (it really heated up). Annie taught me to iron Daddy's handkerchiefs while we watched "The Edge of Night" and "The Guiding Light". Soon, I was as hooked as she was and we talked about the ups and downs of the families on that small screen in our living room. Again, I ask; What would today's parents think bout a four-year-old's passion for a fictional family? On the ironing front, which I never mastered, to this day I can't iron anything but flat napkins and tea towels! I also no longer watch "stories", also known as soap operas.

Annie had one son whom she called, Brother, I have no idea why. Her husband, although not Brother's father, was named Pops. He worked for us too, but on a limited basis because of his bad heart. After an almost fatal attack one spring, Pops, moved to California to live with his daughter. Annie was sad but confessed that they were never formally married and she couldn't take care of him the way his family could. We, the whole family, visited him in California and met his daughter and his family. Reporting after the visit to Annie about how well Pops looked and how happy he was; we never heard about him again. Annie didn't mention him and we were told never to ask about him. Brother was Annie's only child, but it was no secret that she pined for another baby. One Saturday when I was about 8 years-old, Annie called to say that she'd be coming by for a visit and that she had a surprise. The surprise was a little baby girl!  The baby had been left in Annie's care while her mother moved to Mississippi. Annie hoped that the mother wouldn't come back to claim her child, but she did and Annie's heart was broken. We never asked about the baby either. Mom said that it would make Annie cry, so we never mentioned the baby again. We became her "babies. No matter how many times we sang, "Annie is the Queen of Africa",  a song we made up just for her, she didn't scold us. Not until I was a college student do I remember being scolded by Annie. She would tell me repeatedly to unload the dishwasher, or stay out of the peas she'd cooked for Daddy's supper, or to hurry-up and get out of her way so that she could get to the ironing and her "stories"!

The years during the civil rights struggle are as vivid to me now as they were 50 years ago. Annie was vocal in her disapproval of all things "uppity", whatever that meant. I remember hearing her talk with my mother about the craziness in her neighborhood. She couldn't understand the rioting and burning. The year, 1968, was the worst. The sanitation workers' strike brought hate right to our front doors. Dr. King arrived in Memphis to offer his help in resolving the differences. On one of the most awful days Annie came with Mom to get us out of school. I am ashamed to admit that I was a bit embarrassed to have those two women come to my high school and put me in the car! It wasn't about race at all but the fact that I was almost 16 and ready to embrace change since, of course, I knew everything! Mom wanted Annie to stay with us, but she wouldn't hear of it. Mom drove her home that night through a neighborhood already beginning to riot. I realize now what guts it took for my very southern lady of a Mama to do such a brave thing. Many years later Mom confessed how scared she'd been. Daddy fussed, but Mom felt that she had to see Annie home safely. That night Daddy loaded a gun, which I didn't know he had. It probably wouldn't have worked since it was an old rifle of his father's, but it might have frightened someone. By then end of that horrible week, Daddy installed a new lock on the front door. I think we were the first in our cove to have a deadbolt lock. Dr. King's murder brought shame to our city. Annie didn't say much accept that maybe he should have stayed away and let Memphis work it out. While we went to school with the National Guard acting as crossing guards and lived under a curfew for what seemed years, Annie religiously came to work and did her best for us. I wonder if she mourned Dr. King's death or ever felt that she couldn't openly grieve for fear of our disdain. I'll never know.

When I got engaged Annie threw herself into the preparations for the wedding as much as Mom did. She came more often and was more vocal in her opinions than she'd been in the past. Her fear was that I wouldn't "cotton' to being a housewife because I'd shown no interest in cooking, ironing, nor any other of the "housewifey stuff". In her infinite wisdom she warned me to not let my "man" use a condom because doing so was like having sex in a raincoat, she said. I'm sure that I must have blushed and was rendered speechless by that remark. On my wedding day, Annie and Mom were with me as I put on the billowing white gown. She placed the vail on my head and she and Mom held hands and shed a few tears. Mom asked her what they'd do without me to take care of and Annie announced that she was retiring. Mom gasped and I felt the air sucked out of the room. Annie quickly assured my mother that she wouldn't be disappearing entirely but would come back when mom needed her help. True to her word when things got a little hairy on the home front, Annie would appear and set everything right again.

Mom never replaced Annie. Their was never anyone who could fill her shoes. We loved and respected her despite our racial differences. The south in the fifties and sixties was a very divided place, but at Overland Place we didn't really notice. I can say in all honesty that we had prejudices and that everything discussed at our dinner table was not without mention of those issues.  However, we were taught to respect all people despite their color. That may seem to be somewhat of a mixed message but to us, my siblings and me, it was a message heard and understood.

My parents and Annie are gone now. They lived their lives in their time and passed on their wisdom and traditions to us. To this day I cringe when a hat is placed on the bed because Annie said that that was bad luck. All the superstitions and myths that Annie lived by are lost now. I admit to being a modern mom and didn't pass them on to my kids. If I could remember them all, I'd tell them. Even without the superstitions, I am the person I am because of the care I received from those who loved me. Annie does deserve some credit for that, but she wouldn't agree. Of that I am sure. She would say that she was just doing her job. I wonder what that "other little girl" would say to that?

Ordinary

This morning, before we left to make the arduous drive back to North Carolina, I combed Caroline's hair. As I pulled the brush through her hair I remembered how I had done this so many years ago for her mother. Those sweet little curls twinning around my fingers almost made my heart stop. Where had the years gone? We put a pink bow in her hair and she hugged my neck. Her baby smell and her chubby little fingers clutched at me and I was transported back to the time when I was the young mom rushing to get out the door and on with the business of the day. This morning there was no rush for me. I wanted to stop time in its track and treasure the moment, but she had to go to day care and we had to come home. 

Her brother, newly fond of 'Spiderman", wanted his hair combed like Peter Parker, so I obliged. We even gave it a shot of Papa's hairspray to hold the look. He, unlike his sister, knows how far away we live from him. We both cried and said we'd count the days until he comes with his family for Christmas. He and his mom will make a paper chain for the 19 days until he gets here to the blue house. He told me that he'll tear off a link everyday. While his parents enjoyed a night out last week, we had written his letter to Santa. This morning he reminded me to make sure Santa got it. I promised that I would. A quick hug and a kiss and he and his sister were whisked away for school and day care. The house was quiet and I cried. 

I wish that I could see our grandchildren more often. Everyday would be fine. You see, while you are in the middle of child-rearing, it's hard to enjoy the everyday ordinariness of life. Sure we celebrate and remember the big stuff, like piano recitals, baseball games, soccer, and graduations, but the everyday rituals, like hair-combing are lost in the shuffle. I wish I had not hurried through those rituals because that is now what I miss the most!

It is my hope that my children will slow down and enjoy, maybe even relish, the ordinary, everyday stuff. There will never be another time for "Peter Parker" hair or bright bows. Once it's gone the precious time is gone too. Pretty soon. like our older grand-darlings, their hair will be colored and grown-up in style. They will pick their own clothes and nothing you might suggest is the right thing. Time moves on. Teen agers make sure of that.

Today, make time for the ordinary. Relish it and remember it. All too soon the craziness of the daily rituals disappears and the house is quiet. 

Being a Grandmother

One of our grand-daughters' loves the story, "Cinderella", especially the Disney version where the fairy godmother makes Cinderella's wishes come true. She points at the godmother's picture and says, "That's my 'Tiki' ", which is what she calls me. My heart just about burst when our daughter told me that, because that is exactly what I want our grandchildren to think about me. After raising four children and always putting their needs above my own, it is one of life's joys to be able to grant wishes, no matter how absurd or sometimes outrageous those wishes seem to their parents. I think that I've earned that status!

My own mother was the epitome of the indulgent grandmother. Right out of the gate, she declared that her grandchildren were going to be spoiled rotten by her and until she breathed the last breath, she held true to her word. Mom had no siblings, nor any indulgent grandparents. What she did have was a gaggle of aunts, because her mother was one of eight daughters born to very strict German/French parents. The aunts and their spouses filled the grand-parent void and indulged my mother somewhat, but it wasn't the same as having real loving, prone- to- spoiling grandparents and Mom knew that. So, when our children came along, all bets were off and I knew as well as welcomed it. Mom and Daddy were wonderful parents and fabulous grandparents. We let them indulge our children and we looked to them for parenting advice.  My own grandparents, Mom's parents, had been the real deal. It's the way we are and I don't apologize for it. We love our children and when they have children of their own we spoil them, period!

Figuring out the parent thing is tough. You worry over every little thing and, of course, you want to do the right thing with your children. Everyday is a new challenge. Should breakfast be yogurt and fruit or eggs? Does he/she need a sweater or jacket? Is this fever worth a doctor visit? When should we begin potty-training? Is she/he getting the right care? Just the grooming rituals, like brushing their teeth was cause for ten deep breaths and a calming mantra. The food worries and battles over vegetables were enough to send me screaming into the street! Thank God, we were young enough to keep up with the daily trials! All of that and then there was school and a whole new set of worries and joys began. I wouldn't trade a minute of it, although at the time, the slogan for the bath product, "Calgon, take me away!" held a lot of promise for me.

The grandparent mode is a welcome relief from the grind of parenting! You get to leave the worries of the daily grind to your own well brought up children. Ice cream for breakfast? How about that on top of a brownie? Goldfish crackers with apple juice and a few Hershey kisses for dinner? No problem! The crackers are at least whole grain, right? Here's the big secret; It's their parents responsibility to feed them the healthy stuff, monitor their bed time, make sure that they brush and floss, get the required shots, and do their homework. I've been there and done that. As a grandmother, I want to be the Bibbity Bobbity Boo Grandmother who provides the haven and grants the wishes! Our children have their own ideas about child rearing and we both respect that, but our house is the funhouse where pumpkins _can_ become magic coaches! I think that after the years of struggle and grinding out the healthy stuff; I've earned that.

I look at this wonderful journey like this: There are 365 days in an average year. Of those days, we may have the grandchildren in our home, let's say, for the sake of argument, 25 times. If our own kids have done their parenting jobs well, that means that in the time span of less than a month, the grand-darlings get brownies for breakfast and stay up later than usual and magic happens! We all need a little magic, right? I want them to look forward to our magic days and realize that what takes place here isn't the routine of home but the grand ball where Cinderella isn't banished to her room and every young boy is Prince Charming. Referring to another fairy tale, if  I were writing the story of Hansel and Gretel, the house in the woods would be made of real gingerbread and together we'd eat the candy right off the roof and then dance in the woods in our jammies! Red Riding Hood would bop the Big Bad Wolf in the head and she and Grandmother would spend the afternoon making sugar cookies into wolf  shapes and happily eating them with cups of cold coke. You see, Grandmothers and Grandfathers alike are special people and they live by special rules. They have become more child-like themselves and know that there are some battles worth fighting about and some, well, not so much. Real problems and controversy can be left at home, but here in our special place the grand-darlings are all that matters for the little slice of time. My hope is that they will always remember, long after "Papa" and I are gone, that had our unconditional love and ice cream for breakfast. Dreams and wishes come true Bibbity, Bobbity, Boo!

Episcopalian

I should have gotten back into the bed and tried getting up again. Maybe then I would have gotten up on the "right" side! Okay, having said that I can move on to the subject of my ill- tempered morning.

First, let me say that I am an Episcopalian and have been for over forty years. As I've told anyone who'd listen, I started going to the Episcopal church while I was the President of my Methodist Youth Fellowship. The simple reason had not a thing to do with beliefs or doctrine, but everything to do with guys. The ones at the Episcopal church were better looking than the Methodist ones that I had grown up with. Hey, I was only 15 and the Episcopal church was two doors a way from our house! Add "lazy" to my sins because I could walk to the Episcopal Youth Community meetings. Now add the fact that my husband is an Episcopalian and really good-looking and you get my point. No, he was not at the EYC meetings two doors away; he came into my life a bit later.

I will assume that the reader doesn't know how we Episcopalians work in order to state my case. So, back to this morning; First off, we at St. Paul's are making an attempt to be more "earth-friendly". We've had classes to educate us on saving the mother planet and are working hard to reuse and recycle. We are also into preserving our own heritage and the structures where we worship. So, taking all of that into account you can imagine my consternation when I saw that in the bulletin this morning the Prayers of the People was printed along with the usual service notes and notices of upcoming events. What is that about I asked the man seated next to me (a former Baptist minister, I might add)? He told me that the extra printing was to be more "welcoming" to our visitors. What? We have a gazzillion dollars invested in books named, The Book of Common Prayer, and they are right there in front of each one of us beside the Hymnal! The bulletin even has pages listed for each of the books, Hymnal on the left of the page and BCP on the right. Must we assume that all our visitors are morons and can't read the bulletin? A simple line stating that fact could be inserted at the top of the page and we'd save a lot of paper and ink.

Next, the sermon was insightful but too long. Do priests go to speech classes? Having made a point and delivered a perfect and to the point closing statement our beautiful, well-spoken young priest continued for another five minutes or so. My kids think that I am an adult with Attention Deficit Disorder, so this part of my post may have more to do with that than our priest's sermon. My brain should never be left to its own devices! It tends to wander and get lost.

Communion followed and my frustration mounted. Who are these people? When offered the chalice, they waited for me to tip it for them. Not that I mind doing so, but really are they all fallen-away Catholics? It's like feeding baby birds!

Being an Episcopalian in the truest sense of the word means adopting the practices and the traditions to the fullest extent. We offer classes to educate and explain the beliefs. Again, a simple explanation of the way to receive the bread and wine is all that is needed. For those of you still with me on this; allow me to explain. With palms open and up cross your right hand over your left, making a cross (funny how that works). If you happen to be left-handed, reverse that. Now, when the chalice is extended to you, grip the bottom of it and gently tip it to your mouth. Sip a bit of wine and say a soft or silent "Amen" and you are finished. If in doubt, ask one of us and we can help. We are very "welcoming".

Another nit I'd like to pick is the habit of referring to areas of the nave as the lectern side or the whatever side. The areas are clear to most of us and should be to our visitors. Try this exercise; Pretend that you are God looking out at your flock. Behind you is the high altar with the cross prominently displayed. Now, lovingly reach out to the flock. The  flock, seated in the nave, looks to God (you, pretending) and they see to their left your hand. This, my friends, is the right-hand-of-God side, or the Gospel side of the church. On the left hand of God is the Epistle side. The sermon this morning was delivered from the Epistle side of the church. Doesn't that sound better and more "churchy"?

I apologize to anyone reading this for sounding off about what is probably considered trivial stuff. I will defend myself by saying that I take my religion seriously and love adhering to the traditions and customs. I/we are a welcoming group. The plaque above the doors says it perfectly, "A place of worship for _all_people". Maybe being a Baptist or Methodist is a little easier. There aren't books to juggle nor kneelers to dodge  in those places. Did I mention confirmation? That is a subject for another time and place.
However, being a Christian as well as an Episcopalian takes some work.

I am willing to juggle and dodge, secure in the knowledge that all over the world others of our brothers and sisters are doing the same thing and saying the same words so beautifully written in The Book of Common Prayer. To our visitors, that is the small red book right in front of you! You are welcome!

Good- Bye to Belle

Dogs are as much a part of my life as are my children. Loosing a pet is sometimes compared to the loss of a child. Having known several people who've experienced a child's death; I can say that I cannot really agree, but the grief for both is long-lasting. That is the part that I can agree with.

Last week, Belle, our little terrier mix started having intestinal problems. We dutifully took all the steps that one would when dealing with a sick dog. I didn't, however, call the vet. Deep in my heart I knew that she was dying and I hoped to keep her comfortable and at home until the end came. I prayed that she would go to sleep and not wake up. My prayers were answered, but not the way that I had hoped.

For several days we gave her Pepto-Bismol because I had read an article online about using it on dogs. She improved enough to eat and drink as usual, but the problems came back. We bought a nutritional supplement which she hated, but we kept dosing her hoping it would help. It didn't.

Yesterday morning she woke up and as I picked her up, she squealed and stiffened. I think that she had a small stroke, but afterward she rallied a bit. I knew that it was time for help so I called the vet. All day I watched and waited, wanting to savor every minute that we had with her. Belle slept curled up beside me while I checked my e-mail and read the newspaper. Unlike our human counterparts, she never complained about her ailments.

At the appointed time, we wrapped her in an a towel and made the short trip to the vet's office. On the way there, Gene said that he thought that maybe she had a virus or a bug of some sort. Hope, as is said, springs eternal. I just held her while silent tears rolled down my face. Pulling myself together I carried her into the waiting room. Now, anyone who has ever known her, would have marveled at Belle! She was never a lap dog nor was she a snuggler. That is until yesterday. She let me hold her close to my heart while we waited. Our time finally arrived and we took her into the examining room. Dear Dr. Jenni told us what we both knew; It was time to let her go. So, yes, my prayers were answered. Belle slept in our arms until her little dog heart stopped beating.

I've heard it said that one's hearing is the last sense to go. Remembering that, I told Belle how much we loved her and what a great friend to us she'd been for her 16 years of life. I don't know if she understood any of those words, but I said them anyway.

We will miss her, of that I'm sure. We already do. Her dish is banished from my sight as is her bed (rarely used since she slept at my feet in our bed). I looked for her when I took a shower because she always waited for me on the bath mat. There is a hole in my heart where once lived a fuzzy little terrier. Good-bye my sweet baby, Belle. We will love and miss you forever.

Surprises!

Some members of our family love surprises. In fact most of us do. I think that the tradition started a long time ago with my parents. Those two people loved to spring surprise parties and surprise, somewhat extravagant gifts, on each other and their children. One of my special memories was the Christmas that Daddy bought Mother a new car. He was about the to "bust" with excitement when he told me how we were going to pull off the surprise. The plan involved a fairly complicated hiding of the new wheels in a garage that belonged to the church two doors away from our house. Daddy hid the car, a sporty yellow Chevy, in the garage a few days before Christmas and gave my sister and me the ribbon to decorate it. Janet and I sneaked over there and pulled the ribbon around it and attached a big red bow on the roof. On Christmas morning, Daddy snuck out of the house in the dark and drove the car into the driveway beyond the front porch and past the dining room windows so that Mom couldn't see it. As was our custom, Daddy would always go into the living room to "check and see if Santa had come" while we slept. Daddy would always say, "No, he hasn't come yet, so go back to bed." We knew he was joking! We'd storm into the room and exclaim over all the loot and then we'd settle down to open presents. Mom would always be the last to open hers. That Christmas, Janet and I could hardly contain our excitement as she opened the usual stuff; clothes, new pjs and so on. The last gift was handed to her by Daddy and as she opened a box of silky panties a set of keys on a shiny new keyring fell out. Mom held them up and asked Daddy what they were for. Daddy just laughed his deep chuckle and told her that maybe she ought to check outside for what Santa had left for her. Mom did and was beside herself with excitement. In our pjs, we took the new car for a spin around the block! Daddy was grinning from ear to ear because no one enjoyed surprising his loved ones more than my Daddy.

The tradition continued well into our adulthood. Once, a month after our move to North Carolina, over six hundred miles away from home, my parents decided to surprise us with a weekend visit. Gene was working late and I had had an especially trying day. The move and getting everyone settled into our new home far away from our friends and family, had left me very lonely and unsettled. After getting the three children fed, bathed and into their pajamas, I told them that they could watch a little TV before bedtime. They were happily watching TV in the den, so I told the oldest child to keep the two younger ones quiet just long enough for me to take a quick shower. A promise of buttered popcorn sealed that deal and on my way to the shower, I casually reminded him to not open the door for anyone, except of course Mimi and Papaw! ESP? You guessed it! When I got out of the shower, there they were on our front porch. Happy Birthday to me, for a few days later it really was my birthday. Surprise!

Next month is my husband's birthday. For months I've been contemplating what I could give him that would really please him. Racking my brain for the perfect gift became an obsession. I finally decided on something that I hope he will love. He doesn't have a hobby or at least one that he spends time doing because between coaching baseball, working and raising four kids with me, there never seemed to be enough time nor money to devote to a hobby. His family _is_ his hobby. Time spent with us is what he loves best, so I'm giving him time. With my trusty laptop I've booked time for us. We can't take the whole gang along for this time, but maybe next year we will.

My parents are both gone from me, but their tradition of surprising each other lives on. They taught me a lot about spending "date" time without kids and enjoying each other, so for his birthday this year, I've planned a weekend in New Orleans followed by a cruise. I hope he likes it. I have been daydreaming for weeks about strolling hand and hand with him through the French Quarter, as we did many years ago before we had children. He loves to "people watch", so I'm sure we'll do a lot of that during that week too. We don't have to be anywhere in order to spend time together, but a trip together is a reminder of the time before the race began. Time is the most important gift I can give him. Our daughter jokes that he gets out of sorts when he doesn't get enough "Linda time", so I hope that this gift will give him what he wants most! I'm crossing my fingers and hoping !

Happy Birthday, Honey. I love you more today than I did over forty years ago when I first saw you on that hot summer night. You out-shone all the stars then and you still do. Even with all the craziness, I'd do it all over again. May you have many more birthdays and always with me!
 XOXOXOXO always,
L

9/11 Reflections

Has it really been ten years? Ask anyone who was alive then and they can probably tell you where they were and what they were doing when the towers fell. You don't even have to say; What towers?  We all know. I am really no different and my personal story is not earth-shattering nor especially enlightening.

We were having work done on the plaster ceilings upstairs. Several days before the 9/11 attacks, one of the workmen reported that our ancient dryer in the upstairs laundry room was was heating up all by itself. The next day, the repairman pronounced  it dead. So on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was getting dressed in our bedroom after seeing our baby boy, then high school freshman, off to school. I remember watching Katie and Matt talking on the "Today Show" and then the first announcement and news break that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. They switched to the coverage and then a few minutes later, another plane and the news kept getting worse. You know the rest of that story. Well, I was in shock of course, but I continued getting dressed and drove to Sears. Inside the store no one was doing anything but watching the floor model TVs . I stood with the idle salesmen and cried while I made a dryer selection. Back at home the workmen had stopped pulling down the old plaster ceilings and together we watched in horror as the morning became mid-day and the nightmare continued. I found a a small American flag, a leftover from the 4th of July parade, and stuck it in a flowerpot on the porch.

Those who know me well know that Tuesdays are a day apart from the rest of the week. Tuesdays are reserved for a lunchtime ritual known as lunch with the "Bazaar Babes". There are 11 of us now, but then there were 12. We had planned to be at a restaurant, but decided instead to gather at our friend, Ann Griffen's, house. Ann, a victim of MS, had a large TV on which we continued to stare at the events unfolding.

Back at home, I passed by the little flag and swallowed the lump in my throat. The freshman was at home by then and had questions about the day. I didn't feel comfortable answering them, but tried instead to assure him that he would be safe no matter what. Isn't that what mothers do? He had a soccer game that night and the schools had decided to go ahead with it despite the events of that day. He went upstairs to his bathroom to shave and dress for the game. I was sitting at the computer looking at the pictures of the towers falling of people jumping to their deaths and of firefighters trying desperately to save people and loosing not only that battle, but of dying themselves. Suddenly this man-child ran out of the bathroom and said, "Mom, I need a candle, quick!". Stunned, I asked why. He said that he'd heard at school that someone had posted a request on the internet for everyone to hold a lit candle high at an appointed hour in respect for the lost lives of the day. So with a bit of shaving cream clinging to his chin and without a shirt on his still hairless chest, this sweet man-child of ours stood on the steps of the sidewalk in front of our house and held a lighted candle in one hand and the little flag in the other hand. Behind the cover of the front door I wept as only a mother can. Proud, questioning, frightened, and struck dumb, I hugged him to my chest and stifled the urge to scream. The next day, I picked out the color for the front door and by 5 o'clock that day our door sported two coats of a color named "American Beauty". It just seemed right as did the new large American Flag hanging from the porch .

9/11 changed us all. We are more fearful now. We experience more delays when we travel now. We no longer trust the way we did before 9/11. We have evolved in many ways and not all of them are bad. We, as a nation, I like to believe, are more patriotic. Our hopes are are realistic and grounded. Call me a "Pollyanna", but seeing a skinny, man-child holding a little candle and an American flag proudly on the steps of a humble, but proud home will do that to you.
God Bless America and all our sons and daughters!

Tiki camp

He smells just like sunshine, or at least what I think sunshine must smell like. We moved through our week of "Tiki camp" at the speed of light. He wanted me to cook with him, but changed his mind. We travelled to Mississippi and he rode, yes really, two horses. On one he even managed to ride bare-back! His Tiki was amazed as she watched with a lump in her throat. We swam; he ate catfish for the first time; we "muggled". We picked up his baby sister so that she could make brownies with us. She cracked eggs and "I stir" the batter. The museum held us in its grasp with the Fed Ex plane which he "flew" for me. He climbed the climby thing so high that I feared he might freeze there in the upper region and I'd have to get help to reach him. He swam down so deep at Patty's pool that he touched the drain. He stopped my heart many times during our week of "camp". Whether my heart stopped from fear for his safety or just the love I have for him, I don't know, but stop it did.

Leaving him, his sister and his mommy and daddy is about the hardest thing I do. We all cry and then I drive away. Two hundred miles later, I still cry, but know that Tiki camp can happen again, just not soon enough for Tiki.

Best Friends

Ok, the term "best friend" is a misnomer. Maybe the more important phrase should be "lifetime friend". Best friends shift with life. One minute the friend knows everything about you and ditto you to her, and then bam; life changes and you have to look her number up to tell her something important.

Lifetime friends are more rare and precious. They know where the bones are buried, who supplied the shovels and who put the dirt on the casket. I am very lucky to have a few of the lifetime kind in my friend arsenal. I really believe if I asked one of them to take out someone they might do it. That statement was a stretch, but I like to imagine it anyway.

Like tonight for instance; I called up a LTF and told her that Bauchmann would never be elected because she was on national TV today wishing Elvis a happy birthday! Today, by the way, is August 16th, 2011. Anyone with a brain knows that Elvis died on August 16, 1977! The LTF on the line understood right away the lunacy of the remark from Bauchmann, because 34 years ago it was with her that I travelled to Graceland and climbed the wall to see just who (besides us) had come to Memphis to honor The King. The event is etched into my brain along with the night we pushed my mother's car out of the driveway in order to sneak out for a joy ride in a much gentler Memphis of the late '60s. Life with a friend like that is bliss, sisters.

Some people only have memories of friends. The here and now ordinariness of their everyday lives are not worthy enough for sharing. They re-visit their glory days, drink a little wine and go home until the next gathering. I think that is sad. Days with friends should be ordinary as well as extraordinary.

I love that I can see or call my LTF and pick-up right where we left off the last time we talked or saw each other. One LTF has known me and almost everything about me since we were six years old. We don't let pettiness nor miles separate us. That is a LTF.

Is there a message anywhere in this? No, not really. I was just feeling especially low after being back in my growing-up home last week. This time we didn't climb any walls nor push a car out for a sneaky joy ride. What we did was enjoy each other's ordinariness. Oh, there was a, "Who's bossier battle?" which was not resolved by the time I left, but that can wait for another time. With any luck at all we can wage the battle for many more years.

Saving time

I just read an article in a magazine about organizing one's life. Each month at least one of the three or four magazines I read regularly has an article dedicated to time saving. Why is that? Is there a bank, which is unknown to me, where time is stored for the future? Does one deposit seconds, minutes and hours or maybe days into an account? Will those deposits draw interest? Sign me up!

Aging has many benefits. Not the least of which is more time on your hands. The kicker is that you have fewer ways to spend it! There are no more soccer games, baseball games, carpools, bake sales, PTA, piano lessons, nor troop feedings. You can actually eat a meal in peace. Going to a grandchild's soccer game is a walk in the park since you are not the one who had to make sure the uniform was clean and the shin guards were in the bag. Now you can buy the bake sale items instead of baking them! Hooray? Not so much.

The same is true of money. Believe it or not, even though you have a little more there are fewer things that you need or want! What a bummer! Years ago I dreamed of being able to go to the grocery store, say, and buy whatever struck my fancy. Well my fancy has failed me because half the stuff I can now afford, there is no one to eat it! The grand-darlings are reaping the benefits of the aforesaid fancy, however. Ice Cream for breakfast anyone?

All young mothers should treat themselves and their families more often. Don't try to shave too much time off the everyday stuff. Instead revel in the glow of ordinary days because the sad truth is that there really is no time bank. This I know for sure!

Newspapers and coffee....mmmmm

Today my newspaper wasn't on the steps by 7 A.M., nor was it there yesterday. I tried to be understanding, so I waited until almost 8 to call the circulation department. The department was obviously closed, so I punched all the right numbers in answer to the automated questions. The newspaper arrived 30 minutes later. OK, so what happened?

My thinking is that since newspapers are becoming obsolete, newspaper carriers are also. Gone, I suppose, are the days when boys or girls could deliver newspapers on their bikes and get paid enough to save up for a car. There still must be an anonymous person who delivers the paper; I just don't see him or her. Right?

There was a time when I was way too busy with the morning ritual of getting everyone taken care of and out the door for school, that I didn't have but a minute to scan the paper while I drank a cup of coffee. I also confess that getting myself out of bed to do all the weekday tasks was difficult. Being a life-long insomniac, caused me to over-sleep many a morning! At any rate, the newspaper went unread some days and I never gave it  a thought.

Now, I can't seem to make myself stay asleep past six thirty or seven o'clock, so I look forward to the leisurely reading of the paper with my steaming mug of coffee. Here's the rub; Now that I have the time, the newspaper has been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self and reading it doesn't require much time at all. Isn't that just the way? I guess I could not renew the subscription and join the gazillions who now get all their news via the Internet, but clicking and typing isn't the same as getting your fingers all smudged-up with newsprint. Don't get me wrong; I love the Internet and my laptop, but please don't take away my newspaper!

Reading has been my salvation for many years. When I was little, my parents were frustrated with my inability to put myself to sleep. In other words, I was wound up all the time. At least that's what my mother said about me. I saw it differently. I just wasn't tired and needed to settle down before sleeping. By the time I had learned to read, weekly trips with my mother to the library were a treat. We'd check out stacks of books and I would read myself to sleep every night. By the time I was a young teenager, I was reading the newspaper every morning with my grandfather. He also introduced my to coffee, but that's another story. Books, newspapers, cereal boxes, recipes.. .. I read everything. In other words; Reading is a vital part of who I am, not just what I like to do.

So, back to the newspaper problem. Will the daily newspaper go the way of transistor radios? I for one hope not. My mornings would never be the same. Now, if I could just get the reading to burn more calories; I'd be thin.

kids/adult kids/moms

While I wasn't looking, my children became adults. Oh they still lapse into their former childish ways sometimes, but for the most part, they are grown-ups now. They work, pay taxes and talk about adult stuff.

Did I think that this would happen? No, never. It's very hard to imagine a time when you talk with adults and realize that they are your offspring, while you are doing homework, arranging carpools, making doctor and dentist visits, kissing scuffed knees, hiding "Santa" gifts, trying to make ends meet (impossible!!), cheering at baseball games (insert any one of a million sports), and just geting through each day without pulling out your hair. How many days did I do all that? The answer is; probably a gazillion. Not once did I have a minute to slow down and think about the real future. By that I mean the one I am living in now. We moms are so busy that there just isn't a minute to stop and not only smell the roses, but actually pick some for an bouquet.

When I reflect on the me of then all I see is the harried homemaker rushing to get it all done before some mysterious deadline. I am a perfectionist to the core, so many times I wasted precious time doing all the stuff that could have waited. Actually, most of the crap that I fretted over could have waited until, well, until now!

My children really didn't give a fig that I disinfested all their toys, the kitchen counters (daily), the tubs and anything else that might have gotten in the way of their sacred health. No one noticed that I pinched pennies until you could have heard them squeak all the way to Toronto. They didn't notice that I never had a hairdressing appointment, massage, manicure nor pedicure. What did they see way back then? Did they see how much I loved them? Did they feel it? I am no martyr. Being a mom was what I wanted to be and fulfilled me in every way. I hope that they saw that then and still see it now. That will never change. 'Babies" be they two or forty-two will always be their moms' babies.

Getting to know adult children is a blessing as well as a curse. Somtimes you want to stop them from making the same mistakes you made and at other times you are asking yourself when they got so smart! Where did that come from? Did they read it in a book? Did I do that? Memories are fuzzy like that. They get sassy with me when I say something that they think interferes with their judgement. I can't help myself! Making sure that they get the best out of life and make good decisions is  my job. I haven't retired, yet.

Maybe by the time I am really old (old is getting older every year), I will stop being the mom of the past. Maybe not; old habits really do die hard. In the meantime, kids, watch out! Your mother is and always will be taking care of her babies.

C the B

The old house is clean and waiting. We have spent the last two days getting her ready for the renters. All the cobwebs, dust and sand are gone. The porch has been swept and the fridge cleaned out. There remains nothing to remind them that we were here at all. All personal items are banished to the owners' closet. Sad, isn't it?

They will discover the sticking kitchen drawer and the toilet that flushes slowly. They will fill the fridge with their food and maybe it will be more exotic than ours. We left the sand toys and balls that were not used this year. I hope their kids enjoy them. The house is wating for them.

What they won't have is the history that we have. I know how the screen on the front door got broken. I know who slept where and who likes the the back bedroom most. We all know who painted the birds on the stairs. The ugly mugs in the kitchen make me laugh every summer, but no one wants to toss them out. One of the slipcovers is currently being held together with duct tape.

The owners' closet isn't locked, but I hope that the renters will respect our privacy by not opening it. My cherry mug is in there as is the new one I bought for my other half. The rest of the stuff looks like a photo album of times past. Cast off baby toys and other special things including our signature cups with the cottage number on them are in there too. That stuff as well as the ancient furniture is waiting for the family, our family,  to return. The cottage waits for another summer.

We are sitting on the porch reading the Sunday paper. We do this every week; just somehwere else. Here is where we slow down and listen to "the worms breathing", he says. The house is quiet because our guests have left. The children are not here this year and that makes both of us sad and more than a little wistful. Watching the grandchildren repeat the rituals of this place is what we miss the most. There is a hole in my heart.

It's been a strange time without our family around us; not a ritual I'd like to repeat. This place, our summer home, is lonely without them. No amount of beauty can replace the beauty of family. I can honestly say that I miss even the sand and melted ice cream! The mess of the family stuff is not something we ever anticipate missing, but there it is. Families are messy. Feelings get hurt, wet towels get left all over the place and ice pops melt into puddles on the porch, but we are together and that, my friends is messy.

Today I am going down to the beach. I may need a sweater because here in this place, the sun has come but not yet the warmth. I will gather some stones for my garden at that other place we call home. They will remind me of the time we spent here this summer. I will scatter the stones like we are scattered this year.

Gathering stones from the water is messy business, but not as messy as families can be. I miss the messy family and my heart is a stone in my chest.

Little boys

He smells a little like rusty nails and soap. Today he dressed in his Batman pjs, strapped on the new pistol (a Yankee one! more on that later), and donned his cape. He looked for tall the world like a confused soldier caught between being the caped crusader and Wyatt Earp!
After my trip to Wallyworld, he is now the proud owner of a "supersoaker". The water gun with the large tank is much better than the smaller version purchased two days ago, which needed refilling every 2 minutes. We do tend to underestimate the power of a 5-year old!
Now for the pistol story. We made a trip to Old Salem yesterday for a walk through the restored village and to see the Guinnea hens roaming the streets. Nevermind that it was hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell! The hens must have agreed because they were no where to be seen. Undaunted, we moved onto the water pump which used to be the highlight of all trips to the village. The pump was dry! So it was on to the shop which I told him had the kinds of toys that little boys played with 200 hundred years ago before WII and video games. Did he want the pop gun or the wodden wagon? No sir, he spotted the Civil War pistols with holsters. Great, I thought. What a great time to celebrate Southern pride. Buying him a "Johnny Reb" gun with the "CS" on the belt would do it! Did he want that one, no. He chose the "Yankee" version with "US" on the holster! What was that about? The Rebel one was superior in my opinion and I pointed out, naming all the men he knew, that we were Rebels, not Yankees. He wasn't having it, so the Yankee one it is now in bed with him, right next to his heroes, Batman and Buzz Lightyear. Explaining the buy to his mother was another thing and to add insult to injury, the offending item is a YANKEE PISTOL!

Also in included in the Wallyworld purchases are two packs of caps for the weapon. Don't tell anyone, but I think that they were made in China.

Mother's Day--I wouldn't change a thing

This weekend we celebrated me. In a note on Facebook one of our sons posted a thank-you and some very nice words about his mother (me) and his mother-in-law. I responded with tears in my eyes that I only had one ambition; to be a good mother. I hope that he reads it and understands that I didn't mean that I never wanted to do or be anything else. Motherhood happened and there was absolutely no turning back. There was a time when I thought that my mother was the greatest mom ever, but boring. She was the "June Cleaver" of the neighborhood from her perfectly ironed apron to her comfortable "at home " shoes.  With a smear of lipstick on, she'd meet Daddy at the backdoor as he came home from work. Next, after everyone had washed our hands and faces, we sat down to a perfectly orchestrated meal including a homemade dessert. I'm not kidding! Stay with me here, we did this every single day. My angst-ridden teenage self thought that her style was boring and mundane. Check out those very grown-up words, gleaned from the latest (at the time) vocabulary list. The term "role model" was far into the future and besides, I didn't see what she did as modeling. Mother told me that one day I'd need to learn some homemaking skills, but her words fell on my deaf ears.

Fast forward to my falling in love/dating/marriage/ after the honeymoon days. Oops, I should have paid more attention. I was forced to learn all those things that that my mother had warned me about, but that is a whole other post for another time.

Despite the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and just general wifey stuff; I did sometimes work outside the home. Not a career, mind you, just a means to an end. The end in our case having a little extra "pin money". That pin money sometimes fed us or paid a bill, but we could never depend on it, so when it came, it was a bonus. Sometimes the kids demeaned my stay-at-home status. They can be excused, however, because when it came time for a mom to bake cupcakes for the bake sale, drive for the field trip, organize the book sale, or help in any capacity at their school or outside activities, I volunteered or was volunteered for the job. Somewhere along the way, mothering became my career. I wouldn't change a thing.

That career has allowed me the opportunity to see a child light-up like the scoreboard at a baseball game when he or she finally "got it" after a tutoring session. Some of the kids would never have been able to go to the zoo, for instance, without career moms doing the driving. Cupcakes have become quite trendy, I see. We career moms were on the cutting edge years ago! I have cupcake pans that are older that the pyramids (not really, but that sounded good to say). Hundreds of cupcakes passed through them into the hungry mouths of as many children and a few adults along the way. We career moms have also proctored tests for English as a second language students even we if couldn't speak their language. Most important to me is that I was there for everything my children did, whether they wanted me there or not. I'd like to think that most often they wanted me there. My husband could be called a career dad, because I swear that I can't for the life of me remember his ever wanting to be anywhere more than he wanted to be with our kids and me. His responsibilities to his job could get in the way, but he somehow managed to be there for all the important events, no matter what. I wouldn't change a thing.

The young women of today are career women. They have broken the glass ceiling and are earning big bucks and slaying dragons at work. They have ipads, iphones, Twitter, Facebok, tele-commuting, tele-conferencing and wifi at the Starbucks. It's not a bad thing, mind you, to be so connected. My daughter and daughters-in-law are working mothers. They somehow get it done and manage to post pictures of the grand-darlings on Facebook so that their tech-challenged parents can see them. I admire them. They are all good mothers. They will make mistakes too just like I did and my mother before me. I can't imagine the pressure of a job as well as a home to manage! I wouldn't change a thing.

Who is baking the cupcakes? Who is organizing the book sale? Do schools even have those anymore or can a parent just offer to buy some books to be downloaded to a student's e-reader? Are all the cupcakes bakery-made? Who helps with the tutoring? It  bothers me that the young mothers of today's world are missing some joy, but it will be up to them to figure it out. I have been there and done that to replay an adage. I wouldn't change a thing.

I never set out to be the best mother on the planet. Learning along the way and trying always to be as good a mother as I could be was my only real goal. From the moment I found out that I was carrying that first child; Being a mother was my chosen career. It is one that I am proud of and still find joy in. I pray for all mothers whether they work outside the home or not. I pray for God to give them the courage and strength to handle whatever challenges their kids face. I pray that they will have the dignity and grace to see their kids through when they fail or are rejected. I pray that they can rejoice in their kids' successes and hold their hands and hearts when they are sad or dejected. My mother prayed these things for me, I know that in my heart. I was a good mother, I know that too. After all, I did have a good role model. I wouldn't change a thing.

Connections

We can go for months and sometimes years without seeing or speaking to each other and then one of us picks up the phone and we connect. The call feels like sitting together over a glass of sweet tea or a glass of wine just being together before miles separated us. The kids are older and have kids of their own in my case. She is just growing into the mother-in-law role. My husband is newly an at-home guy. Hers has been working successfully from home for years. Their reasons for being at home differ, but as we talk, I realize our concerns are the same. We talked of common things and the not so common. We talked so long that her phone battery suffered a silent death. I've been accused of having mouth the "Ever-ready Bunny" would envy, so I was happy that it was _her_ phone and not mine.

I have not always been the friend to her that I should have been. There was a time that I know now when I could and should have reached out more when I suspected that she was suffering. Letting it go and preferring to not get too involved is the mistake I apologized for making. She understood, especially now that I am the one who needs the comfort. At least she won't have to ever apologize to me for the same sin. Sometimes life gets in the way of doing the right thing. I hope to never let that happen again. Being kind to each other and standing up for one another is what friends should do, but we don't always do it. My good old sense of southern sensibility got in the way. My mother would be proud and ashamed of me at the same time. That is surely a concept that most of the rest of the world wouldn't understand, but in the south we do understand.

Friends are important. We pick them much like flowers because we like them. Sometimes they smell good and reward us with their beauty. We gather bouquets around us and enjoy them. Like flowers; friendship blooms. Our call and the connection is the rose in my bouquet.

Proud to be an American

We spent the night in a nameless ordinary hotel. Sometimes the ordinary is followed by the extraordinary and we are surprised and delighted. This was the case yesterday.

I'd never been to a citizenship ceremony before so I had really no idea what to expect. Our beautiful Luana had studied, made flash cards (besting her friends at American facts), and taken her citizenship test. now the moment had arrived for her to take the oath; to swear her allegiance to the USA. Was she nervous? Did she feel like a traitor to her home? How did her family feel? I was abuzz with the questions and she calmly stated that all was well on all counts. This was right for her and for her budding family. We felt the excitement.

I had shopped for all things American, not easy to find in the middle of February. The local party store offer up sequined tiaras, flags, bandannas, Uncle Sam hats, leis (red, white and blue of course) stars and stripes sunglasses and flag wrapped mints. I bought some of everything! She was delighted, donned the tiara, waved the flags and posed in the parking lot of the USIC building for a pre-ceremony picture.

We moved inside with a sea of what looked like a cross section of the world. Women in flowing Arab garb, dark exotic-looking turbaned men, Asian people of all colors, small laughing children and the rest of us moved through security into a holding room. Everyone had papers to present and a few last minute details to take care of and then they, the almost citizens, were ushered into the ceremony room.

We followed and were seated in a room wrapped in red, white and blue bunting with our flag proudly displayed above every thing else. My throat caught as I looked at our grand-darling quietly taking it all in. She is the perfect mingling of the genes, of course, I am biased. She won't remember the day her mother became a citizen of this great country but we who were there will weave into our family lore like a colorful comforting quilt. Each home country was recognized, 45 in all. All the right things were said by the emcee and then it was oath-taking time. Our son moved into position to record the moment. His father, his brothers and I listened as they spoke their names and promised to defend the United States with all their might. Karaoke-style we sang the "Star Spangled Banner" and said the pledge of Allegiance. The real weeping moment for me was a video of American scenes with background music. I guess it was the music. Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American" does it to me every time. I don't know why, but it does. "From the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee" is the lyric that pulls at my heartstrings because we are the Hills of Tennessee. Funny. It occurred to me yesterday that my homesickness for those hills for all the years we've been North Carolina transplants, is pale in comparison to those in the room who are so far from their homeland. They, these newly minted Americans, are now our sons and daughters. They come to us from many lands and rich cultures. I wondered about all these new citizens. What were there stories? I wish I'd had the time to ask, but we raced from the room to the parking lot for more pictures and then to a celebration lunch.

That the lunch was a Mexican feast struck me as funny! Maybe it should have been hamburgers or some other American dish, but she wanted Mexican so Mexican it was. I've always joked that she is my most American child. After all, her favorite meal is the Thanksgiving meal. She claims that she dreams about the meal in November for weeks before we actually eat it! We even had it in May as a welcome dinner for her Brazilian family when they came for her wedding. There is nothing like the smell of sage, onions and roasting turkey with the a/c running!

We were not complete yesterday. A few of us were missing, but there is a cake with red, white and blue frosting in the freezer for the next time we are all together. The most important thing she said to me yesterday was to freeze the cake for the next "family" get together. Eat the cake we will. This American family knows how to celebrate.

Home

You tell me your stories and I'll tell you mine. Isn't it bizarre the way we'll strike up a conversation with a total stranger and before the coffee has a chance to chill, we've shared a slice of life?

We had just sat down to have a drink on the deck of the big ship when a burly young man joined us. You do that on a cruise. He was a roadie for a band whose groupies were ever present. He told us his stories about the endless driving, travel, long hours, no sleep and how he missed his mama and daddy. We laughed and told him our stories about our kids and their antics. We even told him about the dog (ours) who ate the bag of weed that had been left behind by a college student (also ours) and how she (the dog)was depressed but very hungry afterward. I thought that he might pop a gut laughing. That story will probably be repeated up and down the east coast forever.

That same night we sat next to a very athletic as well as attractive young couple at dinner. Married for three years both in the banking industry, I thought that they'd like our kids since they were so like them; young, attractive, athletic, hopeful, you get the picture. Two days later after several chance encounters and a few drinks with them the talk turned to children. I asked if they wanted to have kids. The young woman looked wistful and said that, yes, they would and in fact had had a son who'd lived for just two short days. He was born too soon and didn't survive. She went on to say that it had been a year that week and she'd been given the go-ahead to try again. That was the impetus for the cruise; to try again, but not to forget the first. She had done a little sun-bathing that day to build up her vitamin D . Behind the wistfulness in her eyes was a faint whisper of hope. I promised to pray for them by name. Explaining that the way I pray is not for the outcome, but rather for the good to come from the journey and the strength to handle what might come next. I pray for grace, peace, health and happiness.

While Gene slept one morning, I ventured alone to the dinning room for breakfast. Feeling very alone, I wished I'd brought my book to hide behind. I shouldn't have feared being alone, however, because I was whisked upon my arrival to a table of older ladies laughing and talking like old friends. I apologized for crashing their party, but was quickly informed that they weren't old friends at all ! Seated next to a sweet-faced lady, I ordered a hearty breakfast and begin to chat with everyone. The lady next to me was a Hospice nurse, I discovered. She was widowed, having nursed her own husband through pancreatic cancer. After his death, she sold the house and moved to the warmer south. Her two sons visit often and she had grandchildren she loved dearly. Again, I noticed something, but couldn't quite place just what. We talked education, politics and the getting older factor. As we stood to leave, she confessed that she hadn't told the whole story about her children. There had been a daughter, gone now nine years. No, she affirmed, you don't ever get over "it"; you just go on and embrace the new normal. "It" happened when the girl was just 18 and full of college dreams. The night before the move to her new campus home the girl and a friend were busy driving around town saying good-bye to their high school friends. Her mother asked her to stay home and get her things in order and the girl promised to do so, but oh just one more good-bye, please. Mom relented and never saw her girl alive again. A car accident; the girl never knew what hit her. The friend lives on in a semi-vegetated state/limbo world in a facility in town. My sweet-faced new friend smiled and bid me a good morning and moved on to find her companions. We didn't meet again, but her story touched me because back home a dear friend of ours is this week in a courtroom facing the monster who killed her child after his afternoon of golfing and drinking. My heart hurts for them. My prayers are for them; peace and grace.

There were other stories heard as well as told last week. Many of them have already faded in my memory, but those two stories of lost hope clutched my heart. I wanted to swim as fast as I could to the solid ground where my children and grandchildren were breathing, laughing and just being. I wanted to hold them, smell their sweet scent, and tell them again and again how much I love them.

I expect never to cross paths with anyone I met last week. The world is a big place and even though we shared a small space in time, the space opened and we spilled over the land and moved on to our home place. I will pray for all of them.

Tonight I did touch, smell and love at least three of our kids and three of our grand-darlings. We handed out the gifts and shared a meal. We Skyped with the one lives far away with the other two grand-darlings. For a slice of time all of them filled our home again with their laughter. My heart filled and my prayers were answered. They are safe and happy.

Tell me your stories and I'll tell you mine. My heart is open and waiting.

Once again, I've been disappointed and hurt. Why do some people want to hate and continue to wound those who once loved and supported them? I may be able to answer the question, but even I don't like the answer. They are crazy. not just crazy in the usual way, but crazy in the mental-needs long- term therapy kind. Hate will eat you alive. Mental illness will do the same thing, but with mental illness you are so crazy that you don't see the pacman eating away at you. I'm not the crazy one here; just an observation after experiencing first-hand the craziness of a once close friend.

Letting go has made me stronger. Burying the friendship has been cathartic. Stepping back from the friendship has given me a new perspective. I see more clearly.

I now no longer care. Sad but true.