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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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Yes, we had a wonderful time. Sorry I can't get more excited about it at the moment. My jaded nature has the upper hand tonight. I'm tired, and we both caught some bug John had and brought it home with us.  Yes, the baby was an amazing little soul, so different from my babies and their babies. He has such black hair, and even the backs of his ears are hairy. Now I don't want to offend anyone, but, as a species, three-week old babies aren't all that much fun. They nurse, and they sleep. Some of them cry. Mine did. This one doesn't get much chance to. His parents don't know a lot about babies, and "the book says" they should eat every two hours or so, play a little and then sleep. The parents are distressed that it doesn't work quite that way. They're used to a life they have control over. Well, ha! Ordinarily, the sight of palm trees thrills me, and the tall oak trees with the Spanish moss. I guess they still affected me that way, but I was inside most of the time. I petted the dogs, who are feeling left out; and I did some laundry, and some grocery shopping, and read a couple of books. Bill played games with his son John on the Play Station 3, and helped with some plumbing and wiring and other manly chores. I baked Elizabeth a birthday cake, and we went shopping and out to eat many times. It was lovely to be with them, and I wish we could see them more often, but Florida is clear across the country from us. We got up at 3:30 a.m. to get to the plane, and arrived in Jacksonville three airports later in time for bed. Coming home, we opened our front door at 10 p.m., which is 1 a.m. Florida time; even though I got a good 9 hours of sleep, I'm pooped. I'm tired of traveling, tired of shopping, tired of eating out, tired of spending money. Just plain (plane?) tired. Tired of being in somebody else's world. If I could have done anything I wanted today, I don't know what it would have been. That isn't a happy feeling. I didn't have time to really dig into anything and see it completed, no sense of satisfaction at getting the suitcases emptied and back downstairs, or the laundry done and put away. It was a foggy day, and after reading a good poem in the blog of a friend, I began to try to think of some words to describe how I felt as I drove toward town to go to work. "The day was stuffed with fog and mush, and I, undone by things undone, was captive in a paper bag of gloom." I didn't get any farther with it, but by then I was having a good time. In the thick fog, I noticed one of the nurseries along the highway, looking drab in its midwinter, not-in-season way, all boards and pipes and muddy ruts. And then I saw the palettes of primroses, cheerfully alive; and I remembered, from somewhere, that God is in the Now. |
| Maybe 'busies' isn't a word after all. You'd know what I meant if I said it, but it looks funny, doesn't it? Today is the day to finish mending, ironing and get packed for our 6 a.m. flight to Florida to meet the new grandson! Whoopee! It's also the day to take Seamus to the kennel, and I've just come from there and am rewarding myself with some time to blog. It's better for me than the whole package of double stuffed mint Oreos that I still have in the car, unopened, with the other treats left over from the grief group. Oops, wish I hadn't brought those up.... H-hm. I will proceed. Another of today's tasks is to clean out the fridge, and so when I came home from work I heated up the one remaining mug of turkey lentil soup. It was tasty. I thought a fruit roll would complement it, the orange one. They're fun, a little stiff at first, but if you work them with your tongue into an object like a rolled up lizard's tongue, they get soft and pliable. Hm...this one seems to have something hard and sharp in it...yikes, it's my tooth! At first I couldn't tell where the enamel crown came from, and the terrible thought occurred to me that it might have been someone else's stuck in the fruit stick! I guess that made the shock of it being my own more, uh, palatable. So, I called the dentist, who could fit me in if I came back to town very quickly. It was fast and painless, thank goodness. Then home to take Seamus for a walk, the last treat before the trip to the kennel. We went through the orchard at a leisurely pace, which was even slower than I needed to go, but then I don't need to stop and sniff. He hadn't been there in awhile, due to all the bad weather we've had, and his friends had left lots of pee-mail for him to check and reply to. Thanks to my clever suitcase trick, piling the old-fashioned suitcases at the back bumper for him to use to climb up into the way-back, we made it to the kennel before closing hours at 4PM, after which there's an extra fee, of course. Did I tell you they've dug a swimming pool for dogs? It will be open by summer. It's about fifteen feet long. Seamus won't care, but some dogs will love it! The kennel owner said Seamus never sleeps on his bed, always lies on the hard cement instead. That makes me sad. I went to look at his kennel, thinking that he was okay when we were there last time. I didn't expect him to be a kindergartner about it, but he did bark his croaky little bark when I left. So now I feel very bad. The kennel he's in has two parts, one with a bed and food and water dishes. The bed has what looks like a cover on it, pulled down like you'd find on a cruise ship at bedtime, and there's a doggy treat lying there. It looked very cute. Seamus had ignored the whole setup and had gone through the little doggie door into the outdoor part, about 4x6'. The dogs can see each other there. Maybe that's the attraction. He came back in to see me though, and then barked when I left.  Okay, now I'll go iron and stuff. Thanks for a little break. |
| Resolutions are intentions people have, maybe even ideas that attract them; but to put them into practice, they make a resolution about them. It is a step toward actualization, but not always. Often the making of a resolution is the only step that happens. It's as if the resolve was the goal, rather than pointing toward the goal. Nothing will truly be resolved if it is not thought of in some way, but not necessarily first. It's possible to meander into some art, some task, some activity that one recognizes, midstream, as being worthwhile and will ultimately finish it. The word resolve makes me think of a chord. An unresolved chord sounds so strange, like the fall of the first shoe without the other, or a taste without a swallow. The making of a traditional resolution ought to feel the same way, like a drum major lifting his left knee high and then, instead of beginning the ...I have no idea what happened to the rest of my page. No wonder it confused everybody. It was a timed writing, but it did have an ending. The topic was from a prompt from http://www.cafewriting.com/2008/01/01/january-project/ |
| Maybe it's my imagination, but when the space shuttle is on a mission, I seem to have a much better weekend. Bill sits at the computer going over the checkbooks, or anything else he can find that looks like work, while he watches the crew's every waking move. That gives me time to get some things done too. This afternoon we flew to the Tri-Cities. It was the first flying day in over a month, for me at least. Cloudy, but not too windy, and in the 50's-- which makes it warm enough not to get really cold in the altitude. Sure, the heater works, but I always get cold. Bill has a friend, a contractor that does the over-pressurization for the buildings in his emergency management sector, who wants to learn to fly. When we landed, I went in the little airport to see if they had a loaner car, and they did. So, while the fellows went flying, I went to a big Barnes & Noble! What fun! I haven't been in one, or any big bookstore, in a long, long time. Candy stores are nothing compared to book stores, as most of you know. I'm a frugal person, and I usually get books from the library or the used book store. I have been limiting my book buying in recent years, knowing how easy it is to buy things I'm sure I'll want to read, and then not. Today I was only shopping for pleasure, for vacation reading. Bought a new Maeve Binchey book, Whitethorn Woods and three unknown ones that were on a 3-for-the-price-of-2 table. I'm a sucker for bargains. I read an article in the New Yorker a month or so ago about the serious decline of reading in this country. The studies it cited have changed their questions frequently in the past fifty years to accommodate the trend. They used to ask how many books a person had read in the past month. They now ask if a person has read a book, magazine or article in the past year. (I may not have remembered that quite right, but it was that alarming, I promise.) It was a depressing statistic, but it does give some insight into what society is becoming. The atmosphere at the bookstore was encouraging, exciting, downright heady. The place was jammed. Ten people stood in line at each register. There were several teens in costume, representing the local high school drama departments. When it was my turn to pay, the cashier asked if I was buying to support the drama departments, and, of course, I said yes. What a great idea! I was wishing I'd found some good book for Bill, since he went to the trouble of ordering me that pilot bear for my Valentine's present, so I looked some more even after I'd made my purchase. Even went to the information counter and asked the man if he knew of any paperbacks with airplanes on the cover. Of course he looked at me like I was crazy. But if it has an airplane on the cover, I know Bill will like it. I suggested several authors that fit that description, but he was at a loss. He said he "couldn't tell a book by its cover." haha Yes, the bear really was for me, not to give to Zack. I was afraid so. And, although I tried my best to sound positive, I didn't respond with the appropriate, "I love him!" So last night he came home with a wrapped package and said he certainly hoped I'd like it. Talk about feeling guilty.... Then it turned out to be a board with cheese cutter on it, which he told me a while back he'd ordered for himself! I had ruined his old one by putting it in the dishwasher, not a smart thing to do, but it looked so, so...in need. I took a few more pictures from the air on the way home, although the light wasn't very good for photography. I posted some under my own name on weatherunderground yesterday, and wanted to try some more while I still remember how. It takes me a few times to really get all the steps down, and then I need to practice from time to time. He's now content to listen to the shuttle activity again, and I can go work on my pictures. Oh, while I was looking a second time for a book for him, I ran across two more books I wanted, but decided I didn't have time to stand in line again for them. One was about iPhoto, and the other was a book about writing with & Strunk in the title. I've looked on the site and can't find it, may have to call tomorrow and ask a clerk to go look on the table for the one with the yellow cover, a clerk who can tell a book by its cover! P.S. The other books are: A Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell, Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan, and Digging in America by Anne Tyler. |
| I was looking for a birthday card to send my twin grandchildren, and one for their dad whose birthday was yesterday. Found this on-line, but wouldn't dare send it to anyone I love. I thought it was a scream. http://www.care2.com/send/card/6072 |
| I'm unexpectedly alone this evening and have enjoyed sitting here reading instead of doing any of the things I need/expected to do. My email box has gotten very full, and I decided to start at the back and eliminate some old ones. Wow, there are some gems there! There were two reviews of a lousy story I wrote before I started on this site, and they were wonderful. Both were longer than the story and filled with well-written, sound suggestions about plot, character development, etc. I don't remember being intimidated by them at all back then, but now I am a little. I haven't done very much fiction writing in the past year, so all that information was as valuable as ever. But darn, how will I ever find time to use it? Earlier in the week, and last week too, I was excited by trying new things. Not like I've mastered any of them yet, and already I'm complaining to myself that I'm not focused enough. Isn't that crazy? You can't expand and focus at the same time, can you? Well, I think I prefer to let my little clam feet feel around in the wet sand of variety at the moment, and then pick something to focus on before summer. Gotta go focus on laundry right now though.  P.S. One of those very helpful, now printed out for safe keeping, reviews was from Anyea. Yea! |
| Was it only yesterday that I was exhausted from the kids’ grief group and then had to go to the pancake supper? How come I’m so tired again already? Coming into the house in time to hear a call from the hospital billing office for a bill I paid in full three weeks ago didn’t help either. Neither did the package for me on the doorstep. Bill is such a sweetheart, but wouldn’t you think he’d know by now that I’m having a hard time getting rid of stuff, stuff, stuff, and not buy me a custom made multi-buck teddy bear of all things! Can you see the smoke coming out of my ears? Maybe he won’t mind if I give it to Zachary. I hope. Last night’s group: what a madhouse! I am so delighted to get out of the next two meetings by going to Florida to see Zach. The man who is officially leading the group is our newest social worker, who came to us from an agency that deals with children. He has a great reputation for working with kids. He’s funny, and they love him. When I told him I’d be gone for two sessions, he said that was too bad, but that he could get the other social worker, or even do it by himself. He has lead the group sort of as if he was by himself as it is. I have been impressed with his personality, but not with his skill at helping kids with their grief. We offer grief groups three times a year, and I’ve never figured out how they get planned or who does it. I suspect it’s the senior social worker. She has wanted to start offering a group for children for a long time, and we have talked some about it together, the chaplains and social workers. I have never had much enthusiasm for the project. One of the local hospitals offers a similar group, and that seems to me to be enough. I did voice that opinion. Someone made the decision that this would be the time to do it, and that New Guy would lead and I would help. As I look back on the process, I see that we did not make any of those decisions together, not for the curriculum, the time slot, the age of the kids, the crafts, nothing. Maybe they left it all up to him since he was the “expert.” I didn’t think much about it until now. One of the things that I just realized is this guy is a ‘P’, a process-oriented person rather than one who works toward specific goals. Time and organization are not his thing. I too am a ‘P.’ They aren’t my best subjects either, but I know that if we have to take down tables to set the room up, and if we want to have snacks ready for them since they’re just out of school, I have to be there early enough to get it all done. By myself, evidently. Okay, I can do that. I can shop for the snacks and craft stuff, get it organized and get it to the meeting place. But I need to be doing some of the leading of the group too, because he’s missing important things. He’s being agenda-driven, with a not well thought out agenda, and not hearing the things the kids say that need following up. This week I talked more than usual, asking questions that weren’t specifically about the book or movie they were being shown. The kids simply weren’t paying attention to the stories and movies he’s presented them. The material didn’t seem age appropriate and wasn’t geared to their specific needs. We did not know enough about these kids and what their needs are. They were not screened in any way. We didn’t know, for instance, until yesterday when I asked, that two of the kids were not “invited” to their dads’ funerals. One boy said his mother told him it would be too scary for him. It took us a month to find that out, just because we hadn’t asked before. I guess I got that rant out in the air, and now have to go get supper ready in time to get to 7 P.M. church. Ash Wednesday, you know. As I cook, I’ll think about what I want to do with my rant, how to organize it and write it out so that it will look like helpful suggestions for how we could have done better, rather than plain criticism. |
| Here are some pictures I took yesterday that you might enjoy. After the game was over Sunday, Bill was grumpy because he had wanted me to be watching the Super Bowl with him, and I had been trying to get some pictures into my blog. (I have heard this particular whine before. "I want you to be doing things with me" means "I want you to be doing what I'm doing.") I told him if he wanted to share, next time he should try sharing what I'm doing for a change! So last night I invited him to help me put my pictures up on You can guess how that went. He throughly enjoyed himself, but they're all under his name because he was the one logged in! (BeechSportBill) He didn't help. He did it himself while I watched.  Sigh. Anyway, it was fun, and I'll do it myself next time.The picture of him, by the way, is, thankfully, a few days old. He was growing the hair for his part in H.M.S. Pinafore, but if that's going to happen it won't be till April; so I convinced him to shave it off. Funny picture though. http://www.weatherunderground.com/wximage/viewsingleimage.html?mode=singleimage&... |
| I love being able to push a button on the base for the wireless phone and, hearing the beep in the distance, and track it down. Better yet, I’d like to summon it and have it reappear. “Come home, phone. Come home.” Before settling down here to write, I rounded up the phone and brought it with me to the living room. As soon as I was poised over a new blank page of Word, the weather station began beeping. It has programmed into its little brain to alert us if the temperature outside begins to drop near freezing. A simple, “Okay, I hear you,” won’t do. It has to have its buttons pushed, and even then it may again begin to chirp as the next increment of weather is reached. Back at my blank page, I heard the song of a cell phone, not one of mine. Okay, Bill got it. Oops, he tripped on the scale, not falling down but jiggling its inner voice. “Please wait,” she says, in a slightly Asian accent, whenever one approaches her with a clumsy foot or an intentional big toe. “Please, get on the scale,” she says in ten seconds. Fifteen more, and she tells you the sad, or happy, news. A talking scale isn’t all that bad, unless there are other ears you don’t want to hear. Somehow it makes the odious task kind of fun—hard to believe, I know. Her sweet voice never nags. She is factual, and accurate to the tenth of a pound. No more weaving back and forth watching the needle vacillate between half a pound lighter and two pounds heavier, squinting to read the dial. I saw a scale in a store today that keeps track of your diet progress. I was on a mission, so I didn’t stop to examine it to see if it has a voice. Can’t you just hear it? “Oh-oh, up another pound.” “Congratulations, you are one pound nearer your goal!” Maybe, when you actually reach that magic number, a little hand will reach up and high five you. If so, I hope it has good aim. P.S. Thanks to all of you who stopped by at http://oldcactuswren.blogspot.com/ A blue dot shows up on the map at each of your locations the following day. I like the way it looks. If anybody knows a way to put one in our blogs here, I'd like to find out how. |
| I met two new patients last week, both lovely ladies in their 70's. The first told me of her two years in the Army, when she met a wonderful man, married, and had three children. She never worked outside the home, but she worked hard to support young people's athletics. She and a friend built a snack bar to sell food at the ball games, and eventually added a grill, where she cooked onions and burgers that were greatly enjoyed. Some folks paid admission to the game just to get the delicious fare. One the highlights of her life, in retrospect, was selling burgers to a future Mariner player, John Olerud. She related a story of a rush family trip to Astoria because her husband had heard that his old Navy ship was in port. They walked around in the cold rain forever, she said, while he searched with his binoculars up and down the coast for his old ship. She told this story with a disgusted voice, and it was clear that she thought the whole mission was a little silly. "Why is it that men so often think back on their years in the military as the best years of their lives?" she asked. The next lady was less vocal, but it was clear from the beginning that she had an axe to grind. I have no idea how the subject came up, but she said she'd never been on a vacation to any place she ever wanted to go. The only place her husband ever chose to go had to do with where he'd been stationed in the Army, or some great place to play golf. She did not play. (Darn, I just missed Sunday blue by one minute!) We flew to California last summer, partly because it was a good distance to fly in our little plane for a short trip, but more because Bill had been in the Olympic Arena at Vandenberg AFB several years in a row. We stayed in Santa Maria and Oxnard, and we drove all over the area that he'd enjoyed a long time ago. We've also been to the missile museum south of Tucson, not because he was stationed there, but because he wanted to go down into a missile silo again and show it to me. When I asked the lady with the terrible vacation history to tell me about a time or place in her life that was a fond memory for her, she couldn't think of one. That is not uncommon, and it's sad. What makes military service, even war time, so memorable, in good ways? And, do military women experience it that way too? I can think of many possible answers, but I'm curious about what the real ones are. |
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