My niece Nicole tagged my blog yesterday. It’s a very clever idea to bring readership to one’s blog. I’m happy to oblige and return the favor. I already have my favorite blogs listed at the bottom of this page. You can link to them anytime from there. One of them is Nicole’s. Nicole is a fabulous artist! She is infused with talent that I have watched blossom from early childhood. As I use my writing to express myself in ways mere spoken words escape me, Nicole expresses herself through her art. Check out her studio, and don’t be afraid to ask for requests. Her talent is boundless!
Now for the game: Here are the rules:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Now for the seven random facts about myself:
1. Like Nicole, I love lilacs. I came to love them for the same reason too! They grew into a VERY tall bush below the bedroom window. There was nothing sweeter to me growing up, than the scent of lilacs floating in on the morning breeze.
2. I played bass clarinet in the high school band. I still love music, but don’t really play anymore. Other activities occupy my time.
3. My husband and I were engaged after knowing each other for one month. We have been married 31 years.
4. Yes, my hair is my own. Up until recently I had never even put a dab of dye into it…ever. I have been accused by people many times over the years of not sharing my color number, or divulging who permed my hair. Ladies, get over it. I have great hair and it’s mine! Only recently do I touch up the grays.
5. Since we’re on the subject of personal features, I’ve never had my teeth straightened either. God in his mercy, gave me good hair and straight teeth to make up for my other physical flaws. Get over that too.
6.About five years ago, while inspecting the new tattoo of one daughter, and exclaiming “what are you doing with my butterfly tattoo!” another daughter, with a deadpan expression, looked me square in the eye and replied “what’s stopping you Mom?” “What indeed?” I thought. That was that, I now have my very own beautiful butterfly fluttering across my shoulder.
7. I don’t believe learning ends when you leave school. I purposely place myself in circumstances were I have to learn new things. My interests are boundless. Exercising my mind is as important to me as exercising my body.
Tim Somero’s Blog
Tim and I used to work together for the same company. He is a technical writer by trade. He is also just a great writer, period. I really enjoyed his blog while he was in Brooklyn NY for the summer. Great stuff!
Thoughts from a Giant Brain
I consider Bob my dear friend. He has a great technical mind. He just started his blog and needs more inspiration to write. Check out his blog, leave him comments and spur him on.
Leigh’s Year – A Second Chance
Leigh is a member of the Monadnock Writers' Group and one of the board members. Leigh writes poetry. I enjoy her entries and her perspective on life, expressed in her poems. I have a new appreciation for poetry these days.
New Hampshire Photo Tour
Both Tim Somero and Tracy Lee Carroll have fabulous photos here. There are links to blog entries as well. Tim not only is a great writer, he's fantastic with the shutter too. Check both Tim and Tracy's photos and their comments here.
I’m counting the photo blogs of Tim and Tracy as two, so by my count that is five. If I remember two others, I will come back and edit this post.
Enjoy!
Friday, March 28, 2008
Freeing Jade
With March coming to a end, I am dismayed at how much snow still blankets the yard, with ice an inch thick still in the driveway. Other’s, who may live with more southern exposure, are watching the first spring flowers poking their tender shoots above the ground. While they are watching the flowers grow, I am standing in the open doorway of my shed, speaking encouragement to Jade.
It’s been a long cold winter. Never has this much time passed between rides for Jade and me. I am restless. Jade needs a check-up. I need a serious fix of wind therapy. I turn my back on Jade to look at our circumstances. The sun hangs in the sky, dappling through the naked branches. Higher still than the day before, yet not strong enough to melt this ice prison which holds us hostage.
One day, pulling into the yard after work, I notice the bare spots in the drive. The area where I usually park is free of ice. But what is this? Where I parked yesterday is bare as well. So the experiment begins. Each day, I park incrementally closer to the street. The heat of the engine working it’s magic on the ice beneath. At the end of the week, there is a bare patch, appropriately motorcycle size, stretching ever closer to freedom.
Pulling in to the drive yesterday, I am startled to see that all but a 5 foot patch of ice at the end of the drive remains. I bang through the door with excitement and ask my husband if he’s noticed the drastic change in the driveway from this morning. He stands there with a smug look on his face. It seems my dear husband has been busy on my behalf! Noticing that the ice was looking vulnerable under the spring sun, he took his vehicle and “patched out” a few times over the softest areas. It broke apart nicely and the sun did the rest.
I sit in good humor at my desk all the next day, thinking the weekend will find Jade and me enjoying our freedom once again. Toward the end of the day, a weather alert pops up on my computer screen. “Weather Advisory! 4 to 8 inches of snow.” My heart sinks. Life can be so cruel.
Today, my last vacation day of my company’s fiscal year, I sit home, and watch the flakes fall from the sky. The plan to free Jade from her cell has experienced a serious setback. This was to be our “spring ride day”, but Mother Nature is more powerful than my determination. I will bow in homage to her superiority. Maybe, if she has a compassionate heart, I will be rewarded with many excellent riding days in the season ahead.
It’s been a long cold winter. Never has this much time passed between rides for Jade and me. I am restless. Jade needs a check-up. I need a serious fix of wind therapy. I turn my back on Jade to look at our circumstances. The sun hangs in the sky, dappling through the naked branches. Higher still than the day before, yet not strong enough to melt this ice prison which holds us hostage.
One day, pulling into the yard after work, I notice the bare spots in the drive. The area where I usually park is free of ice. But what is this? Where I parked yesterday is bare as well. So the experiment begins. Each day, I park incrementally closer to the street. The heat of the engine working it’s magic on the ice beneath. At the end of the week, there is a bare patch, appropriately motorcycle size, stretching ever closer to freedom.
Pulling in to the drive yesterday, I am startled to see that all but a 5 foot patch of ice at the end of the drive remains. I bang through the door with excitement and ask my husband if he’s noticed the drastic change in the driveway from this morning. He stands there with a smug look on his face. It seems my dear husband has been busy on my behalf! Noticing that the ice was looking vulnerable under the spring sun, he took his vehicle and “patched out” a few times over the softest areas. It broke apart nicely and the sun did the rest.
I sit in good humor at my desk all the next day, thinking the weekend will find Jade and me enjoying our freedom once again. Toward the end of the day, a weather alert pops up on my computer screen. “Weather Advisory! 4 to 8 inches of snow.” My heart sinks. Life can be so cruel.
Today, my last vacation day of my company’s fiscal year, I sit home, and watch the flakes fall from the sky. The plan to free Jade from her cell has experienced a serious setback. This was to be our “spring ride day”, but Mother Nature is more powerful than my determination. I will bow in homage to her superiority. Maybe, if she has a compassionate heart, I will be rewarded with many excellent riding days in the season ahead.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Unsolved Mysteries: Part II
When I recounted the story of the statue and my two-year-old to my mother, her response was not what I expected. “Don’t discount such things as childhood fantasies,” she said. “Many of the stories I have read, of the lives of saints, have had such experiences in their childhood.” Now, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t believe we were thinking my child was destined for sainthood, only that there are far more things in this world than we know that can’t be easily explained away. The “stories of saints” was used as an example. My mother was a great believer in the purity of a child’s soul.
From that day, I made it a point to listen, without comment, and with a nod of the head only, to any strange stories my young daughter had to tell. I began to believe, as she grew, she became aware that others did not have such experiences. In the story of Big Blue, (earlier in this blog) I suspect that at times, she found whispering her secrets under those floppy ears was a far safer thing to do. As she grew into a teenager, I feel she tried to suppress such sensitivities and deny they were a part of her.
Then came the day my daughter fell ill. “I think she has strep throat”, I said to my husband. Before I could bring her to the doctor, I had an urgent call from my family. My mother was dying, I should come right away. My husband was left to bring my daughter to the doctor. From the hospital, I called to check on her. “It’s not strep,” I’m informed. “They don’t know what it is. The doctor says it looks like boils all up and down her throat.” My daughter, now in bed with fever, lay listless, with blisters the size of quarters up and down the esophagus. My husband sat by to monitor our daughter, as my siblings and I sat by mother’s bed.
We sat that first day, watching, praying and listening to the rattle in my mother’s chest as the day wore on. Late that evening, I traveled home for a few hours rest, and to check on my daughter. As I entered her room, my flesh began to creep and crawl along my spine. There in the darkness, came the same rattle I had listened to all that day at my mother’s bedside. I laid my hand upon her forehead, smoothed her hair, and left her in my husband’s care, to return to my mother.
All the next day, we sat with mother, and at nine o’clock that night, she was set free of her earthy misery. For the next hour we sat together as a family to say our final goodbyes to her. I then called home.
“Hello” I said to my husband. “I’m glad you called,” he replied. “I want you to know that she is better.” He continued. “An hour ago, she suddenly rose from her bed, proclaimed she felt better, and had a bowl of soup.” I was silent for a long period. “Are you there?” he questioned. “Yes,” I said. “Did you say an hour ago?” I asked. “Yes, nine o’clock,” he replied. “That is very odd,” I tell him. “It was at nine o’clock, that mother passed away.”
To this day, I am unsure of who was helping whom. Was it mother, lifting the pain from my daughter, or my daughter lifting the pain from her grandmother? Whichever it may be, I feel that the incident is related to my daughter’s “sensitivities” and in honor of my mother, will not dismiss it outright as coincidence.
From that day, I made it a point to listen, without comment, and with a nod of the head only, to any strange stories my young daughter had to tell. I began to believe, as she grew, she became aware that others did not have such experiences. In the story of Big Blue, (earlier in this blog) I suspect that at times, she found whispering her secrets under those floppy ears was a far safer thing to do. As she grew into a teenager, I feel she tried to suppress such sensitivities and deny they were a part of her.
Then came the day my daughter fell ill. “I think she has strep throat”, I said to my husband. Before I could bring her to the doctor, I had an urgent call from my family. My mother was dying, I should come right away. My husband was left to bring my daughter to the doctor. From the hospital, I called to check on her. “It’s not strep,” I’m informed. “They don’t know what it is. The doctor says it looks like boils all up and down her throat.” My daughter, now in bed with fever, lay listless, with blisters the size of quarters up and down the esophagus. My husband sat by to monitor our daughter, as my siblings and I sat by mother’s bed.
We sat that first day, watching, praying and listening to the rattle in my mother’s chest as the day wore on. Late that evening, I traveled home for a few hours rest, and to check on my daughter. As I entered her room, my flesh began to creep and crawl along my spine. There in the darkness, came the same rattle I had listened to all that day at my mother’s bedside. I laid my hand upon her forehead, smoothed her hair, and left her in my husband’s care, to return to my mother.
All the next day, we sat with mother, and at nine o’clock that night, she was set free of her earthy misery. For the next hour we sat together as a family to say our final goodbyes to her. I then called home.
“Hello” I said to my husband. “I’m glad you called,” he replied. “I want you to know that she is better.” He continued. “An hour ago, she suddenly rose from her bed, proclaimed she felt better, and had a bowl of soup.” I was silent for a long period. “Are you there?” he questioned. “Yes,” I said. “Did you say an hour ago?” I asked. “Yes, nine o’clock,” he replied. “That is very odd,” I tell him. “It was at nine o’clock, that mother passed away.”
To this day, I am unsure of who was helping whom. Was it mother, lifting the pain from my daughter, or my daughter lifting the pain from her grandmother? Whichever it may be, I feel that the incident is related to my daughter’s “sensitivities” and in honor of my mother, will not dismiss it outright as coincidence.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Six Degrees of Separation, The Law of Averages and Anonymity
I read with interest recently a post by Steve Jackson, an author, who is doing an experiment on the Six Degrees of Separation as research for a book he is currently writing. The experiment was done through Face Book, a popular social website that connects people together. Steve does not profess to be a scientist but his results were fascinating for me to read. I am finding out for myself, how our connections to others in the world are closer than we imagine just as Steve discovered through his experiment.
My husband and I are invited to join another couple on a motorcycle vacation. The plan is for three couples to enjoy some great riding in Colorado and Utah. Our friends have recently made a new acquaintance. Since the new friend shares a love for motorcycling as well, the vacation plan was hatched. I am pleased to be invited. The name of the new friend is unfamiliar to me. He and his girlfriend, we are told, are anxious to meet us and plan the summer trip to the West. After a few weeks, I learned that the girlfriend and I used to work together for the same company.
I met my friend while working in a development lab. It could be argued that since my friend works in technology, as does his new acquaintance, that the odds we may know each other would be higher in the law of averages. It can also be argued that the new acquaintance would also have, as a girlfriend, someone who was in the industry as well. Whichever you lean toward, the Six Degrees of Separation or the law of averages, it remains for me, evidence that anonymity may be following the dinosaur into extinction.
My husband and I are invited to join another couple on a motorcycle vacation. The plan is for three couples to enjoy some great riding in Colorado and Utah. Our friends have recently made a new acquaintance. Since the new friend shares a love for motorcycling as well, the vacation plan was hatched. I am pleased to be invited. The name of the new friend is unfamiliar to me. He and his girlfriend, we are told, are anxious to meet us and plan the summer trip to the West. After a few weeks, I learned that the girlfriend and I used to work together for the same company.
I met my friend while working in a development lab. It could be argued that since my friend works in technology, as does his new acquaintance, that the odds we may know each other would be higher in the law of averages. It can also be argued that the new acquaintance would also have, as a girlfriend, someone who was in the industry as well. Whichever you lean toward, the Six Degrees of Separation or the law of averages, it remains for me, evidence that anonymity may be following the dinosaur into extinction.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Unsolved Mysteries: Part I
In 1986 my aunt passed away. Because she was my Godmother, my cousin thought I would like the statue of the Virgin Mary that had belonged to her. This statue is not the type that sits on your bureau, but a lawn version, approximately three feet tall.
My Dad drove my cousin Bob to my home on the day they brought the statue. They carried the heavy cement Mary to the spot in the yard I designated. When done, we walked back to the car, which was about 500 feet from where the statue now stood. My dog, seeing company, and being a friendly sort, came trotting up, tail wagging in greeting. However, as soon as she spotted the statue, the fur on the back of her neck stood up straight and she began to bark and snarl. Startled at first, then dumbfounded, we watched as she continued to snarl and snap. This was so uncharacteristic of my dog; I thought it best that I take her by the collar and “introduce” her to the statue. It was not easy. The dog would not budge. I literally had to drag her over to the statue by the scruff of the neck. She began to demonstrate submissive behavior the closer we came to the statue. Once there, and after a few sniffs, she did calm down. I then released my grip on the collar. The dog immediately retreated to the car, head over her shoulder keeping an eye on the cement figure at all times. She no longer barked or snarled, but in the days and years to come, neither of my dogs ever went to that section of yard again.
The dog incident was soon forgotten. It wasn’t until an episode with my youngest daughter, who was then about two years old, that I began to wonder about the statue. One day, as I was backing out of the yard, my head over my shoulder, I noticed my child holding her hands over her eyes. “Why are you hiding your eyes?” I inquired. “I don’t like it (or “yike” as she pronounced it then) when Mother Mary talks to me.” she proclaimed. I stopped the car to look at the statue. There it sat as benign as ever. To her pronouncement I replied, “I don’t know why you don’t like Mother Mary. Mother Mary loves children.” And that was that. I backed out of the drive and continued on with our errands.
A few months later, as we were once again backing out of the yard, my head looking over my shoulder, there was my child, waving and smiling. I stopped the car to look. “Who are you waving at?” I questioned. “Mother Mary!” she replied as if I were a dimwit. “You were right. Mother Mary does love children!” I proceeded to back out of the drive, while the child continued to wave and smile as we departed. It was my turn to have the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight.
As the years passed, she made no mention of the statue again, until her teens. Day after day, I would find her room darkened, the shade drawn, and I would open it to the sunny day. She would return from school and close the shade. One beautifully sunny weekend day, as I entered her room, I walked right over to open the shade. “Mom!” she blurted. “Don’t open that!” “For goodness sake,” I said “it’s a gorgeous day, “and I proceeded to open the shade. She jumped up, grabbed at the shade and closed it again. “Mom,” she whispered to me in a serious hushed tone, eyes wide, “the statue!” It wasn’t until that moment, that I realized the story of the statue was far from over.
My Dad drove my cousin Bob to my home on the day they brought the statue. They carried the heavy cement Mary to the spot in the yard I designated. When done, we walked back to the car, which was about 500 feet from where the statue now stood. My dog, seeing company, and being a friendly sort, came trotting up, tail wagging in greeting. However, as soon as she spotted the statue, the fur on the back of her neck stood up straight and she began to bark and snarl. Startled at first, then dumbfounded, we watched as she continued to snarl and snap. This was so uncharacteristic of my dog; I thought it best that I take her by the collar and “introduce” her to the statue. It was not easy. The dog would not budge. I literally had to drag her over to the statue by the scruff of the neck. She began to demonstrate submissive behavior the closer we came to the statue. Once there, and after a few sniffs, she did calm down. I then released my grip on the collar. The dog immediately retreated to the car, head over her shoulder keeping an eye on the cement figure at all times. She no longer barked or snarled, but in the days and years to come, neither of my dogs ever went to that section of yard again.
The dog incident was soon forgotten. It wasn’t until an episode with my youngest daughter, who was then about two years old, that I began to wonder about the statue. One day, as I was backing out of the yard, my head over my shoulder, I noticed my child holding her hands over her eyes. “Why are you hiding your eyes?” I inquired. “I don’t like it (or “yike” as she pronounced it then) when Mother Mary talks to me.” she proclaimed. I stopped the car to look at the statue. There it sat as benign as ever. To her pronouncement I replied, “I don’t know why you don’t like Mother Mary. Mother Mary loves children.” And that was that. I backed out of the drive and continued on with our errands.
A few months later, as we were once again backing out of the yard, my head looking over my shoulder, there was my child, waving and smiling. I stopped the car to look. “Who are you waving at?” I questioned. “Mother Mary!” she replied as if I were a dimwit. “You were right. Mother Mary does love children!” I proceeded to back out of the drive, while the child continued to wave and smile as we departed. It was my turn to have the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight.
As the years passed, she made no mention of the statue again, until her teens. Day after day, I would find her room darkened, the shade drawn, and I would open it to the sunny day. She would return from school and close the shade. One beautifully sunny weekend day, as I entered her room, I walked right over to open the shade. “Mom!” she blurted. “Don’t open that!” “For goodness sake,” I said “it’s a gorgeous day, “and I proceeded to open the shade. She jumped up, grabbed at the shade and closed it again. “Mom,” she whispered to me in a serious hushed tone, eyes wide, “the statue!” It wasn’t until that moment, that I realized the story of the statue was far from over.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Growing Closer to God While Serving Others by Guest Blogger Deb H
The Group Workcamps Foundation, located in Colorado, exists as a nonprofit organization to serve churches by providing Christian mission trips that help children, youth and adults grow in their relationship with God.
Over the past eight years, the youth group at my home church in Westborough has participated in seven Workcamps in the southeast and midwest, leaving memories that profoundly changed the lives of those who participated. An eighth trip is currently being planned for June 2008, allowing our youth to serve the community of Youngstown, Ohio. I have participated in all of these Workcamp mission trips. Community service has always been an important part of my life and I am very excited to participate once again and contribute my time and effort to providing for the needs of others in other parts of the country through these Workcamp trips.
You hear the word “awesome” so often it can lose its punch, yet it is the best word to describe a week with the Group Work camps Foundation. The Perfect blend of morning prayers, work, afternoon lunch and devotions, more work, returning to our living site (generally the local high school where we sleep on the floor in classrooms and shower in the gym locker room) for dinner, evening programs, free time and late evening devotions comprised each of the five days with a slight variance on Wednesday when we had the afternoon free to tour the area and have dinner on our own before returning for an outstanding teen variety show. Watching our teens grow and bond with each other and with strangers that they had never met, singing and clapping and dancing by the end of the week, sharing faith in Jesus Christ, working hard in a spirit of humility and doing the “at home” devotions on their own upon returning, tell me we were divinely inspired to make this trip as a call from God.
A typical week serving on a Workcamp mission trip involves our youth in one or more of the following tasks: light carpentry including building or repairing porches, steps or wheelchair ramps, roofing, interior or exterior painting, weatherproofing and insulating. Students work in groups, or crews, of 5 -6, with crewmembers coming from all across the U.S., each learning new skills as they provide home repairs to the elderly, disabled or disadvantaged. Each student’s service experience provides a truly rewarding spiritual growth experience as well.
Following each Workcamp mission trip, our youth prove that nothing promotes spiritual growth like putting Christian faith into action. Students travel to various communities through the U.S. with a goal of serving God by serving others, providing an opportunity for God to nourish their hearts by serving people in need – an experience that profoundly changes their lives.
To help in understanding just how powerful the Workcamp experience is, several of the youth offered to share their thoughts: a senior at Westborough High School, states, “It’s not just the friends you make on the trip that make it such a memorable event. The people you help create the biggest impact on your heart.” Another senior at the High School had this to say: “The Workcamps were really eye opening and humbling experiences. Seeing the way that some of the residents lived just created an instant desire to want to help them. The trips are rewarding for both the worker and the resident because you each learn so much about the values of helping others. They also teach you not to take anything for granted and to appreciate what you have. It is easy to take for granted the blessings in your life when you have not experienced life through the eyes of someone less privileged than you. I have been blessed with so much but until I saw firsthand how others are forced to live in poverty under conditions that were difficult to witness, I felt within myself the power to make a change in someone else’s life. I have never experienced a more emotional journey with a group of teenagers, each of us knowing we had made a real difference, and that God had provided us with a rare opportunity to serve others in this way. In doing so we returned to our homes much better people, inspired by the work we had done and committed to do more in our own communities now and in the future.”
As an adult youth leader, it is an amazing experience to see the enthusiasm of the teens as they fund raise all year to earn the money for the trip. The cost is over $500.00/person by the time we rent the vans, buy the gas and pay for the workcamp itself. They willingly give a week of their summer and before we arrive home exhausted, they are already asking, “Where are we going to go next year?” So, let’s start thinking about 2009!
Deb H lives in Westborough, MA a transplant from the North Shore. When not in the office or hanging out with the youth group,
Deb likes to go to the beach, cook, taste good wine and spend time with friends.
Over the past eight years, the youth group at my home church in Westborough has participated in seven Workcamps in the southeast and midwest, leaving memories that profoundly changed the lives of those who participated. An eighth trip is currently being planned for June 2008, allowing our youth to serve the community of Youngstown, Ohio. I have participated in all of these Workcamp mission trips. Community service has always been an important part of my life and I am very excited to participate once again and contribute my time and effort to providing for the needs of others in other parts of the country through these Workcamp trips.
You hear the word “awesome” so often it can lose its punch, yet it is the best word to describe a week with the Group Work camps Foundation. The Perfect blend of morning prayers, work, afternoon lunch and devotions, more work, returning to our living site (generally the local high school where we sleep on the floor in classrooms and shower in the gym locker room) for dinner, evening programs, free time and late evening devotions comprised each of the five days with a slight variance on Wednesday when we had the afternoon free to tour the area and have dinner on our own before returning for an outstanding teen variety show. Watching our teens grow and bond with each other and with strangers that they had never met, singing and clapping and dancing by the end of the week, sharing faith in Jesus Christ, working hard in a spirit of humility and doing the “at home” devotions on their own upon returning, tell me we were divinely inspired to make this trip as a call from God.
A typical week serving on a Workcamp mission trip involves our youth in one or more of the following tasks: light carpentry including building or repairing porches, steps or wheelchair ramps, roofing, interior or exterior painting, weatherproofing and insulating. Students work in groups, or crews, of 5 -6, with crewmembers coming from all across the U.S., each learning new skills as they provide home repairs to the elderly, disabled or disadvantaged. Each student’s service experience provides a truly rewarding spiritual growth experience as well.
Following each Workcamp mission trip, our youth prove that nothing promotes spiritual growth like putting Christian faith into action. Students travel to various communities through the U.S. with a goal of serving God by serving others, providing an opportunity for God to nourish their hearts by serving people in need – an experience that profoundly changes their lives.
To help in understanding just how powerful the Workcamp experience is, several of the youth offered to share their thoughts: a senior at Westborough High School, states, “It’s not just the friends you make on the trip that make it such a memorable event. The people you help create the biggest impact on your heart.” Another senior at the High School had this to say: “The Workcamps were really eye opening and humbling experiences. Seeing the way that some of the residents lived just created an instant desire to want to help them. The trips are rewarding for both the worker and the resident because you each learn so much about the values of helping others. They also teach you not to take anything for granted and to appreciate what you have. It is easy to take for granted the blessings in your life when you have not experienced life through the eyes of someone less privileged than you. I have been blessed with so much but until I saw firsthand how others are forced to live in poverty under conditions that were difficult to witness, I felt within myself the power to make a change in someone else’s life. I have never experienced a more emotional journey with a group of teenagers, each of us knowing we had made a real difference, and that God had provided us with a rare opportunity to serve others in this way. In doing so we returned to our homes much better people, inspired by the work we had done and committed to do more in our own communities now and in the future.”
As an adult youth leader, it is an amazing experience to see the enthusiasm of the teens as they fund raise all year to earn the money for the trip. The cost is over $500.00/person by the time we rent the vans, buy the gas and pay for the workcamp itself. They willingly give a week of their summer and before we arrive home exhausted, they are already asking, “Where are we going to go next year?” So, let’s start thinking about 2009!
Deb H lives in Westborough, MA a transplant from the North Shore. When not in the office or hanging out with the youth group,
Deb likes to go to the beach, cook, taste good wine and spend time with friends.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
When Easter Shall Fall in March
When Easter falls in March, I can’t help but think of Mother. It was Holy Wednesday, when the Bishop’s right hand man, came to visit Mother. As we stood in a circle around her bed, he prayed. We all responded “Amen.” No prayer before or since ever touched my soul as the words that came from Father Ed. When he was through, and before he left, he lifted Mother’s hand and held it between his own. To her, in her unconsciousness, he said, “this night, as we bless the oils in the Cathedral, we will pray for you Pauline.”
That evening as we sat vigil around her, we witnessed her spirit part from her body. We all new it was coming, but that did not stop the grief and sobbing that ensued. In that hour after her death, we came to realize that during the blessing of the oils, Mother had heard her name and knew she was being called home. It gave me comfort to think such a thing was possible.
Not long after her funeral, I found myself standing in a waiting room with my Father. We did not speak to each other, but stood there and waited. Father did not look up, but held his head downcast, arms hanging listless at his side. His grief was palatable. The waiting room was painted white. It was stark with not even a framed photo upon its walls. One lonely bank of chairs lined a wall to the left.
At the far end of the room was a door. The light on the other side of this door was so intense, that its brightness penetrated the cracks between door and frame, and cast small rays of light into the waiting room. There was considerable clamor coming from behind the door. I could hear music and many voices. Father did not seem curious about the door, but I could not take my eyes from it.
As I watched, the door opened slowly. The light became so intense that it caused me to squint and shield my eyes against it. In the center of the doorway stood a figure, silhouetted in black against the brightness of the light behind. The music and voices were louder now with the door open. Despite this, I still could not distinguish what was being said among the people there.
The door closed slowly, and as my eyes adjusted back to the light in the waiting room, there stood Mother! Mother had not stood for over a year due to her stroke, but there she was, standing before me wearing the beautiful royal blue dress we buried her in. Her hair was dark as in her youth, and her face bore a serious expression, the one I remembered so well. She came forward, and took Father’s hand. He seemed not to notice.
“Don’t worry about me” she said. “I’m very happy.” “Good” I said. “I can’t stay,” she said next. “OK” I said. “You will need to help Dad,” where the words she spoke next as she lifted my Father’s hand and placed his in my own. “I will.” I replied. “I have to go now” she said as she turned and headed back toward the door with the brilliant light behind it. It opened slowly, and again, I needed to shield my eyes against the brilliance. The music and voices grew louder, then muffled again as the door closed behind her. She was gone from me again. I shut my eyes tightly so that they may readjust to the light of the room, my hand holding tightly to my Father’s.
When I opened them, it was very dark. I was not standing, but lying down. I sat bold upright. After a moment, I realized I was in my own room, in my own bed. My logic told me I had but a vivid dream. Another part of me knew this was no dream, but a visitation. As I reflected on the encounter with my Mother, it seemed to me that she was not at a mere party, but at a grand reunion, a celebration like none other. I realized she never said goodbye. Maybe she new that I had an invitation to the reunion as well, we all do; only our invitation has not yet arrived.
That evening as we sat vigil around her, we witnessed her spirit part from her body. We all new it was coming, but that did not stop the grief and sobbing that ensued. In that hour after her death, we came to realize that during the blessing of the oils, Mother had heard her name and knew she was being called home. It gave me comfort to think such a thing was possible.
Not long after her funeral, I found myself standing in a waiting room with my Father. We did not speak to each other, but stood there and waited. Father did not look up, but held his head downcast, arms hanging listless at his side. His grief was palatable. The waiting room was painted white. It was stark with not even a framed photo upon its walls. One lonely bank of chairs lined a wall to the left.
At the far end of the room was a door. The light on the other side of this door was so intense, that its brightness penetrated the cracks between door and frame, and cast small rays of light into the waiting room. There was considerable clamor coming from behind the door. I could hear music and many voices. Father did not seem curious about the door, but I could not take my eyes from it.
As I watched, the door opened slowly. The light became so intense that it caused me to squint and shield my eyes against it. In the center of the doorway stood a figure, silhouetted in black against the brightness of the light behind. The music and voices were louder now with the door open. Despite this, I still could not distinguish what was being said among the people there.
The door closed slowly, and as my eyes adjusted back to the light in the waiting room, there stood Mother! Mother had not stood for over a year due to her stroke, but there she was, standing before me wearing the beautiful royal blue dress we buried her in. Her hair was dark as in her youth, and her face bore a serious expression, the one I remembered so well. She came forward, and took Father’s hand. He seemed not to notice.
“Don’t worry about me” she said. “I’m very happy.” “Good” I said. “I can’t stay,” she said next. “OK” I said. “You will need to help Dad,” where the words she spoke next as she lifted my Father’s hand and placed his in my own. “I will.” I replied. “I have to go now” she said as she turned and headed back toward the door with the brilliant light behind it. It opened slowly, and again, I needed to shield my eyes against the brilliance. The music and voices grew louder, then muffled again as the door closed behind her. She was gone from me again. I shut my eyes tightly so that they may readjust to the light of the room, my hand holding tightly to my Father’s.
When I opened them, it was very dark. I was not standing, but lying down. I sat bold upright. After a moment, I realized I was in my own room, in my own bed. My logic told me I had but a vivid dream. Another part of me knew this was no dream, but a visitation. As I reflected on the encounter with my Mother, it seemed to me that she was not at a mere party, but at a grand reunion, a celebration like none other. I realized she never said goodbye. Maybe she new that I had an invitation to the reunion as well, we all do; only our invitation has not yet arrived.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Hooked
by guest blogger Barb E
I received Pat’s invitation first with interest, then with hesitation. While I have always enjoyed writing, for many years my forays into the experience have been few and far between. Typically a heart felt letter to a loved one on a special occasion or during a period of difficulty, the majority of the writing done throughout my life has been deeply personal- a sharing of emotions & thoughts too intimate to be spoken; an exposure of my very soul.
With this in mind, I postponed my response, viewing it as a major, and possibly difficult, undertaking. As I pondered possible topics, I remembered Pat’s comments about our e-mail musings and a recent discussion on hobbies. I realized that our brief exchanges offer glimpses into each others lives in much the same manner that an in depth biography would- only in installments.
With that thought as my guide, I opted for the anecdotal offering below.
Hooked
My first experience with fly fishing began well. It was an opportunity to share an activity that my fiancé loved and to be part of a pastime that his two daughters enjoyed as well.
I had fished before, with some success; but apparently fly fishing was an art! The painstaking creation of minuscule insects from bits of feathers & colored thread and materials unknown to me- some purchased in tiny packets, others gathered from the wild. The completed replicas were ornate enough to be worn as jewelry and often identical to their counterparts found in nature. Casting the line properly was also a skill- one that Pete had demonstrated for me on occasion in the back yard. A precise arm movement was needed to send the lure in a graceful arc through the air, landing in the desired spot, far in the distance. While I retained little of the many details that he relayed to me, I did respect Pete’s passion for & knowledge of the sport.
We were on vacation, so I was allowed to awaken past daybreak- although that was unheard of on previous excursions. The day was to be partly cloudy, but the temperature would be comfortable and no rain was expected. Pete & the girls looked so cute in their gear- high rubber wading boots for walking in the stream & vests with many pockets to hold all the necessary supplies. Being the novice, I made do with shorts and an old pair of sneakers. We packed our lunches and sunscreen and a myriad of fishing rods & tackle boxes into the truck and made the trek from the cabin where we were staying to Pete’s favorite fishing spot. I had never been there, but I knew it well. A painting of the waterfall cascading into rippling waters and surrounded by green foliage hangs on our wall- courtesy of his dad’s skillful brush. The reality turned out to be a bit different, though- as we soon found out. It was late in the season & the summer had been very dry. The lack of rain had actually dried up the waterfall! Pete’s disappointment was apparent- he had so looked forward to sharing his hidden paradise with us, but with his typical resolve, he unloaded the gear. He was here to fish, and a little less ambiance would not deter him!
Having joined her father on these excursions almost as soon as she had learned to walk; nineteen year old Katie was a pro. She baited her hook, waded out into the water and cast her line beautifully, just as she had been taught. Twelve year old Shannon and I were a bit slower to start, waiting for Pete’s guidance. Baiting one’s own hook was required, but the dyed fluorescent colored fish eggs slipped out of our fingers and off of the hooks. Pete briefly assisted, and then eagerly headed into the water himself. Shannon followed soon after, as the previously learned techniques came back to her. She came back to help me along, but I urged her on then managed to join her.
The graceful casting thing was much harder than it looked. I whipped the rod too quickly or at the wrong angle. The line waved wildly in the air and the lure would land too close, in the shallow fishless waters a few feet away. This is work, I thought- fishing is supposed to be relaxing! I reeled it in, replaced my missing bait once again, and released more line, hoping to cast further. My target was the dark pools below the now defunct waterfall, which Pete indicated were preferable. I came close, but my line kept drifting back towards me- something no one else’s seemed to be doing! I tried again, but cast without reeling in some of the fishing line, and wound up with a tangled mess. Shannon noticed my struggles & came to help, having tangled a few lines of her own in the past. My more experienced partners shared stories of their own past mishaps and I continued my efforts in much the same manner.
Finally, I hooked something. Normally a potential catch is indicated by a tug on the line and a twitching at the end of your rod. This was different- my realization came as a sudden sting on my leg. My dangling hook had impaled my left thigh! I could see that it wasn’t imbedded deeply, and I’m not usually squeamish, but I had to look away. Fish hooks are tipped with tiny barbs to prevent the captives escape- removal could be unpleasant!
“I caught something!” I called out to the others, who quickly came to my rescue. This again was not an unknown occurrence and Pete quickly & painlessly performed the extraction.
At this point I made the decision to gather my camp chair & reading materials from the truck and spend the remainder of the outing on the bank, pursuing a more leisurely activity. While I don’t think that day’s experience would deter me from future attempts at fly fishing, I do know that I’d be equally content with participating in this particular activity from the sidelines.
No one caught any fish that day, anyway.
Barb currently resides in Bensalem, PA with her fiancé Pete & his daughters Katie & Shannon. Their blended family also includes her 22 year old son Bobby, a yellow lab named Gracie & Phoenix, the world’s coolest cat.
With this in mind, I postponed my response, viewing it as a major, and possibly difficult, undertaking. As I pondered possible topics, I remembered Pat’s comments about our e-mail musings and a recent discussion on hobbies. I realized that our brief exchanges offer glimpses into each others lives in much the same manner that an in depth biography would- only in installments.
With that thought as my guide, I opted for the anecdotal offering below.
Hooked
My first experience with fly fishing began well. It was an opportunity to share an activity that my fiancé loved and to be part of a pastime that his two daughters enjoyed as well.
I had fished before, with some success; but apparently fly fishing was an art! The painstaking creation of minuscule insects from bits of feathers & colored thread and materials unknown to me- some purchased in tiny packets, others gathered from the wild. The completed replicas were ornate enough to be worn as jewelry and often identical to their counterparts found in nature. Casting the line properly was also a skill- one that Pete had demonstrated for me on occasion in the back yard. A precise arm movement was needed to send the lure in a graceful arc through the air, landing in the desired spot, far in the distance. While I retained little of the many details that he relayed to me, I did respect Pete’s passion for & knowledge of the sport.
We were on vacation, so I was allowed to awaken past daybreak- although that was unheard of on previous excursions. The day was to be partly cloudy, but the temperature would be comfortable and no rain was expected. Pete & the girls looked so cute in their gear- high rubber wading boots for walking in the stream & vests with many pockets to hold all the necessary supplies. Being the novice, I made do with shorts and an old pair of sneakers. We packed our lunches and sunscreen and a myriad of fishing rods & tackle boxes into the truck and made the trek from the cabin where we were staying to Pete’s favorite fishing spot. I had never been there, but I knew it well. A painting of the waterfall cascading into rippling waters and surrounded by green foliage hangs on our wall- courtesy of his dad’s skillful brush. The reality turned out to be a bit different, though- as we soon found out. It was late in the season & the summer had been very dry. The lack of rain had actually dried up the waterfall! Pete’s disappointment was apparent- he had so looked forward to sharing his hidden paradise with us, but with his typical resolve, he unloaded the gear. He was here to fish, and a little less ambiance would not deter him!
Having joined her father on these excursions almost as soon as she had learned to walk; nineteen year old Katie was a pro. She baited her hook, waded out into the water and cast her line beautifully, just as she had been taught. Twelve year old Shannon and I were a bit slower to start, waiting for Pete’s guidance. Baiting one’s own hook was required, but the dyed fluorescent colored fish eggs slipped out of our fingers and off of the hooks. Pete briefly assisted, and then eagerly headed into the water himself. Shannon followed soon after, as the previously learned techniques came back to her. She came back to help me along, but I urged her on then managed to join her.
The graceful casting thing was much harder than it looked. I whipped the rod too quickly or at the wrong angle. The line waved wildly in the air and the lure would land too close, in the shallow fishless waters a few feet away. This is work, I thought- fishing is supposed to be relaxing! I reeled it in, replaced my missing bait once again, and released more line, hoping to cast further. My target was the dark pools below the now defunct waterfall, which Pete indicated were preferable. I came close, but my line kept drifting back towards me- something no one else’s seemed to be doing! I tried again, but cast without reeling in some of the fishing line, and wound up with a tangled mess. Shannon noticed my struggles & came to help, having tangled a few lines of her own in the past. My more experienced partners shared stories of their own past mishaps and I continued my efforts in much the same manner.
Finally, I hooked something. Normally a potential catch is indicated by a tug on the line and a twitching at the end of your rod. This was different- my realization came as a sudden sting on my leg. My dangling hook had impaled my left thigh! I could see that it wasn’t imbedded deeply, and I’m not usually squeamish, but I had to look away. Fish hooks are tipped with tiny barbs to prevent the captives escape- removal could be unpleasant!
“I caught something!” I called out to the others, who quickly came to my rescue. This again was not an unknown occurrence and Pete quickly & painlessly performed the extraction.
At this point I made the decision to gather my camp chair & reading materials from the truck and spend the remainder of the outing on the bank, pursuing a more leisurely activity. While I don’t think that day’s experience would deter me from future attempts at fly fishing, I do know that I’d be equally content with participating in this particular activity from the sidelines.
No one caught any fish that day, anyway.
Barb currently resides in Bensalem, PA with her fiancé Pete & his daughters Katie & Shannon. Their blended family also includes her 22 year old son Bobby, a yellow lab named Gracie & Phoenix, the world’s coolest cat.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Virtual Friendships and Blogging
The ladies in the North East Regional offices and I have been enjoying each other’s company as of late. The topics are all over the board and keep us connected. In the seven years I have been here, this has to be the most interaction we have all shared together. What we have in common is our job title, our manager, and the mutual effect that has on us. It makes us feel less alone in our circumstance. How does this tie in with what I have to say next? Read on.
Over the past several weeks, I have been enjoying some reading on how to grow your blog. I have gleaned some kernels of helpful information, and suggestions that I want to pursue. Here is an overview:
First I need to ask myself some serious questions about why I blog in the first place. Why does my blog exist? That question is easy for me. I love writing, want to perfect my craft, and enjoy musing about the world around me. I combine all three and use the blog as the venue for perfecting my craft.
Blogs that reveal the lives of their writers tend to have more subscribers, so the fear of exposing our souls needs to be overcome. I feel I am doing well here. I speak from the heart, hold up for others my view of the world, and hope that my readers come away with images and stories that can touch their hearts and souls in some way.
Blogs tend to be topic focused. I have a broad and general topic rule. Write about my motorcycle adventures. Since the motorcycle is limited to seasonal riding, the musing covers the rest of the year, and fills in the gaps. When writing about motorcycle adventures, my focus is to engage riders and non-riders alike. I realized the value of this when reading two stories about the same hunting trip from two perspectives. One was precise and hunter focused. The other, was written with detail, like the other, but with humorous observations that anyone could appreciate. Not being a hunter myself, I enjoyed that story more than the first. The story sticks in my memory, and I remember big blocks of detail. This is sign of a wonderfully written story.
One aspect of blogging successfully is thinking of your blog as a project. As I read (yawned) through most of the technical points, one sentence made me sit up straight and pay attention. “Building the Roadmap!” was the heading of the next paragraph. Now there is a heading that poked me between the eyes. Over the past seven years I have lived with roadmaps to a certain extent. Software development labs live by the roadmap. My support of engineers was closely tied to their “roadmap”. I moved on from this document to more study on tracking and managing a project.
I said I would tie in the ladies from above? Have no fear; here is where they come in. Successful blogs often have guest bloggers. In our daily virtual interaction, I can see that the ladies have a lot to say that would fit into the “musing about our world” theme. I have invited the ladies to post guest blogs. I’m looking forward to reading how they feel, view their world, and sharing it with you.
Over the past several weeks, I have been enjoying some reading on how to grow your blog. I have gleaned some kernels of helpful information, and suggestions that I want to pursue. Here is an overview:
First I need to ask myself some serious questions about why I blog in the first place. Why does my blog exist? That question is easy for me. I love writing, want to perfect my craft, and enjoy musing about the world around me. I combine all three and use the blog as the venue for perfecting my craft.
Blogs that reveal the lives of their writers tend to have more subscribers, so the fear of exposing our souls needs to be overcome. I feel I am doing well here. I speak from the heart, hold up for others my view of the world, and hope that my readers come away with images and stories that can touch their hearts and souls in some way.
Blogs tend to be topic focused. I have a broad and general topic rule. Write about my motorcycle adventures. Since the motorcycle is limited to seasonal riding, the musing covers the rest of the year, and fills in the gaps. When writing about motorcycle adventures, my focus is to engage riders and non-riders alike. I realized the value of this when reading two stories about the same hunting trip from two perspectives. One was precise and hunter focused. The other, was written with detail, like the other, but with humorous observations that anyone could appreciate. Not being a hunter myself, I enjoyed that story more than the first. The story sticks in my memory, and I remember big blocks of detail. This is sign of a wonderfully written story.
One aspect of blogging successfully is thinking of your blog as a project. As I read (yawned) through most of the technical points, one sentence made me sit up straight and pay attention. “Building the Roadmap!” was the heading of the next paragraph. Now there is a heading that poked me between the eyes. Over the past seven years I have lived with roadmaps to a certain extent. Software development labs live by the roadmap. My support of engineers was closely tied to their “roadmap”. I moved on from this document to more study on tracking and managing a project.
I said I would tie in the ladies from above? Have no fear; here is where they come in. Successful blogs often have guest bloggers. In our daily virtual interaction, I can see that the ladies have a lot to say that would fit into the “musing about our world” theme. I have invited the ladies to post guest blogs. I’m looking forward to reading how they feel, view their world, and sharing it with you.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Breaking Free of Winter’s Grip (if only in my dreams)
Winter won’t seem to relinquish its frosty grip as storm after storm rolls into the region. Yet, like the robins heralding spring, plans for the upcoming riding season unfold right on schedule. Despite the snow covered ground and bone chilling wind, putting my name down on the ride roster gives me hope of warmer days ahead. My throttle hand is restless. Rousing Jade from her slumber draws nearer with each passing day.
The Season Opener will take place on March 29th. I had a wonderful experience on this ride last year. However, with the yard still packed with snow, the possibility of enough of it melting by then seems slim. Even if by chance nature should turn more favorably spring-like, let us not forget mud season.
Of course, I need not wait for organized rides to enjoy the motorcycle. With any luck, there will be a number of opportunities to ride alone or with friends. The NER calendar is currently quiet for the month of April and I shall take advantage of the lull to do just that.
The first big ride, that my name is on the roster for, will happen in May. This ride is for the New England – Canada Ride, a three day, two night meet, greet and ride event. Two Canadian riders, who have been posting on the forum for a few years, and one of our own, have conspired together to organize this ride. The US contingent will ride to northern Vermont, where we will meet our Canadian counterparts. We will spend a Saturday, riding the great roads in Vermont in friendship and camaraderie. The evening will be spent is social interaction. On Sunday, we will part ways and all head home, via our own personally selected scenic roadways.
I’ll have the laptop with me for this adventure and plan to chronicle the events of the weekend. It’s bound to have some interesting twists and turns, and I’m not talking about just the roads. How can it not prove interesting with names like Lucky Luc, Magilla, JJFlash, Mortis, Interceptor, Skidder, Wingman and NomadWillie to name a few taking part in the ride.
Be sure to come back because the adventures don’t stop in May. I’ll be heading to the NER Women’s Ride (hint, not just women) and the NER 8th Annual Birthday Bash as well. For more information visit the New England Riders at http://www.newenglandriders.org/.
The Season Opener will take place on March 29th. I had a wonderful experience on this ride last year. However, with the yard still packed with snow, the possibility of enough of it melting by then seems slim. Even if by chance nature should turn more favorably spring-like, let us not forget mud season.
Of course, I need not wait for organized rides to enjoy the motorcycle. With any luck, there will be a number of opportunities to ride alone or with friends. The NER calendar is currently quiet for the month of April and I shall take advantage of the lull to do just that.
The first big ride, that my name is on the roster for, will happen in May. This ride is for the New England – Canada Ride, a three day, two night meet, greet and ride event. Two Canadian riders, who have been posting on the forum for a few years, and one of our own, have conspired together to organize this ride. The US contingent will ride to northern Vermont, where we will meet our Canadian counterparts. We will spend a Saturday, riding the great roads in Vermont in friendship and camaraderie. The evening will be spent is social interaction. On Sunday, we will part ways and all head home, via our own personally selected scenic roadways.
I’ll have the laptop with me for this adventure and plan to chronicle the events of the weekend. It’s bound to have some interesting twists and turns, and I’m not talking about just the roads. How can it not prove interesting with names like Lucky Luc, Magilla, JJFlash, Mortis, Interceptor, Skidder, Wingman and NomadWillie to name a few taking part in the ride.
Be sure to come back because the adventures don’t stop in May. I’ll be heading to the NER Women’s Ride (hint, not just women) and the NER 8th Annual Birthday Bash as well. For more information visit the New England Riders at http://www.newenglandriders.org/.
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