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.
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