White Stuff is Falling from the Sky!

I was sitting at work looking out the window the other day.  It was snowing with gusto.  It's a rare commodity where I live and work.  At one point, I found myself with my hand propping up my chin, staring wistfully at the snow.  I'm 58 years old and I've never hated seeing the white stuff fall from the sky - and pile up on the ground.  It turns me into an 8 year old.  

I have lived in the midsouth for many years.  Snow that sticks to the ground opens a whole new Pandora's box here. Most people here don't really drive all that well in the white stuff...and the hills and hollows can make a slippery road, one hundred times more dangerous.  Most people just don't have much experience with it. However, the weather is routinely (mostly) predictable here regarding snow.  It rarely gets that bad.  The roads had been brined and all will be well.  

But still, I'm looking out the window watching the giant flakes dance and fall soothingly from the sky - only to melt as soon as they touch the ground.  In the distance, I hear a train whistle - another sound I love.  It was definitely a zen moment.  Somewhere inside me, I'm wishing for hot chocolate, a fire in the hearth, a cat beside me and my knitting in my lap.  I'm either a little kid or an old woman (inside), waiting to play. 

I hope you get a snow day soon, to simply enjoy.   

The Tale of the Christmas Carousel - 1985

Once upon a time, in a land far far away (Illinois), there was a girl (me), who lived with her dad (Dad).  They were getting ready to have the family over for Christmas the next morning.  It was late.  They had just come home from midnight mass and had a few last minute things to accomplish. 

Dad was vacuuming and I was downstairs working on something else.  I heard Dad saying something upstairs but couldn't understand exactly what he was saying.  I went up to see what was happening.  When I got there, I saw his thing was more important that anything I could have been doing.  The Christmas candle carousel was on fire!  Dad was attempting to put the fire out with a towel.  Within a few seconds, the fire was out and all was going to be well.  But all the while, he was kind of laughing and said "Fire in the hole!" a couple times.  When the fire was out, he was still laughing - we both were...  It was a small fire and nothing was destroyed.  All was well and we had a good laugh.  

Several years later, Dad was thinning out his decorations and asked me if I wanted "our" scorched Christmas carousel.  I immediately told him yes!  It is now in my possession and one of my treasured holiday decorations.  Dad has his own permanent reminder of that night.  There is a burned ring on the wooden divider where the carousel was sitting. I like knowing that little ring is there...

Now, every season, I unpack the Christmas carousel and proudly display it.  Most likely I have told the story behind it every year.  When our kids were younger, they may have rolled their eyes a little each time it was recited.  That's ok.  I want them to have the memory of this little item that I so strongly associate with their grandfather and those few minutes in my life.  I don't want them wondering why I have this thing they, or even other people might consider junk.    

It's not that I have become the custodian of Dad's Christmas carousel ... It's so much more than that.  It's those 5 crazy minutes their Grampy and I shared on that Christmas Eve somewhere around 1985.  It represents his character as a father, protector, teacher and friend.  He put the fire out and made it amusing at the same time.  He didn't become angry, fearful or any other negative reaction.  I was in my mid 20's and he was still teaching me - to not freak out and make the best of a bad (or what could have been bad) situation. But he didn't do it intentionally. That's just Dad.  Even to this day, that's my Dad.  I sure hope to be just like him when I grow up.

So, when the carousel comes out for all Christmases in the future, I hope they remember this story.  I hope they remember the kind of man my dad is - and what kind of human they want to be in this world.  I also hope they bicker just a little over who gets the carousel when I'm not here anymore.  

You see, it's just not about the thing - it's about what the thing means to you.  

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

 

I had a nostalgic thought several months ago.  It literally brought tears to my eyes - I miss Christmas.  I miss everything about it.  

Simply thinking about Christmas, I am immediately transported to a time when people are happier, friendlier - more joyous.  Strangers wish me Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Kwanzaa or Hanukkah too. I miss the gentle lights that frame my mantle. Their warm glow brings me actual warmth and happiness. I miss the twinkling of colored lights that illuminate my windows, the snowflake light my dad gave me.  I love every element of this season. The Christmas tree, the manger scenes, the advent calendars - I miss Christmas.

It's not the commercialization of the season that I miss, but the coming of a baby-everything I do has to do with Him.  Even within the hustle and bustle of the season, every present I purchase, every candle I light, every time I sing Jingle Bells- it all goes back to the little babe, lying in a manger. 

I’m the ebullient little toddler on my mom’s lap.  I’m sure there isn’t a thing wrong in my world.  We are all together (Dad is behind the camera), and it’s Christmas Eve. I was two years old in this photo, but it’s how I feel every Christmas season.  At two years old, I don't think I had much of a grasp on what this time was really about.  But I was a happy little girl here.  I may not have her expression that was captured in this photo, but it’s inside me - just below the surface. 

We are just a short time away from my favorite holiday.  I go through my days with a happy, fluttery feeling inside – it feels like anticipation – as if something wonderful is about to happen.  It could be all the caffeine or maybe adrenaline …but probably not.  Christmas is about to happen!  The tree is about to go up!  I'll be burning Paine’s Balsam Fir incense in its little log cabin holder and decorate to my heart’s content, write out my Christmas cards and say Merry Christmas to complete strangers. I think we need to make some wassail too!  Man, I'm excited!

 If you happen to see me in February, July or September… I’ll be thinking of Christmas then, too.  I will be silently counting down the days until I can decorate without hearing the whine "It's too early".  You see, that feeling - it lives in me every day of the year.  

So, Merry Christmas my friends!   Live in the moment, it’s what it’s for.  

Thoughts this morning.

The wound is the place where the Light enters you. 
- Rumi

Greg

Yesterday marked the first year without my brother Greg.  He was born October 28, 1948 - which was nine months and eleven days after my parents were married.  So sweet.  I sure did love this guy.  It's been a very rough year.  His death came without much warning - maybe three months.  He was only 69 years old. We, as a family, were devastated. 

This quote from Rumi resonates with me for several reasons.  I've felt like an open wound for the last year and  broken by circumstances around me.  Clearly, I'm not the victim.  It was my brother.  But after someone you love passes away and their suffering is over, to a degree we assume the role of victim.  That's just grief.  It's the big hole in your heart - the wound where that someone used to be.  They're still in your heart, but gone at the same time. 

I'm still waiting for the light to enter. Perhaps it has already begun- but it's happening at such a slow rate, I'm not noticing the darkness is dissipating.  I can look at a photo of Greg now without completely losing control - and that's huge.  I can find joy and beauty in my surroundings.  I've laughed so hard, tears flowed.  I didn't allow myself to feel these things for many months.  It wasn't a conscious decision to deprive myself. When a fun or joyful opportunity presented itself, I didn't want any part of it. 

Thanksgiving was pretty hard.  Greg often came to visit over Thanksgiving and the following weekend.  I cried as I prepared his favorite pie-mincemeat.  I cried again a week later when we had to throw most of it out.  Greg and I were the only ones who really loved it.  When Christmas rolled around, I had to make a conscious decision to make things happen.  Decorating and shopping were the hardest they've ever been.  Even enjoying a simple glass of wine seemed like celebrating- but at least by the holidays, I could allow myself to enjoy that!   

If life had been a color, it would have been gray - not bright or dark, not happy or sad, just devoid of interest.  Clarity of thought is something I have also missed - not that this has ever been my strong point.  But I'm pretty sure my coworkers have missed this as well.  So, I have to assume I'm making my way through this process.  It has been a year of incredible stress and loss.

I'm with my theoretical friend Rumi.  I'm looking for the light.  Waiting for it to shine even brighter through the gaping wound grief brought when my brother left this world. 

My message isn't particularly cheery this morning.  It's a gray, rainy Good Friday.  However, my hopefulness for even brighter, happier days ahead, is certainly not gray.  I'm looking forward and my energy is returning.  The gray funk is receding. 

If you're grieving for any reason, I hope you're able to see your way though it.  Find a way to grow from the pain -even if it's developing a blog and spilling all your misery out on a page for people you don't know, to read.  ;) 

Thanks for reading!

Greg & Bobcat last Summer
We lost Bobcat, Bobby, Bob, last week. 
I like to think this is what they're doing right now.  :)

Better Late than Never

An Irish Weaver’s Blessin’

-Denise A. Rostan-O’Haley

 

May your shuttles always be full 

when you need ‘em

and

empty when ya want to fill ‘em.

May your warp never tangle while you’re dressin’ your loom.

May the sun shine on your work and not in your eyes.

I pray ya have no floats 

and 

perfect be your web.

May your drink be at hand, 

bare be your feet 

and 

swift be your hands as you throw

for the next beat!

May God’s blessing shine upon your weavin’ 

to bring joy to all who it touches!

Spearmint Breath

I was encouraged to share some things I wrote in a Creative Writing workshop...

"I will go to the bank by the wood and become naked and undisguised." -Walt Whitman

Photo credit -Mark E. laRowe Photography

 

Spearmint Breath
There is weirdness and oddness that is part of a creative's life.
I looked at the words I laid down without out noticing.
Follow the mountains.
Cherish your today.
Discover being "naked and undisguised" in your thoughts.
Dream of the sniff of hay in the barn,
the green of the pasture,
the radiant glow of a daffodil...
Be with your kindred spirits as their fluff speeds through your fingertips.
Reality lives in the spearmint breath of a sheep or maybe even, a yak.
The universe is offering that, which I will not be inhibited from accepting!
The words are hollow, but happy.  I think them as a melody playing in my head.
Be naked
Be undisguised
Share your melodic and happy thoughts
or not.
Reach for victory.  Celebrate the mountains climbed.
Just don't choke on enthusiasm.
-DRH

Some Old Quilt

I'm working on my daughter's quilt this afternoon. It's an old quilt we found at a yard sale several years ago. We bought it for $20 just because we liked it. It's Pink, white and a very light green. She's away this weekend, so I decided to work on repairing it. I've not always worked with fabrics and quilts. But since I've been at The Fabric Shop, I've gained a much better understanding of it all. 

Each of these blocks were hand pieced. The sashing, binding and quilting were all done.by.hand. When I bought it, the woman told me it was just an old quilt...  

Ive always liked it. It's

soft and well worn. But after working on it for the last hour, I have a newfound admiration for this "old quilt" and the hands that made it. It's a piece of art and history of its maker. How many hours did it take the quilter to finish it. What did she do while she sewed? Was there music, tv, children at her feet?  Was dinner simmering away?  I hear very little about quilters hand-piecing their work. It's just not really done anymore. There's no time for it. Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against sewing machines. Machine quilts are beautiful too! It's just some stuff to think about. ✂️

Sometimes, you just need to tell the story. September 11th.

I was asleep.  My six week old baby lay in his cradle next to me.  The phone rang, jolting me awake.  It was my husband.  He was calling to tell me about the first plane that flew into the World Trade Center.  I watched the news for only a few moments, and realized I was witnessing an act of terrorism and an historic event.  My other children were two and a half and four.  I watched the rest of the day in absolute horrific amazement.

At the time, we lived in Nashville, Tennessee, very near the airport and National Guard Armory.  Low flying planes and helicopters flying overhead were a regular occurrence.  That morning, the skies were empty and eerily silent as all flights nationwide had been grounded.  I never imagined the sounds of jets flying over my home would be a comfort.  Ordinarily, they were an annoyance and a reason to pause phone conversations.  I would have loved to hear the normal sounds of air traffic and erase the horrible events of the day.

So many thoughts crossed my mind.  How far reaching were these attacks?   Where were my family members?  After calling my Dad and my sister, some of these anxieties were calmed.  My brother-in-law had been flying into New York on business that morning.  His flight was diverted and put down elsewhere.  Finding transportation home was a nightmare for him.  According to the FAA, 4,000 flights were grounded that day.  All these unfortunate travelers then had to secure a way to either reach their original destination or go home.  Fortunately, my brother-in-law was able to rent a car and make a very long drive home.

Later in the week, I talked with my brother.  I asked him where he was on Tuesday.  He casually mentioned he was in the air on his way to New York as well.  He hadn't been traveling for work recently, so his news shocked me.  In retrospect, neither my brother or brother-in-law were in danger that morning. But the unpredictability of  terror attacks fueled everyone's anxiety.  It frightened me to know the people I love and care about were even close to this event.

While talking on the phone with my husband later that morning, I asked if he was going to come home-fearing for his safety.  He was somewhat incredulous I felt he needed to be home.  I wanted my little family together and as safe as we could possibly be.  I had even wondered that morning, if our water would be safe to drink.  When terrorists want to end the lives of as many people as possible, water seems like a natural choice to me.  At that time, no one knew the extent these attacks.   Thank God, I was wrong about it.  Looking back, I was a sleep deprived, saturated in postpartum hormones, mother of three-and in particular,  a six week old baby.  All we had built together could be wiped out so easily. 

I watched the news most of the days following September 11th.   My four year old, inadvertently absorbed as much as he was able.  He was angry, but in a sad very controlled manner.  Bin Laden's image was shown over and over and he had seen it many times.  My little son said he was angry with the "man in the dress" and wanted to "send planes to hurt him".  We all wanted to hurt him.  My son both amazed me and broke my heart with his comprehension of everything that happened.  As the weeks following September 11th unfolded, the rest of the country's sentiments matched my son's. And well, we all know how Bin Laden's story ended.

Today, as I watch the 14th Anniversary coverage of September 11th., the same tears fell for the same reasons as when this day first occurred.  So many lives were lost and changed forever.  Two thousand, nine hundred and seventy-seven innocent people.

Thankfully, we have risen from those ashes.  We stand together and sing God Bless America, hold our hands over our hearts and stand strong against the dark and evil forces that changed us forever.  My flag flies proudly every day.  I am a patriot.

While attending our kid's high school football game last fall, the soldier in the photo sat down in front of me.  We all stood as The Star Spangled Banner began to play. .  The sight of this man in his uniform saluting our beautiful flag brought me to tears.   It's not just this one man, but all the men and women he represents.  It's their loyalty, service and love of Country that pulls at my heart.  For, without these brave patriots, we would not exist as a nation and have the freedoms it affords us.

Blessings to all who serve to protect our great nation

I later showed this man the photo I had taken, and asked his permission to use it.  I thanked him for his service with a lump in my throat.  He was being deployed to Africa shortly after we talked.  I'm thankful to report he has returned safely to his family.

Moral Fiber!

Vegetable matter

As I was knitting along on a shawl today, I stopped to pick a bit of vegetable matter out of my yarn. I took a moment to look closer at the little bit of hay or fuzzy weed seed I had procured. 

Suddenly, I felt quite happy-warm and fuzzy in fact, to think of the living creature who had some dinner crumbs left in her fleece. It reminded me of my own sheep. They created a wreath affect around their necks from sticking their little faces too deep into the roll.  It was cute and funny until I needed to process and spin that wool! But today, it just took me back in time, watching my sheep be -sheep.  

Memories and saltines

When I was very young, my sister and I woke up early on Saturday to watch cartoons.  It's a pretty foreign concept to little people these days.  They can find cartoons at virtually any given moment of the day.  But Saturdays were special to us for several reasons.  Obviously, the cartoons were highly rated.  What else would make children who didn't have to go to school, get up earlier than normal?  The snacks we prepared, were the second jewel of Saturday mornings! We had; (and this is the short list) potato chip and pickle sandwiches, milk shakes (there's a story here too), butter, dark Karo syrup blended together and spread on white bread!  Oh they were yummy!  But the one standing out in my memory today, is toasted saltine crackers with butter.

A very, very, long time ago, in a land far far away, saltines were made four to a square.  The box didn't come with four separate sleeves.  There was only one and the crackers were all connected.

They looked just like this!

We would toast this "sheet" of saltines and proceed to slather them with butter.  The butter would sizzle as you rubbed it across the cracker.  It tasted pretty good too. 

I still love saltines.  But finding this little sheet of four connected crackers is impossible to do these days.  This makes putting them in the traditional toaster a little tricky.  ;) 

What is my point? I'm not exactly sure. I miss those little sheets of saltines!  I miss cartoons on Saturday mornings.  I miss my sister-we live pretty far apart.  I miss the snacks.  Most of them I can recreate.  But I just can't bring back everything together.  I was having a saltine with some soup today and it all came back to me-like it was yesterday. 

Oh, and the story about the milk shake- it went like this... One Saturday morning, I apparently pestered my sister to make a milkshake for me.  She made them for us from time to time.  I was too young to actually do it myself.  So, in between cartoons, she took me to the kitchen, had me stand on a chair and gave me a glass of milk to drink.  Honestly, I thought she was really going to make a milkshake..  I drank the milk, then she put her hands on my waist and shook me from side to side...  She said "There's your milkshake." and left the room.  Today, when I think of this story I laugh and shake my head.  (That's not what I did back then!)  

Don't ever ask about a haircut I received from her my junior year in high school-wink wink.  

I think that's enough reminiscing for today.  

Thanks for the memorable snacks Dee.  xoxoxo

It's a beautiful summer morning.  But for me, time is slowing and a somber veil is slipping over the day.

Paul was my friend.  He wasn't my dad or uncle or brother.  But he played all these roles in my life.  Paul passed away this morning after a long and courageous battle with cancer. 

I have countless memories of being with Paul.  But today, I will share just one.

Quite some time ago, we were sitting in church alone together.  We were praying for another friend.  When we were both finished, I passed my little prayer book to him.  It was opened to a page with this poem...

I'm Fine

There's nothing whatever the matter with me.
I'm just as healthy as I can be.
I have arthritis in both my knees
And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze.
My pulse is weak and my blood is thin
But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in.
I think my liver is out of whack
And a terrible pain is in my back.
My hearing is poor, my sight is dim,
Most everything seems to be out of trim.
But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in.
I have arch supports for both my feet,
Or I wouldn't be able to go on the street.
Sleeplessness I have night after night,
And in the morning I'm just a sight.
My memory is failing, my head's in a spin.
I'm peacefully living on aspirin
But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in.
The moral is, as this tale we unfold,
That for you and me who are growing old,
It's better to say "I'm fine" with a grin
Than to let them know the shape we're in.
--- Cardinal Cushing

He read it, looked at me and grinned his huge Paul grin, giggled softly and said "I'm fine"! 

. 

I love you Paul.  

I'll miss you always.

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