So It's Come To This: Talking To A Tree

Tannenbaum Version 2011

There. Now that all your decorations are in place, I guess you don't look so bad.

You said I was the worst tree you've ever had!

Oh...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that -- especially not where you could hear me. I'm having kind of a rough go of it this year, what with all the fussing and fretting over oxygen and all...I guess I was just venting at My Awesome Husband Greg. But that's not really fair, either, since I removed myself from the whole tree-selection process years ago. He's pretty much done it all on his own, ever since the kids have grown. And most years, he's outdone himself -- again and again and again. It's just that this year...

...Go on. This year...

Well, so he saved a little money this year. It just looks like you were probably on the lot a bit longer than the ones he usually buys. But you really aren't the worst. I can think of at least two that were far shabbier than you!

Only two? Gee, thanks!

C'mon. I said I was sorry. You know, Christmas is starting to seem a little more like work every year...getting all those decorations down from the attic -- or, this year, from almost in the attic. I'm really going to have to finish putting that stuff away this January! It seems like there's always something I can't find. And I can never remember how I had things from one year to the next...I'm constantly moving and rearranging things. You know, I seriously considered not even getting a Christmas tree this year!

Really? What changed your mind?

Well, a couple of things, I guess. The main reason for not wanting one (at least the reason I was willing to admit) is that new kitten, Ella -- She's incorrigible! I just knew she'd be climbing you and messing with your ornaments every chance she got. I only relented when Greg promised we could shut her in the basement whenever we're not home. And true to form, that's exactly what she did -- climbed your trunk that first day...

That was a kitten? I thought it was squirrels, or chipmunks, or something!

Nope, that was Ella. She waited until Greg had put all your lights on, then climbed up the middle and walked down through your branches, tangling everything in her wake. But are we shutting her in the basement? No way -- She's "just a kitten," according to Greg. Hah! She's a weapon of mass destruction if I've ever seen one! But honestly, she doesn't seem to mess with you much when we're not home -- just when I'm there to freak out, and then Greg says I'm being a bitch!

No way! How could he say that about you!

Ah, sarcasm...I like that in a Christmas tree!

Anyway, another reason I kind of didn't want to do a tree this year was that I was thinking of all the work I'd save myself, not having to decorate and undecorate. I know -- I couldn't even believe I was thinking that way myself -- I love Christmas so much! It kind or reminded me of how Mom was her last Christmas. She had always put so much into making sure everything looked perfect for her favorite holiday, but that year, she was just too tired to fuss. That's when we knew she wouldn't be with us much longer. I really don't want to be in that place yet, and I don't want my family to worry about me. So Tannenbaum, here you are!

Well, I guess I should consider myself lucky, huh?

Yeah. And I guess I should, too. You know, you really are a very nice tree. Remember when I said you didn't look so bad with all your decorations on? Well, you look more than "not bad." You're actually quite beautiful, now that I'm really looking at you. I'm glad you're the tree that Greg picked. I mean, who am I to criticize droopy branches and thinning needles...I should look half as elegant as you!

I really think I'm going to enjoy having you around for a couple more weeks. And then, just like every other year, I'm going to miss you like crazy when it's time for you to go. I sure hope we get another chance to talk...

My Oxygen Deficit Disorder

I've been experiencing some breathing difficulties; ergo, air-to-go!

I guess this is kind of serious...

But I just can't seem to take it seriously.

(See what I mean?)


I've been wanting to write this post for a couple of weeks now, but have put it off, hoping to have more answers than questions before I attempted to explain it all. Now I have some answers, but even more questions. So I'm just going to go ahead and blog, before I forget that there was a time when I didn't need a special means of carrying my oxygen with me -- a time when it was all for free...

That was a time when I could run; when, even though I didn't always feel like it, if I could just do it -- hey, what a great slogan for a running shoe company -- before long, endorphins would kick in and I'd feel like I was in harmony with the universe. (Gosh, I miss endorphins!)

That was a time when I played tennis, and although I missed more shots than I made, I was exhilarated at being able to run madly around the court and then recover in time to be able to [try to] serve.

That was a time when our social life -- mine and My Awesome Husband Greg's -- pretty much revolved around playing tennis and tennis socials.

Today I went for a walk with a four-pound can of oxygen slung over my shoulder in its little padded carrying case. I was able to breathe easily, even though I was crying a little bit. I've finished crying now, because I realize that this is a small thing, compared to the burdens that so many others are bearing. But I needed to mourn for what I've lost.

I also feel a little bit like crying when I think about how difficult it's been, now that I know I need a portable oxygen system, to actually get one that works for me.

This is where I'm tempted to go into my tirade about how frustrating it's been to:

(1) Find someone who can tell me exactly what I need;

(2) Find out all the options that are available, and and what the differences are -- including cost -- between them;

(3) Have something delivered and set up that (a) comes with some operating instructions and (b) doesn't reek of cigarette smoke. Also, (c) it might be nice to have someone like, say, a respiratory therapist, come and explain how the system works.

And when I say tirade, that's exactly what I'm talking about. Whenever I find myself trying to actually explain how exasperating all of this has been, I realize that I look and sound like I'm doing a Lewis Black monologue.

So I'm going to spare you all of that. Suffice it to say, I still do not feel that I have the correct system for me. I'm expecting a phone call tomorrow that may put me on the right track. I hope so. My confidence in pulmonologists and home medical suppliers has been badly shaken. I feel like I'm the one who's in charge. That's probably as it should be, but it's a new feeling for me, and it puts me way outside of my comfort zone.

I long for the days when I believed that doctors were preordained by God, and that they were just a little bit supra-human; that they had time to read all the pages of the test results they ordered, that they could make definitive diagnoses, and that they knew the all the answers to my questions about the medicines they prescribed.

I long for a lot of things to be the way they used to be. But I realize that change is inevitable, and if we are wise, we roll with the punches and learn to look at things in a new way. I think I'm there, or will be soon...

Moving Day -- Half a Lifetime Ago

Easter 1981: Our little family (plus my dad and my brother, Jason) in front of our little house at 1230 Adams Street. One year later, three of us and the dog moved to North Carolina.

"I have this love...It was formed in me as he himself was formed. It has his shape, you might say. He fits it. He fits into it as he fits into his clothes. He will always fit into it. When he gets out of the car and I meet him and hug him, there he is, him himself, something of my own forever, and my love for him goes all around him just as it did when he was a baby and a little boy and a young man grown." (Hannah Coulter explaining how it felt to have her son grow up and move away in "Hannah Coulter" by Wendell Berry.)

Twenty-nine years ago, on May 17, 1982, a moving van came and our little family of three (plus one springer spaniel named Toby) filled it with all we owned and moved to North Carolina. That would be the last day we would wake up in our "Little House on Adams Street," the last day we would be next door neighbors to the Stumps, the last day we would live on a square block that we could walk completely around without going off the sidewalk.

It was the day we left a hole the size and shape of us in our parents' hearts. (And maybe some other peoples' hearts, too.)

Goodbyes had been said. Tears had been shed. Busyness had kept us from feeling too sad that day. It was amazing to see how organized -- and thorough -- the movers were. I looked for the library books I'd meant to return where I'd left them, on top of the refrigerator. Gone. They'd been packed. I'd emptied a vase of flowers into the sink. Also packed. (What were those guy thinking -- She'll want to put these babies into some fresh water as soon as she gets there!?)

I remember feeling that it was somehow appropriate when the loud BOOM that signalled that we were under a tornado warning sounded shortly after the movers left. But the all-clear sounded by the time we'd closed the door on our little home for the last time, on our way to our closest friends and most constant companions, Tony and Jane Abruzzo's, for one last meal together.

As we were having our final look-around, a car pulled up in front of the house...My dad, thinking we'd be gone, but kind of hoping we weren't -- yet. He had planned on just looking at the house (where he'd often stopped on his way home from work) one more time. But we were still there. More hugs and more tears, more assurances that we'd be back to visit soon, and that everything would be fine.

But everything was not fine. Not for a while...

Dad wrote me a letter soon after we'd gotten settled in our new home. He told me how he'd been so sad he hadn't wanted to get out of bed, how he'd gone to talk to the priest about how he felt. It still hurts my heart to think about the us-shaped hole we'd left in his. I was his first-born. And I was taking not only myself, but his first-born granddaughter, who'd been the light of his life for the last four years, far away to another state.

Things were not immediately okay in North Carolina, either...

Having only made the drive one other time, we managed to take the longest possible route to our new home, traveling through states that we could totally have avoided. (Hello -- Kentucky?!!) It was near midnight when we arrived, but My Awesome Husband Greg was eager to show me the house he'd rented for us.

Here's one thing I've learned: When you're so tired you're falling asleep standing up, when you've been cooped up in a car all day with a four-year-old and a dog, and when you're terrified that you might have just made the biggest mistake of your life...Well, that is not a good time to go check out the place you're going to be living for the next year or so -- especially if it's very dark and the lighting isn't good.

All I remember is opening one of the cupboards and discovering what had apparently been the mass suicide site of a cult of beetles! (And lights that seemed to give our skin a greenish cast, but it may not be entirely fair to blame that on the lighting.)

Unable to even pretend that I thought we'd be anything but miserable for the rest of our lives, we climbed back into the car and we drove another 12 miles to the motel where we'd spend our first night in beautiful North Carolina. It was dark there, too. And stinky. I think, like my dad, I had a broken heart. I cried myself to sleep somehow, and the sun came up in the morning.

That's when things started to be all right for our little group -- Greg, Meagan, Toby and myself. May in North Carolina is beautiful. The sun was shining. It was a new day -- a new life. Everything seemed strange and exciting. (Well, not those dead beetles, but in the morning light, at least they felt like something that could be dealt with.)

Things got better for my dad and mom, too. Never much for traveling, they made many trips back and forth between Michigan and North Carolina -- sometimes together, but more often, separately. They both eventually moved down here, at least for a while. We still return home -- joyfully -- to visit family and friends at least once every summer. And now, thanks to the internet, we are constantly in touch, sharing photos, news and random comments. The distance between us no longer seems so far.

Half of a life-time. I love North Carolina and all of the wonderful people here. I'll always miss Michigan and cherish my memories of the people we knew there. But things really are okay.

Afterword: I was able to mail my library books back to Lapeer, but by the time we unpacked those flowers, they were as dead as the beetles.

Dominic: A Belated Birthday Blog

My son, Dominic, turned 24 on February 27. Although he is my favorite son in the whole world, here I am, posting his birthday blog more than a month late! It's wrong to be that busy. Or distracted. (I feel really bad about it, but I did have a broken ankle, you know.)

I swear, every single day that has passed since February 27, I have thought, I will do Dj's birthday blog today. (It is true, isn't it, that it's the thought that counts?)

Well, today is finally the day...

Here's Dominic with his girlfriend, Sydney (whose birthday was also in February). The picture was not taken on their birthdays. It was, however, taken at the restaurant where we usually go for family birthday celebrations -- Monterrey.


(Dominic and Sydney, August 2010)


And this is a picture I took of a paper I found recently with some stuff my dad had saved.




Dj wrote it for a school assignment entitled, "The Worst Thing That Ever Happened To Me," when he was in second or third grade. (If you can read it, you will be able to see what it has to do with his birthday, and you won't have to ask.)

You'd think that it must be a pretty awful life that would cause someone to say that the worst thing that ever happened to him was the day he was born, wouldn't you?

But I don't believe that's where Dj was going with his opening line...With a birth experience like his, things would have to get better! To be honest, his Birth Day was one of the worst things that ever happened to me, too. We thought we were losing our baby. But after a [very scary] month spent in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, we brought him home and commenced living happily ever after, pretty much. For which I am eternally thankful to God!

As for that other stuff -- about him not being very cute and his sister hiding him -- The two were not related. First, he was very cute. It just doesn't look like it in all those pictures we have where his hair had been shaved off in patches, with needles and tubes (or "toobs") stuck all over his little body. As for the hiding part...It was a game in which Dj was a very enthusiastic participant; Meagan would very carefully place him behind a chair or in a basket of stuffed animals, and I would be able to locate him by his shrieks of delight.

(Oh -- And she didn't actually drop him off the foot of the bed...She just sort of let him fall while she was talking to me. One time.)


And this is one of my very favorite pictures of Dominic of all time -- I love to see his smile and hear his laugh. I probably would still feel that way, even if he'd had a less frightening beginning. But I will never forget that for a few weeks, I felt as though I might never smile or laugh again...




Of course, I have. A lot. And many times because of my wonderful and very funny son.

Life is good and I am blessed.

I love you, Dj. Happy Birthday every day!

Some Revelry and a Revelation (Alternate Title: My Left Foot)

I have taken many things for granted in my lifetime. There are a few things about which this is no longer true. These are gifts, and I am reveling in them...

The feel of the floor against my bare feet -- especially the left one;

A hot bubble bath;

Rubbing lotion into the dry, papery skin on my left leg;

Flexing and bending my ankles. (And being able to trace the letters of the alphabet with my left foot, per the doctor's orders, even though I can't read what I "wrote"...I must be right-footed!)


Now for the revelation part:


God, as they say, works in mysterious ways. We are not meant to understand His ways, and I'm sure that I don't need to understand. But yesterday, I think I was given just a glimpse into His workings...

After just two weeks and two days, I have been unburdened of the Big Blue Cast that encased (and encumbered) my left leg. This unburdening came about, I feel, because of a misreading of my file. I had been told that that cast and I would be constant companions for at least four weeks, with the need to check it in three weeks, due to the fact that I have been taking prednisone. (Prednisone affects bones, can cause osteoporosis, and interfere with healing of broken bones.)

But after just one week, I became worried that the burning sensation I was feeling might mean that something was not healing properly. When I called, I was told that my cast might be too loose. I had to admit that it was comfortably roomy, so the Physician's Assistant who'd returned my call told me to come in the following day to have it replaced.

I imagine that he then made a note in my file for that day which said,"Remove cast."

That was last Friday. I went in as directed, and my original cast was replaced with a tighter-fitting one. Less comfortable on my leg, but the burning sensation did stop.

The three-week appointment I had for my re-check was one week later -- yesterday. (It wasn't a full three weeks, but that's what I was given.) The day my cast was replaced, I was told that no x-ray would be taken until the following week. Yesterday.

My Awesome Husband Greg went with me for that appointment...

Cast Maker Guy called me back and ordered me up on the table so he could remove the cast. Surprised, I said, "Oh, you're removing the cast before you do an x-ray?" He checked the file in his hands and said, "Oh, we're not doing an x-ray today. It says 'remove cast.' MAHG and I looked at each other. I said "Great!" (And Awesome Greg went out to the car to retrieve in the Big Clunky Stabilizing Boot I'd been issued the night of the break. Feeling confident as I was that my healing was proceeding remarkably well, I had insisted on bringing it with us.)

MAHG watched with ghoulish interest while CMG cut my BBC off with a gigantic circular saw. (Not really -- I just wanted to say that.)

The cast off, CMG then left the room for a minute. And here's what I imagine happened:

He glanced at my file again, and realized that he had been looking at the note that the P.A. had made the prior week after my phone call -- the one that said "Remove cast." It would probably have been on top of the page that said "Re-check in three weeks." Upon reading further, he realized that he was supposed to take an x-ray. That's why he came back into our room and said, "Okay -- I guess we will take a picture now."

The x-ray showed that healing was well under way, if not complete. Things looked great, according to the Doctor who finally came in. The mystery of the how to properly work the Big Clunky Stabilizing Boot was explained to me, and I was told I no longer needed crutches -- Not even one of them!

I think I was supposed to have an x-ray and remain in the BBC for another week. I give credit for the fact that I'm free to God, who never give us anything we can't handle. He could see, of course, that I wasn't handling the Big Blue Cast very well...That, in fact, I was sick and tired of it. So he intervened.

God also gets credit for leading me (through my Amazing Sister Melissa) to some wonderful homeopathic remedies, which I am positive speeded my healing, making that extra week unneceessary. And I love that fun little thing He did, having Cast Maker Guy read my file wrong, demonstrating that even mistakes can be the work of God sometimes!

I am thrilled with -- and grateful for -- the outcome. I'm to go back in two more weeks, at which time I am sure I will be completely released from the need for even the BCSB.

Meanwhile, I will continue to revel in simple pleasures that I once took for granted...and in the way that God answers our prayers!

Vincible

Self-Pitying Self-Portrait, MSN Paint, 2/16/11

Turns out that I am...Vincible, that is. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I can't even count the number of times I've twisted an ankle while walking or running. It's always been Oh! Oh, whew -- I'm okay... flex, twist, then carry on. Let's just say it's happened often enough to make me feel like I'm special.

But yesterday was different. I knew it was different as soon as it happened.

First of all, my ankle didn't just bend and flex. It formed an L with my leg, apparently allowing that knobby bone on the outside of it to touch the ground hard enough to snap it. (At least that's how I picture it.)

Also, I didn't just wobble a bit and then right myself. I pitched forward, hollering bad words as I fell. I tore holes in both of my hands, apparently in some half-assed attempt to distract myself from the pain in my rapidly swelling ankle. (It didn't work.)

And even though I tried to convince the two lovely people who rushed to my aid -- and myself -- that I was okay, that I meant to do that, the fact that it took both of them to get my butt off the street and onto the curb was evidence to the contrary.

But I managed to hold it together like one of those "tough cookies" you always read about long enough for My Awesome Husband Greg to come and rescue me. (Glad I'd thought to grab my phone as I headed out!) Once I was safely buckled into the car, though, I lost it.

"It hurts so baaaaaad!" I wailed.

And then, just for effect, I started heaving. (I didn't throw up in the car, though; I was able to save that until we got home.)

The rest of the evening is a long story that needs to be cut short, so let me just say that we spent two delightful hours waiting in the after-hours clinic with a bunch of dripping, wheezing, coughing people who thought there was some magic pill they could take to make the flu go away.

When we were finally given the results of the x-ray, I was triumphant...I don't have a pitifully low pain threshold; it wasn't just a bad sprain; it was a break, and those are supposed to hurt!

My foot was packed into one of those big, clunky, velcroed boots that stabilize everything you put in them, and we were told we'd be referred to an orthopedic surgeon the next day.

And that part was much quicker, easier, and way more fun...

Since MAHG had a VIA (Very Important Appointment), I relied on the kindness of my Sweet Friend Catey for transportation and assistance.

My ankle -- well, my entire left leg below the knee, actually -- is now encased in a fiberglass cast of the loveliest shade of royal blue. Secure and stabilized, it hardly hurts at all (unless myself or MAHG bumps it), and I think everything is going to be all right. In about four weeks. I'm trying not to think about the interim.

And I do have Charlie to distract me...

Mom...

January 27 -- Happy Birthday, Mom...



(My Mom, Rosemary Borg Karlek, and Me, 1952)



...I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you...Not just today...All the time.

I hope -- I mean, I know -- you know how much I love you and miss you.

You also know I'm a grandma now, too, don't you? That means you're a great-grandma! But then you already were a great grandma -- Just ask Meagan and Dj...any of the kids!

But of course, I'm talking about Charlie -- Charlotte Rose. I just love that she has your name as her middle name. (And that I do, too.) I remember the day Meagan was born, and you came in to see me just before I was wheeled away. I saw such love and concern on your face that I impulsively wanted to change our girl's middle name from Day to Rose. (It remained Meagan Day, but I'm so glad that Meagan chose Rose for her Charlie.)

I know you and Dad would both love the stuffing out of that baby girl -- who's now one year old! (She almost shared your birthday, too!) I always imagine myself telling you about all the silly, funny, sweet things she does, and I can hear your laugh so clearly...

There are so many ways I wish I were more like you, Mom, but that's one way I am like you -- You loved babies -- everything about them!

I think Meagan finds it a little strange that I love Charlie's feet so much, but I remember how you used to say that babies' feet are like fat little pin cushions. (Actually, I think maybe you said Grandma Karlek said that. And I guess it is a rather disturbing comparison. But you mentioned it because we were having a conversation about how adorable babies' feet are, and I remembered it!)

Oh, Mom, if you were here, what a celebration we would have for you and Charlie!

I miss you so much, I still cry sometimes, even though it's been almost ten years. I love when I dream about spending a day with you...In my dreams, we're always shopping and going out to lunch -- And there's always dessert!

We'll have birthday cake for Charlie on Sunday, Mom, and I'll be enjoying mine for you, too.

I don't have to say more, because you know...I love you forever and am so grateful for everything you are and have always been!

That Article I Referred To...

...You know, the one I mentioned in my previous post -- The one about five things worth admitting to...

"Okay -- I took the cookie -- I admit it!"


The first thing on the list is You don't have all the answers.

First of all, I have to admit that I don't even know why this made the list. Do people seriously have a problem admitting that they don't know something?

Okay. I guess I can see that some people do have trouble with this one. (Doctors, for example.) Not me, though. I love admitting that I don't know something. So much so, in fact, that sometimes I say it, even when it isn't true!

For example, to the question, "Why did you do that?" my answer is almost always, "I don't know." But often, I really do know. For example...

My Awesome Husband Greg: "Why do you insist on putting dirty pots and pans in the dishwasher?"

Me: "I don't know."

Truth: Because I didn't feel like washing them, and I knew if I put them in there, you'd rage about my incompetence, but then you'd take them out and wash them yourself (because I'm so incompetent).

Or...

MAHG: "Why don't you just clean up after yourself when you're through?"

Me: "I don't know."

Truth: Because it took me so long to find what I was looking for (because I have so much unnecessary crap) that I was running late by the time I found it, and I didn't have time to clean up!

See? No big deal. I like admitting that I don't know something.

Next on the list: You spent a small fortune on yourself.

All right. This is getting a little tougher. Even though I rarely buy anything that costs more than 20 dollars (and if I did, I wouldn't tell you), I hate admitting to MAHG that I spent any dollars on myself. I guess that's because he wears shoes until they have holes in them, while I have too many pairs to count. (But they were all on sale!)

Third item worth admitting to: Your house is usually a disaster area.

Ah. No problem here. My house is always a disaster area. I say it all the time. Every time someone comes to the door -- even the UPS guy. I don't have to say it; it's obvious. I just love admitting it.

Number 4: You're tired of hearing about it.

Well, I'm a little ambivalent on this one. I probably won't admit that I don't want to hear what you're saying because you've already told me a whole bunch of times. But I will tune you out.

I guess I can see the value of being honest, but I just can't hurt you that way. I know people listen to me say the same things over and over without letting on (unless I catch them rolling their eyes). I like to extend the same courtesy.

And last, but not least: Everything.

Got this one covered...In fact, it's my reason for blogging!

Truly, if there's something about myself that I don't want to admit (which there isn't, but if there was), I wouldn't bring it up as the subject of a blog. And although something might be hard to admit in conversation, if I can sit down and type it out, I'm likely to give even more information than was required.

Well, so I do that when I'm talking, too...There! See how readily I admitted that?

So what was the purpose of this little exercise? I don't know.

Maybe I'd like you to know that I'm a cheap, lazy slob who tries to be nice to people, and that I like to spew words -- especially words about myself -- all over the place; and when I saw an article about things that are good to spew, I couldn't resist using it as the subject of a blog. About me.

Why

?

I don't know...I suppose there are as many answers as there are people who blog.

My sister, Melissa, who inspires me in many ways, got me started. She had been writing a beautiful blog about her son, Alex, who was diagnosed with autism when he was two years old.

(Alex is 19 now, and has been having seizures for about five years. Melissa's taking a blog hiatus -- a permanent one -- from Alex is all done screaming... to work on her book, and to take care of Alex.)

When Missy told me I should have my own blog, I said, "But what would I write about? My kids don't have autism. My life is a bowl of chairies," intentionally misspelling the word in my mind. And that's how it all began...

Okay. That's not really how it happened. What really happened is that when I said, "What would I write about?" Missy said, "Anything you want."

So I wrote the first post for my Bowl of Chairies on September 12, 2008. I called the post "This Is It." It wasn't, though. It took me a few days to get rolling; but since then, I've done exactly what Missy said -- I've written about anything I want.

For someone like me, who loves to say things, and who hates being told to be quiet, blogging is a great place to expound/expand/complain about things that have currently sparked my passion and/or obsessive tendencies (usually a temporary state).

At times I've questioned why I've maintained The Bowl (as I've just now, right this very moment, decided to lovingly refer to my blog). Since the last few months of 2008, when I wrote nearly every day, I have slacked off dramatically, sometimes going months without "publishing" a post. It wasn't that I couldn't come up with ideas...No, those guys are always running around in my mind, making it difficult for me to focus on things that might (just might) be more important.

It's just that in an occasional -- and uncharacteristic -- burst of introspection, I might ask myself, Who the hell cares, really? Sometimes, I question whether a post should have been published in the first place. (I once even deleted one in a fit of remorse.)

Then yesterday, I read an article in one of my favorite magazines: Real Simple: "5 things worth admitting to." And I thought, These would be great to include in a blog!

But this post is already lengthy enough. Even I'm bored with it, and I'm totally fascinated with myself! So with the hope that I've piqued your curiosity but not worn out my welcome, let me end by saying:

To Be Continued...

In Mourning Once Again...A Metaphorical Blog

It happens this same time every year...

After a short period of adjustment, during which I get used to your size, your shape, your smell, I fall head over heels in love with you. I exclaim that you are even more wonderful (i.e., bigger, more nicely shaped, more receptive to adornment) than last year's love object.

Our affair blossoms. It doesn't matter to you whether I am being naughty or nice, lazy or productive, noisy or quiet... You simply stand tall and let me load your branches with sparkly lights and glittery baubles. You let me rearrange them as often as I like, with nary a complaint about broken twigs or lost needles.

You ask only for a drink of water every day.

In exchange, you cast a beautiful glow across our living room, and fill the house with your irresistible scent...



I declare my eternal love for you, and promise to keep you with me for as long as I can.

Then Christmas passes. And New Year's. You grow tired. Your branches droop and your needles fall. You stop drinking water.

I am bereft; I know what must happen next...

Sadly, I strip you of your ornaments and pack them away with the promise that I will bestow them on a new love next year.

Unadorned, you look smaller. You seem relieved. I know I must let you go.

We tip you gently onto a tarpaulin and drag you out the door and down the front stairs, being careful not to strew your needles across the lawn...




We lay you neatly perpendicular to the curb, and hope that the recycling crew will handle you with due care.



We will always remember you, Tree. You performed beautifully, and we could not be more pleased.

Rest in Peace. (Sigh.)

January 4, 2011 -- Hi, Dad...

This is my dad with the first three of his six kids -- my sisters, Bev and Karen, and me -- circa 1956. (I'm the oldest.) This was taken at my Grandpa and Grandma Borg's house in Garden City, Michigan, probably by my mom. Whenever we had pictures taken with Dad, he would say silly things to make us laugh. You can tell he's saying something here, but it looks like Bev is the only one listening.





Hi Dad --

Boy, do I miss you! I can't believe it's been three years since I've actually seen you. I guess that's because it's never really felt like you left.

Of course right after Missy called to tell me that you were gone, all I could do was cry -- It was too quick! I felt like I needed to tell you goodbye or something!

But as soon as the shock wore off and it started to sink in that you really were gone, it hit me like a ton of bricks that it was okay, because I knew exactly where you were!

I even smiled, then, thinking of you landing on your butt right outside those renowned Pearly Gates, looking up at St. Peter and saying, "Well yeah, sure I want to stay. But what about those guys? Can I go back and hug them or something?"

Of course you didn't need to do that -- although I sure could have used a few more of your hugs -- I still need them!

Just like I really didn't need to tell you goodbye. (Although I sure am glad we talked on the phone a couple of days before you went!)

I don't think you had any unfinished business with anyone, did you, Dad? I like to say that you lived every day as if it were your last. (Oh, I'm not saying you were perfect -- I know you wouldn't want that -- I'm just saying that I like to tell people that, okay?)

I also like to tell people that when you died, I lost my best audience. Remember how we used to start and finish limericks for each other. I'm proud to say that it was you who fostered my love of that great art form -- the limerick! And it was you who made us kids love reading, and words! Crossword puzzles -- I so wish I had kept that New York Times one that we worked on together for a week -- and actually finished!

Well, Dad, we've finally arrived at what this whole thing has been leading up to...I wrote another limerick, just for you...

There once was a father I had.
(I lovingly called him "My Dad.")
If he were here,
I'd buy him a beer...
I miss him, yet I don't feel too bad.

You like how I did that...kind of started off serious, like it was going to be all sad or something, then threw in that surprise ending? Because that's how it is now. I'd give everything I own just to be able to spend a day with you -- and Mom -- again; but I feel really peaceful and good, thinking of where you are.

I'll see you again, Dad. I'm just glad you'll be with me until then.

Love you!

P.S. How 'bout those Lions?!!