Taylor

Taylor and Saul at Macaroni Grill, Dec. 27, 2015.

"You'll love her, Mom. She'll remind you of me."

That's what my daughter, Meagan said when she called me from The Gap, where she was working that Sunday morning some fifteen years ago. Her friend, Gina, was also working that morning, but because of a babysitting glitch, had had to bring her two-and-a-half year old daughter to work with her. Meagan was calling to see if we wouldn't mind stopping by on our way home from church to pick Taylor up. Oh, and would we mind keeping her until Gina got off work that afternoon?

How could we mind? An adorable little girl who looked like our Meagan?

We went to The Gap. Meagan was right. Taylor had masses of dark curls and huge brown eyes just like our Meggie. But she was so tiny. At two, she looked to be about the size of Meagan at a year. I'm not used to tiny babies. I was enthralled. And by that afternoon, I was in love.

Taylor was quiet as her mom strapped her into her car seat and sent her off with a couple of strangers--My Awesome Husband Greg and me. She was quiet when we got to our house. My son, Dominic, who was about 12, had a friend over that day, and she seemed to enjoy entertaining and being entertained by them, but she didn't say a word. She helped herself to a ball of yarn that she found in a basket and wound it all around the house, then sat on Dominic and used it to bind his hands together. All we could do was laugh. She seemed drawn to Greg, whom she called "Grandpa." (Don't think he didn't love that.)

But Taylor pretty much ignored me. Until I had to change her diaper. Gina had warned us that she had had some orange juice, and had a pretty bad rash. It seemed that for that, I was the only one who could comfort her. I felt bad, but also wonderful at finally being allowed to hold that precious little girl and assure her that everything was okay.

That was the day we met. Yesterday, Taylor turned 18. She has a boyfriend now. She has received her first college acceptance letter. Today, she is getting her driver's license. I am waiting for her to come and borrow my car for her road test. I am happy to let her take it, as I am happy to have been a part of her life, and have her be part of mine.

Wherever you go, Taylor, and whatever you do, you will always have a piece of my heart. I love you.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part Three...

...The One Where We Had Moved to North Carolina

This photo was taken on our first Christmas back home after we moved to North Carolina.

The year we moved to North Carolina--1982--was a year of adventure for us. We fell in love with this beautiful state almost at once. But it was also a year of missing-you heartache--for us, and for our families in Michigan. Nowadays, most of our travel between the two states happens during the summer. But that first Christmas, there was no way we were not going home. I was working parttime, Meagan was in preschool and Greg was working hard and not making much money. I mention that only so you will understand when I tell you that, rather than buying a tree that year, he went into some woods on a neighbor's lot in the dark of night and chopped one down.

The day before Christmas Eve, we loaded the car after supper, planning to drive as far as we could get that night, and then continuing what was left of the 14-hour trip the next morning. After Meagan and I were in the car, Greg slipped back in and set up "Santa" under the tree to surprise Meagan when we got back. The only present I remember was a white stuffed kitten in a basket.

The weather was good, and our hearts were light as we drove through the mountains. I loved seeing the three white crosses that appeared from time to time on the side of a wooded slope. We're used to seeing them now, but they held a special meaning that night so close to Christmas.

Our time at home went by too fast. The happiness I felt at being reunited with the people I loved so much was almost too much to bear. Our hearts all started getting heavy as time to depart drew near.

As we loaded the car, Toby, our springer spaniel, decided to take one last dip in the pond. So we headed back to our new home with tears in our eyes and our noses full of wet dog. I'm not going to lie. That was a tough trip. We'd met some nice people--some we'd even call friends--but we knew that no one would really notice if we never returned. But of course we did, and life got better and better. We are very happy here now.

Remember that white kitten in a basket that I mentioned earlier? When we got home late at night and turned on the lights, it took a few minutes for us to realize that it was covered with little bugs. Apparently, they'd been nesting in the tree that Greg had cut down, and decided to come out and party all over Meagan's Christmas presents while we were away.

Three memorable Christmases. All Christmases are memorable, really. I hope everyone of you has memories that make you smile, even if they make you cry, and that you will always feel joy when you bring them out at Christmas.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part Two...

...The One Where I Had A Baby

My first child (the doctor guessed from the ultrasound that it was a boy, but said that if he was wrong, not to tell anyone) was due on December 2, 1977. She (sorry, Doc) didn't arrive until December 22. So much for my plans to have been in and out of the hospital, feeling fine, wrapping presents, baking cookies and going to parties, all while mothering a newborn. Christmas morning found me in the hospital recovering from a Cesarean. But I was so high on joy, I felt no pain. I was being treated like a queen because I had just given birth to a real live princess. (My delusions of royalty were, perhaps, fueled by the fact that my mother-in-law, Hilma, was head nurse in OB.)

Meagan will tell you that it's kind of bummer having a birthday so close to Christmas. I know what she means, but we've always tried to keep the two occasions separate. It wasn't what I had planned, but you know what they say--if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans. Now, of course, I can see that the way things happened were just exactly perfect. I love that my daughter's birthday falls during the busiest time of the year, amid all the planning and celebrating. It's a perfect excuse for me not to make birthday cakes. (Just to prove that point, I've actually made a few disastrous attempts. No one even asks anymore.) Merry Christmas and Merry Meagan!!

Three Momentous Christmases--Part One...

...The One Where Greg Asks Me To Marry Him (Or, as Greg would call it, "Thanks to Bev.")

Christmas 1972. We had been dating for almost two years, and I knew Greg was the one. I kind of knew he felt the same way. I dared to wonder if he might not think Christmas would be a good time to ask me to marry him. You know, merry...marry, and all. Deciding that that would be a great idea, I let my imagination play. I wondered how he'd ask. Would he take me someplace fancy, get down on his knee, maybe? Would he ask my dad for permission?

Then he started asking me to guess what he was giving me for Christmas. Hmmm. Clues? He said it was round. I knew it! I guessed "record album?" No. Not that. "Frisbee?" Nope. Guess again...I couldn't come up with a thing (wink, wink). I was happy with my little fantasies, but it was hard to wait.

One morning about a week before Christmas, Greg pulled up outside the trailer that was temporarily housing the savings and loan where I worked. He stuck his head in the door and asked if I could come outside for a minute. There were no customers, so Jane, the head teller, gave a nod. I think I knew what was coming down, but I couldn't figure out the awkward timing. There he stood in a tee-shirt and jeans, his jacket unzipped. I remember exactly how I felt, but I can't remember the words he said. He just told me that he had been planning to ask me to marry him, had bought a ring, and had showed it to Dave, my sister's boyfriend. Later, Dave told him that he had shared the information with Bev, but that she had promised not to tell. Greg, not sure that he could trust my sister with such enormous tidings, decided to hurry up and surprise me before it was too late.

That's how I came to be engaged, shivering outside a mobile home at the end of a parking lot on December 19, 1972. Oh--I said "Yes."

The Year My Dad Saved Christmas

It really 'twas night before Christmas, and the children actually were nestled all snug in their beds--well, all except for one. That would be me, the oldest of the bunch, and the lightest sleeper. Really, though, it's a wonder anyone could sleep with all the racket that was emanating from our kitchen that night. There was banging and yelling and words that were not part of any Christmas story I'd ever heard.

Once we'd said our good nights, had our drinks of water and marched up the stairs to the beat of Dad chanting, "To potty, to drink, to bed," we were not expected expected not to show our little faces again until daylight. Christmas Eve was no exception, although we were allowed a little leeway on what constituted "daylight" on Christmas morning.

But who could sleep with all those wonder-filled images spinning around in her head? Santa would soon be landing his reindeer-driven sleigh on the roof and, using his magical Santa powers, would slide down our chimney and pop into our living room, landing right in front of the tree--which this year had been lovingly spray-painted white by my mom. There, he would breathe life into all those sugarplum visions, gobble a few bites of cookie and take off again, performing the same miracle in every single house in the world!

I knew it was against the rules to spy, and that if I got caught doing so, that would be the end of Christmas as we knew it. But no one had said anything about staying awake to hear the magic. Except I was pretty sure that what I was hearing that Christmas Eve so long ago had nothing to do with magic. It sounded like someone--my dad--was in a lot of trouble, and needed my help. Or, at the very least, he needed me to poke my head in and see what was going on.

I tiptoed down the stairs and across the dining room without being seen by my mom, who must have been in their bedroom wrapping gifts or something. (If it had been me, there would have been wine, but that was not Mom's style.) I stood in the doorway for a moment, too stunned to even gasp at what to my wondering eyes did appear. There must have been some horrible accident involving a small house, some strollers and a large wooden box with a giraffe on it. My dad was stripped to his tee-shirt in the dead of winter in our drafty old farmhouse, holding a hammer over his head. To say he was startled by my "Hey, Dad, what's going on?" would be a dramatic understatement of the obvious.

Knowing now what I didn't know then, I can see what a vision of grace under pressure my dad was that night. I'm sure he wanted to direct some of those colorful words flying around the kitchen at me, telling me to get my butt straight back into bed. But he quickly assessed the situation, and directed them at Santa instead. The story went that the man in red had dropped in a little earlier, before he and Mom had had time to don their cap and kerchief respectively, and told Dad he was a little pinched for time, so would my dad please be a champ and put together some of the stuff for us kids himself. Dad was upset, to say the least, but I was not to worry. Everything would be fine in the morning. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me back to my bed, where I may or may not have actually slept.

I have never been able to forget the year my dad helped Santa and saved a little girl's magical visions of Christmas all in one night, without changing a single thing about the person he was--my hero.

Hilma

Hilma with her first three granddaughters--Meagan, Erin and Andrea--at the Fischer Family Reunion in 2012.

My mother-in-law, Hilma, died two years ago. I didn't go to her funeral. I have to use supplemental oxygen, I had just been sick, and flying would very likely have caused me some problems. Hilma also used supplemental oxygen, yet she always traveled--like from Florida to Greensboro for the family reunion, pictured above. She was usually sick by the time she got home, but that never stopped her.

I can't get over the feeling that she was just a little bit disappointed in me for not taking the chance that everything would have been okay.

She never would have said that, of course. I'm putting that on myself. Hilma was too kind. She never criticized any choices that I made, and the only time she gave me advice was when I asked her. She always trusted me to make my own choices without trying to influence me. She might have asked a question or two to help me see things in a better light--Lord knows I often needed to do that--but it was always my decision. Today, I wish I had decided to attend her funeral.

I haven't really felt qualified to write about Hilma, I guess because of the fact that she was so beloved by everyone who knew her--especially her children and her grandchildren, and her husband, "Papa" Leo. It's hard to feel like my words could possibly add anything. I'm struggling now, but I want to write about her. I was her only daughter-in-law, so that makes my relationship with her unique. I'm the only one who can write about that, right?

The first time I met Hilma was the first night I went out with Greg. We had gone to the mall to return a record player that Greg had bought. On the way home, he asked me if I had ever smoked pot. Without giving it a thought, I said, "No, but I've always wanted to." That led us to the Fischer home on Turrill Avenue. Greg left me in the living room to chat with his mom, who had just woken up, and was preparing to go to work--third shift at the State Home. She sat on the couch, nestled in blankets, still groggy from sleep, trying to make conversation with me, whom she only knew as one of the Karlek kids. After a few minutes, Greg returned, carrying a book he told his mom I'd wanted to borrow, and we were off. (I don't remember the book, but there was something hidden between the pages.)

I suppose that says more about Greg than it does about his mom, but I was thinking about what my mom would have done if one of us had surprised her with a guest just as she was waking up. Hilma was always a gracious hostess. (I would not be surprised to find out that she knew exactly what Greg was hiding in his book.)

In all of the years that Greg and I dated, through all the years of our marriage--40 of them by the time she died--I do not think I ever thought of Hilma as anything but the perfect mom and mother-in-law. Many times I would feel guilty for not living up to what I saw as her expectations, but that was always me, and never based on anything she said or did.

I have one very special memory of Hilma that I would like to share. This was our first Thanksgiving after my mom had died. Sometimes I think Hilma struggled to understand my mother, but she always accepted her as she did everyone--as she was. That year, Hilma was staying with us, and as she arrived, I was still in the process of cleaning and dusting. Instead of making me feel bad, she pulled up a chair and we just chatted as I worked. I was rambling on and on about my mom, talking about a relationship that was difficult sometimes, but that was all ironed out and made beautiful before she'd died. I don't remember what I said. I just remember Hilma listening to me. When when the moment seemed right, she stood up and said, with a catch in her voice, "Is this a good time for me to give you a hug?"

It was the perfect time. Right now would be a perfect time. I'm really missing you, Hilma. I hope you know what you meant to me.

Old Stuff--A Nativity Limerick

The year was 2000. Facebook and blogging were impossible to imagine. Email was new to me, and I thought it was a miracle. It allowed me to reach out and touch my entire family with offerings like this with just one click--send.

This story begins with young Mary
And an event that some would find scary.
An angel came bearing
News well worth sharing--
The Son of God she would carry!

Now Mary could have said "Leave!"
She could have chosen not to believe.
But instead, she consented--
Said she'd be contented.
The angel was greatly relieved.

He then hurried off to find Joe
So he'd be the second to know.
He said, "Don't be upset,
For you'd surely regret
Letting this young woman go."

So Joseph let go of his trouble
And the couple got hitched on the double.
Now they hadn't a car,
But they journeyed afar
And our Savior was born in a hovel.

Some more angels came on the scene.
By some shepherds they were actually seen;
And also some kings
Who had incense and things,
To whom they'd appeared in a dream.

So these folks followed after a star,
And they had to travel quite far.
Eventually they found
In Bethlehem Town
A stable with the front door ajar.

They quietly entered in awe,
And were deeply moved when they saw
The tiny young babe
Who had been born to save
Kings and shepherds and all.

Now that birthday so long, long ago
Still has meaning today, don't you know?
Because we were saved, too--
Yes, me--even you--
So thank God Mary didn't say no!

The Bird

Technically, my commitment to blog every day ended two days ago, but I haven't been able to stop. I was thinking of it as an obsession; it was bound to happen. But my friend, Cindy, who had made the same commitment, also wrote yesterday. She referred to it as her "writing habit." That sounds better.

Anyway, I thought of one more story that I haven't told yet...

Do you know who George Gaynes is? You will most likely remember him--if you remember him at all--from several of the Police Academy movies. He was also in Doctors' Wives and The Way We Were. Neither one of those merited him a credit in the "1999 Video Movie Guide." I never saw Doctors' Wives (which, by the way, got a black turkey silhouette as a rating), but I remember my mother saying that he had been shot off of Diane Cannon while making love. In The Way We Were, he played a doorman. He was in a scene with both Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand. I think both of those roles should have netted him at least an honorable mention, but I was not allowed to vote.

I know George Gaynes from when he came to Mott Community College in Flint, Michigan in 1971 or 1972 for a role in The Heiress. My Awesome Husband Greg was "Morris." At the time, Mr. Gaynes had only Doctors' Wives to his credit, but it was still a big deal for such an esteemed actor to grace our community college theater with his presence.

Greg's mom deserved an academy award for her role as "Most Thrilled" in all of this. She asked Greg to invite Mr. Gaynes to the house for dinner, which he did. G.G. accepted!

At that point in my life, I'm sure I didn't know George Gaynes from Santa Claus, but I was happy to be invited as well. I was after all, not yet Awesome Greg's wife. My role was that of "girlfriend." I was living in my own apartment near the library, and working at First Federal of Oakland, which was housed in a trailer beside the Yankee's parking lot out on M-21. I had no car. Greg, being as awesome then as he is now, often picked me up after work and drove me home. I was expecting him the day Mr. Gaynes was coming to dinner. But when it was time for me to leave, there was no sign of his awesome wheels. I was steamed, and walked the mile to my apartment in a huff, talking to myself on the way just to fuel my sense of injustice at being forgotten.

Meanwhile, Greg had the revered thespian in his car and was running only a little bit late. He said, "We'll go by and see if we can catch her." So he drove along the same route I had just walked--in uncomfortable shoes--and caught up with me when I was a block from my apartment. Caught midway through what I'm certain was a spectacular mental rant, I heard his horn and saw the light turquoise of his mother's BelAire out of the corner of my eye at the same moment. My left hand shot up with the middle finger extended.

It was a good story at dinner that night. Mr. Gaynes, in his deep theatrical voice, had said, "My goodness! Does she always greet you that way?"

(The house pictured above was owned by the Finnell family. I had spent many happy hours babysitting there. My apartment was in a house located behind this one. The incident related in this post happened right here, in front of the Finnell's beautiful home.)

Not Staying in Bed

Lying in bed, I have to confess
That I really don't know
If "lying" is the correct form of the verb, "to lie"
To use in this sentence.

The way I understand it,
To lie is what you do when you recline,
And to lay is what you do with something you hold.
Like a book.

Anyway, lying in bed,
I wondered how long I could stay there
Before some current obsession
Would beckon me.

Or the need for coffee.
Maybe a snack.
This looks like I'm writing a poem,
Doesn't it?

I did this once for my dad.
I wrote him a long letter
Broken up into "stanzas"
And told him it was a poem.

I thought that was very funny,
And so did he.
We often thought alike,
My dad and me.

Okay. That one actually did rhyme.
Not the rest, though.
That was just an accident--
What I like to call a "happy" accident.

Okay, so I've done some research.
Apparently, I cannot stay in bed all day--
Unless I become obsessed with
Staying in bed all day.

That would not be a good thing.
I have to go do something else now.
Lots of things, actually.
But I'll probably only do a couple.

I'm wishing you all
A productive day.
Or not--
Whichever will make you happiest.

A Long Day With No Red Flags

My Awesome Husband Greg and I left early this morning for the hour-plus drive to Duke University Medical Center for breathing tests and doctors' appointments. That made it feel a little bit like a vacation. It also felt like a vacation because I did not sleep well last night. I never sleep before road trips and doctors' appointments. But I had no reason to worry. Unlike our real vacation last summer, when we left an hour later than planned and then had to return to the house for a forgotten bag, we actually left a few minutes early, and arrived with almost a half-hour to spare.

After check-in and a brief wait, I had to report for my pulmonary function tests. These tests aren't painful, but they are uncomfortable. I never had to do them when I had full lung capacity, so I have no basis for comparison; with 40 percent lung function, taking a deep breath, holding it, and then blowing it out forcefully is nearly impossible. It makes you feel like part of a lung is coming out with your last ounce of breath.

Normally, the technicians who perform the tests are kind, encouraging types who smile warmly and talk a lot. They say things like "You are doing a fantastic job!" as I sit there gasping for breath between tests. Apparently, all those girls had Cyber Monday off. Today I had Dianna--whom I liked immensely better. She was straightforward in delivering her instructions. I knew I needed to listen the first time. She said things like, "Is that really all the air you can take in?" and "You're breathing from your neck. Use your lungs!" Like I said, I liked her, but I was not encouraged. She sent me on to my next appointment with a deep-seated sense of worry which lasted until I saw the pulmonologist later in the afternoon.

I love both of the doctors I saw today--the pulmonologist and the transplant doctor. If they weren't doctors with crazy busy schedules, I would like to hang out with them. They read all the reports on my breathing tests and lab work, and both agreed that even though a couple of numbers had dropped just a little bit, they saw no red flags. I get to remain on the "inactive" pre-transplant list. It was all I could have hoped for.

Plus, well, you know how I like to worry? Well, the transplant doc gave me a brand new reason to worry. She thought we'd already discussed this, but No. I would have remembered: Apparently, two visits ago, I showed that I had antibodies against 70 percent of the population. Meaning that of all the lungs that might be available for transplant at the time I need one, 70 percent of them would likely cause serious rejection problems and not be worth transplanting. Yikes! Pretty narrow field, right? Well, for some reason, the tests they did at my last visit show that I now only have antibodies against 49 percent of the population. Better, right? But still lots of reason to worry...

The way I see it, it's a win-win situation. I get to keep my "Still Too Healthy" shirt, and I have something new to fret about. Life is still good!

A Letter Blog

Dear Readers,

When I committed to write a post every day in the month of November, I wasn't really thinking about who might read them. I only thought about writing them. I can do that, I told myself. Often when I make such rash statements, it turns out that I'm wrong. With only two days left in the month, though, this being one of them, it's starting to look like I might make it.

Recently a friend posted in a comment that he had committed to read all my posts this month. My sister sent me an e-mail telling me that even though she didn't always comment, she was reading and enjoying my efforts. She even asked me to e-mail her a copy of "Semantics--A Blog That Rhymes." Another friend shared it on her timeline. I was touched.

I know others have read because you have clicked "like" and left nice comments. I would like to give you all a big hug and thank you from the bottom of my heart. Even if you just "liked" without actually reading, I appreciate you. I know it hasn't always been easy. Some days I even bored myself. I apologize for the posts that were self-indulgent, and for the pointless, silly ones. I know there were some that only my family could appreciate, and they probably didn't even read them. I wish I were a better writer with more original ideas. I wish I were more intelligent so I could blog about more worldly topics. (Well, not really, but that sounded like an intelligent thing to say. I'd rather just be whimsical.)

I am deeply grateful for the love and encouragement I received from you, my friends. It's been wonderful to know you were out there, and it made me want never to disappoint.

I especially want to thank my blogging friend, Cindy Ricksgers, who made me aware of the November blogging challenge. I guess on some level, I was always writing for Cindy, whom I have often said is my inspiration. So thank you, Cindy. I have completely enjoyed getting back to something I have ignored for months at a time for the past six years.

Which brings up the question, will I continue blogging after November? Probably not every day. But I do plan to write regularly. I've sadly neglected my on-line writing class (fortunately, no deadlines there), and am looking forward to jumping back into that. I'm not going to say anything out loud, but I do hope to be here more often than I have been. December is a great month to blog, after all, with lots of material...

Love and thanks,


Me, Kate

Betty Valentine--a Crossover Blog

This is a story--or the beginning of a story, depending on how you look at it--that I wrote for my fiction class. Please don't judge--it's getting hard to come up with new stuff to blog...

Betty loved mysteries so much that she often created them where they didn't exist. Her husband had dubbed her "Betty Valentine, Investigator of Indiscernible Mysteries," but qualified it by claiming that she was actually the instigator of such mysteries. She knew he would think she was wasting her time digging through the lost and found bin at the rec center. Of course her sweater wouldn't be there. It had been brand new--and cute. She had taken it off because it was hindering her yoga stretches; if only she had remembered to retrieve it when she left the center.

Betty was putting back all the dusty, smelly things she'd pulled out when she spotted something small and fuzzy poking out of the pocket of a raincoat. Feeling like a criminal, she gave it a tug. One never knew--this could be a clue to, well, something!

It was one tiny mitten with a torn string attached. It had been one of those sets that are hooked together so the child can't lose one. But this kid--a baby, judging from its size--had managed to lose one.

Betty's mind began spinning. She imagined the baby who had worn that mitten, how lovingly his mother must have put it on his hand--and then the other one...Why was there only one mitten? What had happened to the other mitten? What had happened to the baby? Did that raincoat belong to the mother, or to some bad person who had hurt her and taken her baby? Oh, no! Did the bad person...Oh, it was just too awful to think about!

Stop! she told herself. It's just a mitten, not a hand! You have no reason to think that anything bad happened to that baby!

Perhaps the mother, after dressing her baby for a chilly day, had placed him in his stroller for a walk to the park. Then maybe it got warm. She would have taken off his jacket, and the mittens-on-a-string could have slipped out and landed in the grass. Later, after the baby was safely tucked in for his nap, maybe it started raining. Those mittens would have gotten soaked. Someone wearing a raincoat had probably walked by and picked them up. The string, weakened by the rain, would have broken when he accidentally stepped on one. He wouldn't even know he only had half a pair when he put it in his pocket and continued on to his...his karate class--that was it--at the rec center! While he was there, the rain must have stopped, and he never gave his coat a thought as he left the center and headed home.

Another case solved by Betty Valentine, Instigator of Indiscernible Mysteries.

Afterwords--A Blog Written in Haiku

Granddaughter with wine
Set it down a little hard.
"So sorry, it spilled."

Cat shut in bedroom
Pooped on bed and peed on floor.
She couldn't help it.

Sixteen dinner guests;
Great time, but lots of dishes.
We'll clean up later.

Tablecloth is clean
After soaking and washing.
We'll use it again.

Hosed down the bedspread,
Hot water wash, two rinses.
Rewashed it today.

The morning after.
Mountains of plates ev'rywhere.
Husband washed them all.

I'll keep my husband
For as long as possible.
He's worth ev'rything.

Thanks Given--Check

For morning sun washing the day with golden light--check.

For hot coffee enjoyed in bed while My Awesome Husband Greg took his morning run--check.

For birds singing when I opened the door to let the cat in--check.

For just enough time before company arrived to dust, set the table, shower and fix hair--check.

For Awesome Greg working his butt off in the kitchen prepping vegetables and getting out all the serving bowls. Also, Awesome Greg sweeping and vacuuming the entire house yesterday and standing in line at Honey Baked Ham (for ham) and J&S Cafeteria for pies--check, check and check.

For my brother, Mark deep-frying a turkey, and his wife, Kris, making stuffing and French onion casserole, then transporting their bounty--and their daughter, Tori, with her dog, Charlie--from Mocksville to join us--check.

For my daughter, Meagan, making mashed potatoes and green bean casserole and bringing her Joe and Charlie and Banjo and George to share the day--check.

For my son, Dominic, his girlfriend, Gigi (who made corn bread and mulled cider), and their friend, Rudy, being able to be part of our day--check.

For a new friend, Mark, and his son, Landon, bringing even more fun--and someone for Charlie to play with--check.

For my Gottliebs--Jason, Jordyn and Taylor--being with us because it wouldn't be the same without them--check.

And, finally, for Taylor sharing one of her most special gifts: Mashed Potato Man--check.

It has been another wonderful Thanksgiving, filled with people and food and fun. I miss those who weren't with us, but hope that they had a Thanksgiving that was as "all that" as ours was. I wish the same for all of my friends.

I have given thanks, and pray that I will continue, always, to be grateful for all that I have. Amen.

Oh, wait--I almost forgot! For plenty of wine, and at the end of the day, Charlie crowning me "The Queen of Disaster"--check.

Happy Thanksgiving every day!

Lucida

This is my guitar. I call her Lucida.

Okay, that last sentence just made me laugh, because I've never called her anything--not even "her." My imagination doesn't lend itself to naming inanimate objects unless called upon to do so by my granddaughter. Then I usually say, "Name it Grandma." But "Lucida," as you can see, is written on the sticker inside the guitar, and, well, it is a pretty name. As good a name for a guitar as any, if I thought mine needed one.

Right now, my guitar needs someone to play it.

I actually played obsessively for about ten years. Hearing that might make you think I'd be pretty good. I'm not. I did learn how to read music, though, and I know where to find the notes and chords on the guitar. I also spent a lot of money on CD's and books full of classical guitar music. Oh, and lessons, for a while. I even memorized a largish repertoire of pieces that I could play without music. Not that you would ever want to hear them.

I have a favorite story about playing for some friends once, when I first started. I played a lovely piece taught to me by my instructor. (I eventually had to leave him before he could dump me, which I knew he was about to do because of the hopelessness of the situation, but that's a story for another day.) Anyway, after I finished my recital, one of my friends sincerely told me, "You make it look so hard."

I probably should have stopped then, but even as those around me were begging me to stop, I just couldn't stop believing in myself.

The nice thing about classical guitar is that you can play it very, very softly--so softly that someone reading the paper and drinking coffee in the next room can't even hear you. I used to get up at 4:30 in the morning so I could practice as I had my first cup of coffee. I would listen to the music that my--my very own--fingers pulled forth from my Lucida, and I would be pleased.

This is the time of year I would be murdering some beautiful Christmas carol with my strings. As I "played," I would imagine my family gathered around my feet on Christmas day, listening raptly, smiling at one another as if to say "aren't we glad she's ours?"

But not this year. Sorry, Lucida. I still think you're beautiful, but I'm trying to keep it real.

Feeling Family

I recently wrote a post called "The Memory Keeper" about my sister, Karen, and what her scrapbooking has meant to our family.

At Karen's wedding in 1989--Kate, Bev, Karen, Mark, Melissa and Jason.

Thanksgiving is in a couple of days, and I am happy that my brother, Mark, and some of his family will be here with us. But most of our family will be in Michigan, with some in South Carolina,Tennessee, California and Washington. It's been a very long time since we have all been together for a holiday. I really, really miss that.

Today, I opened Karen's scrapbook, "Siblings," and read her introduction. Her words mirror what I feel in my heart whenever I think of my family...

"Siblings...I can't imagine life without them. Of course when I was young, I envisioned being an only child as the best of all worlds. But what did I know? I was just a kid. When I think that Mom had five of us in eight years, I am so amazed we all made it out alive! And then a sixth baby 20 years after the first one--not so easy I bet. Also amazing how they worked all those jobs just to keep us fed and clothed--again, not so easy.

"So, having siblings isn't always an easy life, but it is certainly the best life. I am so grateful to have five siblings to count on, to enjoy and to have shared a childhood and history with."

She wrote that in 2006. We lost Melissa in the summer of 2014--a loss that hit us all much harder than we ever could have imagined when we were young and bullet-proof--and together.

Missy was born in 1960, when I was eight.

First, we were "The Three Girls," Bev, Karen and Me.

Then came Mark, followed by Melissa.

When I was 19 and Missy was 11, there was Baby Jason--truly everybody's baby.

I love these guys more than I can say. I hope they know it. When I count my blessings on Thursday, they will be at the top of my list. We will be together in our hearts. Mom, Dad and Missy, too. I feel guilty sometimes for having such abundance in my family.

Morning

When it's morning and I'm sitting in my chair by the window watching the day brighten and my breathing is quiet and my heart is still and there is no one else in the house to disturb the surface;

When my mind is tuned to a smooth jazz station and my thoughts are flowing and I can't tell if the song is getting ready to end, or just change;

When my mental list of things to do is written neatly on one small piece of paper in the lower left-hand corner of my mind and has not yet been torn into strips and scattered in a flurry;

When there's coffee in the pot and my mind is not buzzing and I know there is room inside of me--and time--for one more cup;

When I have places to go and people to see, but not just yet;

When I have a bullet-proof plan for the day and then I think about my granddaughter and I recognize the folly in making plans so I just let go;

When in response to a little voice that begins softly yet frantically, You have so much to do, I hear another voice--a confident stage whisper--There's wine;

That's when I am most grateful that I am here and this world is here and the holidays are here and if only everyone had enough, I would be completely happy.

The Color Sad

Yesterday, my friend, Lynne,had to say goodbye to Annie. Annie was the malnourished, hairless, mostly toothless little dog she'd rescued from a shelter eight years earlier, against any odds of her ever being more than an emotional and financial drain for Lynne. But Lynne has a heart that's bigger than herself, and there, Annie was transformed. She healed, and stepped into a life that any dog would envy. It is hard to imagine how my friend can hold the sadness she is feeling now.

My cousin lost her best friend yesterday. I haven't spoken with her, other than her brief note saying that she is grief-stricken. Too much pain.

Many of my friends have lost love ones since last Thanksgiving, and all of us will be missing family members as we sit down to dinner and give thanks next Thursday. Plenty of heartache.

I would rather the heartache be mine. There is nothing noble in that. I just know that I can come through pain. I know how to feel it and give into it until it exhausts itself and leaves. That is not to say that I have not appreciated every single gesture of love and kindness that I have received in my losses. Those gestures are what make me know that I can endure. It's just that when I'm the one who's suffering, I know how I'm doing. I know I'll be okay.

When my friends are suffering, it's harder. I become desperate to take away their pain, and yet there is nothing I can do. It hurts to watch them hurting. The color of sadness tints everything.

I pray for my friends, and hope they find some comfort in knowing that they are not sad alone.


My nephew, Alex Wagner, gets credit for the photo above, taken at Davison, Michigan, November 21, 2015.

Counting My Stressings

I have moments of deep appreciation every day, but this is the time of year when I become acutely aware of how much I have to be thankful for. It's also the time of year when my blessings become stressings.

I have so much. There is nothing that I need or want that I don't have. I know it is wrong to allow the busyness of this season make me crazy and impatient and rude, when there are so many who would give anything to have my "stressings." A goal that is ever before me is to become the kind of person who gets things done in proper order so she can then relax and feel grateful and loving and generous. That said, it seems like some things never change...

1. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving. The house needs to be dusted and mopped and vacuumed and scrubbed, including the refrigerator and stove. Things need to be put in their proper places so that they can be found when they are needed on Thursday.

2. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and my brother is bringing a deep-fried turkey (for which I am especially grateful). A Honey Baked Ham has been ordered and everyone is bringing dishes to pass, but someone has to come up with a plan so that arrivals and serving times are coordinated. (Did I mention that our guest list includes three dogs?)

3. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and we need to be sure we know exactly how many people are coming, and that we have enough places for everyone to sit, and enough dishes and silverware for everyone to have their own place setting.

4. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and since I don't bake, pies--wonderful pies--need to be ordered from the cafeteria. Pumpkin, coconut, chocolate cream...

5. It is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and I have made a commitment to write a new post for this blog every day in November. It is a commitment I do not take lightly, and my obsessive nature will not let me miss a day. That is why I am here, the Saturday before Thanksgiving, typing a blog about all of the things I have to do before Thanksgiving.

Random

Note: If you are reading this on a mobile device, please click "View web version" at the end of the blog so the photos will line up properly. Thanks!

on't you ever just want to sketch all your friends' characters?

he line between Stupid and Stubborn is so fine that sometimes it's invisible.

ho, then, if everyone lives inside their own heads, are all these people in mine?

love this sentence: Sleep wrapped itself around her like a lover who had been waiting for her to return to bed.

rioritizing has never been my thing, but if I haven't done it properly, I walk around feeling like I'm out of order.

othing says "I meant to do that" like doing it again.


I can explain...

I really had no idea what to write about today, but a commitment is a commitment, and I'm 20 days into this one. Not a time to quit. I waited until late before I started, hoping that something wonderful would take root in my brain, but that field remains fallow. Hence, the random thoughts blog. Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea--using my alphabet photos as the first letter of each sentence like they sometimes do in fancy books. If it had turned out the way I pictured it, this paragraph would not be necessary. Hopefully tomorrow will be better, because I'll be back.

Swallowing Hard

Some things are hard to swallow. Your pride. Defeat. Golf balls. The list goes on.

I have begun having difficulty swallowing liquids--even the ones I love, like Cabernet and Merlot.

It's been almost a year since I began frequently (i.e., more often than never) having episodes of choking while I was eating. Some of them were pretty scary, like the time I had to have Jordyn pound my back because I couldn't breathe around the cracker crumbs that had carelessly slid down the wrong way. Others, I was able to manage on my own by forcing a cough until whatever was caught got dislodged. The one that made me think it might be worth mentioning to a doctor happened the day before Easter...

Awesome Greg was outside, and my son was upstairs. I was sitting at the table eating peanuts, and one got in the wrong place. I couldn't cough, because I couldn't get a breath. I couldn't call for help, because I couldn't get a breath. I could scarcely gasp, because I couldn't get a breath. I was able to get Greg's attention by stumbling outside, pounding my chest. Sensing my dilemma at once, he started hitting me on the back so hard that Dominic must have heard it up in his room, because suddenly he was there, too, saying "Should I call 911?!!"

Greg attempted a Heimlich maneuver, forgetting that he had forgotten how. With his arms wrapped around my upper rib cage, he jerked me up and down with adrenaline-fueled force, lifting me off my feet with each yank. Realizing that he was probably doing more harm than good, he gave me one more good whack on the back, and it was over. Nothing as dramatic as an entire peanut popping out of my mouth, finally allowing me to fill my lungs. It was tiny little peanut shards. Unless I still have a peanut lodged somewhere in my lungs, I almost died that day because of tiny little fragments of nuts.

So I mentioned "The Easter Incident" a few weeks later when I saw the Pulmonary Team at Duke. Apparently, people who have problems with their lungs like I do also frequently have swallowing issues. I was sent right up to Speech Therapy for a swallow test. It was most unpleasant. A minuscule camera on a wire was fed through my nose and down my throat, and we were all treated to the "Kate Swallows" show. What it showed was that I need to swallow three or four times before all of my food goes where it's supposed to go. And sometimes it doesn't. Most significant, though--and what I hadn't realized--was that every time I swallow liquid--every time--it goes down the wrong path, where I am in danger of inhaling it. I had noticed I was coughing every time I took a drink, but didn't associate it with choking on my food.

Happily, there is a solution, and it doesn't involve feeding tubes--at least not yet. There's "Swallow Therapy." I had six sessions and learned seven wonderful exercises I can do (and have been doing) every day. Since I haven't gone a day in my life without talking or swallowing, I have no idea how my throat muscles got so lax, but that's what it amounts to. The muscles can be strengthened by doing exercises. Since I have been doing them, I have had no incidences of choking on food. And liquids? All I have to do is remember to duck my head every time I swallow, allowing me to control the path it takes, rather than gravity.

So if it looks like I'm bowing my head in homage each time I take a sip of wine, well, I guess I am.

Scandalous

Difficult as it may be to believe, I was once the victim of a tabloid scandal.

Well, not exactly a tabloid. It was a full-size newspaper. Not a "daily" like they have in big cities. This one was published once a week, but it was a big paper. I know, because when I was in high school, I worked there. I was one of the crew who "stuffed" the papers so they'd be ready for delivery.

The year was 1971, and the paper was The Lapeer County Press. I was Miss Lapeer County, and I had just returned from competing in the the Miss Michigan Pageant. Everyone I worked with was as proud of me as if I'd been a member of their own family. They didn't even care that I hadn't gotten close enough to the Miss Michigan crown to see if it was real. They wanted to hear all about my experience.

But this was more than just me talking to the people at work. This was an official interview, where someone was asking questions and taking notes. It was probably my nerves that made me blurt out inappropriately, "We ate 20 pizzas!" I've regretted it ever since. That headline was taken out of context. If you read the article, you'll see that I was yammering on about how tired we were. (Have you ever tried making a good impression 24/7? It's exhausting!) I talked about how we starved ourselves--especially the day of the swimsuit competition. By the time it was over, we were punchy and hungry.

After the last evening of competition, we were all together in a room, wearing our pajamas, and pizzas were brought in--20 of them. If you read the article, you'll see that there were 38 of us, so that's really only half a pizza plus a few bites for each. But I'm from a big family. I don't think I'd ever had more than two slices of pizza to myself at one meal. I was impressed.

I am sorry that my statement paints a picture of beauty queens as ravenous vultures who can't wait until the party's over so they can bury their faces in thick, cheesy pizza. I know there was a lot of talking and laughing and letting go that night. A lot of pizza was consumed, but it was really not as bad as that scandalous headline might lead you to believe.

A Story About A Story

This was told to me by a friend. He had read my blog yesterday about James Thurber and his backward limericks, and it made him remember a poem he had read in high school. He was not a big fan of poetry, but this one had made a mark on him. It was about two gold prospectors in the Yukon, one of whom was dying. He asked his companion to cremate him so he could feel warm again. My friend couldn't remember the name of the poem--it was "The Cremation of...," and he wondered if I remembered it, or would know how to find it.

He went on to say that when he was stationed in Korea in 1978, he pulled duty on a frigid night with an old Master Sergeant from West Virgina. Staring into the fire and buzzed on coffee, my friend told the Sergeant what he remembered about the poem. The old southerner, in his country voice, recited the poem from start to finish.

I did not remember reading the poem, but then I was not much for poetry in high school, either. Now, though, I was intrigued. The Internet let me type "The Cremation of" before the screen filled with options for "The Cremation of Sam McGee," by Robert W. Service.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Fifteen stanzas in all, its haunting verse literally made me shiver.

Things have a way of working themselves into stories, and I'm glad I heard this one today. Thank you, my friend, for asking me to help you find your poem.

Coming Up Empty

Having once found a bud that was rose,
I created a gay that was nose.
This work that was art
Tugged my strings that were heart,
So I danced in my shoes that were toes.

That is a "backwards limerick." As far as I know, James Thurber invented the art form.

I love Thurber. The first time I went out with My Awesome Husband Greg, we used his mother's car, which had no radio. After Greg had sung me every song he knew, he began reciting Thurber's "The Night the Bed Fell on Father," which he had memorized for drama class. The story was dear to me, because I remembered my dad reading it to us as kids. At the time, that was all the Thurber I knew.

Years later, I learned a lot more. I read every book by or about Thurber that I could carry home from the library.

When I woke up this morning, I knew what I was going to write about. It wasn't Thurber, and it wasn't limericks--backward or otherwise. It was going to be about the poems I wrote for my daughter when she was in college. I was going to share one with you that I liked so much, I kept a copy. It didn't have a name when I wrote it, but in my blog, I was going to call it "Should." I even knew what photo I would put with it.

Alas, the poem wasn't where I thought I had seen it. It wasn't where I thought I mht have put it. It wasn't anywhere I could think of that made sense. I finally gave up looking for
But my time spent searching wasn't wasted, because I found the limerick that opened this post. There were brilliant reverse limericks in one of Thurber's books. I wrote others. I know there are copies of his and mine somewhere in this house. They may never be found, but I hope they will. Along with "Should."

Because this wasn't the post I thought I was going to write today, I feel like I came up empty. If I have a nightmare about a lost poem, I hope it reveals its hiding place before I wake up.

The Memory Keeper

I'm about halfway through the on-line writing class I'm taking. I love it. It has gotten me to think, and it's made me feel like I can do things I never thought I would. One of the first questions we were asked was "Why do you write?" I started writing as a kid, probably a school assignment. I remember how pleased my mom and dad were. I got a lot of encouragement. Positive feedback made me want to do more.

Now, I think I write to put things in order, and to hold on to them. To remember. My memories may not always be one one hundred percent accurate, but they're enough for me to be able to relive a day--the way I felt, the people I was with, what I saw and heard; even what I smelled. That's why I started blogging. I can look back now at some of my earliest posts and realize that, although I may not remember writing them, they still conjure the feelings that I experienced in the telling.

My sister, Karen, does the same thing with her scrapbooks.

Last summer I sent Karen a story I had written about the day we buried our sister, Melissa. Her response was was so beautiful, straight from her heart to mine, that I asked her if she had ever thought about writing. She said no, she could not see herself doing that.

But I realized that for the last twenty years, Karen has gifted our family with memories we can actually touch in the form of her scrapbooks.

Karen is an artist with the heart and patience of a saint. Her earliest books were old-school. She would spend hours in scrapbooking stores, poring over papers and letters and stamps, investing in albums and embellishments. Her home studio was a creative soul's dream.

Now Karen's books are put together on-line. When we hold these works of art, we are holding bound, hardcover books with photographs on the covers as well as on the pages. And Karen does write. She writes wonderful, concise little stories to go with her pictures.

I can't explain what these treasures mean to our family. In my spare room, I have hidden away enough photographs to paper all four walls. I no longer dream of putting them in any kind of order. I don't know what's going to happen to all of those memories. I am just so thankful that what God forgot to give me in the way of organizing skills, he more than made up for when he gave us Karen her gifts of beauty and generosity.

Someday I will tell you about her flower gardens.

Your Assignment For Today...

As I lay in bed this morning looking out my window, I heard a voice say, Your assignment today is to find at least one thing you have in common with everyone you meet.

Okay. You're weird, Voice, but I can do that.

First there was My Awesome Husband Greg bringing me a cup of coffee. I don't have that in common with him. He's always the one who brings the coffee. Hmmmm. We're both skinny. You said one thing, right?

Do cats count? Because the next "person" I met today was Ella. I suppose I have more in common with her than I like to admit. Let's just go with we only want to cuddle when we're in the mood.

Then my son, Dominic, stopped over. He and I have more in common than he would like to admit. We both laugh at things we know we shouldn't laugh at, then we say we're sorry, but we probably really aren't--for laughing, I mean.

The next one was my Sunshine, Jordyn, who came over so we could finally do her birthday lunch and shop for her present. This one is easy. We both love chicken Parmesan, so we split an order at Pastabilities. We also both like to shop at Daisy's consignment shop, even though all the scented candles make us get stuffy heads and start coughing. (I know that's two things. I hope it's okay.)

Now it gets harder--people I don't even know. The lady in the first gift shop we went to--can't remember the name, but it had "Paper" in it--was very friendly, and offered to help us without getting pushy about it. I think I was like that when I worked in the bookstore and the fabric store. We are both good retail people.

The waitress in Pastabilities was also very nice, but I probably would not be a nice waitress. Oh, I'd be okay if it wasn't very busy and all the customers were as pleasant as I am, but I've been a waitress, and I know they're not. So we wouldn't have that in common. Let's see...when I asked if they had a house Cabernet, she said, "Yes, we do," her voice implying that she was quite familiar with it. So we both like Cabernet.

There was a lady at a nearby table who made it very clear what I have in common with her. We're both from Michigan. I knew she was from Michigan, because she kept talking about it in a very loud voice, as if she were giving speech to the Kiwanis Club or something. My daughter says I do that, too, so that's two common things I share with "Miss Michigan."

Last stop, Daisy's. There were lots of people in there, and we were all obviously enjoying ourselves--some of us in spite of the candles. The owner seemed aloof today, so I guess I'm just going to say the thing I have in common with her is we both wear glasses. I would never be aloof if I owned a store like Daisy's.

The girl who rang us up had to check with the other girl on what the little Ginger Snap charm was called so she would know what to charge me. I'm like that. I may now always know, but I can usually figure out who to ask.

And the girl who wrapped our purchases used too much tissue paper. I do that, too. I'm always trying to get rid of the stuff.

Back at home, I met Jordyn's friend, Catherine. Found out we both like watching "Finding Carter," and obviously, we both like hanging out with Jordyn.

I'm drinking wine and I'm not going out again, so I guess that's it. How'd I do, Voice in My Head?

Semantics--A Blog That Rhymes

I prefer slightly mad to bat-shit crazy;
I prefer reading a book to being lazy.
I prefer collecting treasure to hoarding junk
And I like nourishing my soul more than getting drunk.

I like cheese and crackers more than cookies and cream;
I like going with the flow more than swimming upstream;
I like gentle snow more than driving rains
And I prefer childlike notions to growing pains.

Give me mincemeat cookies, not kidney pie;
Give me dreams I can nurture, not pie in the sky;
Give me children's laughter, not perfect pitch
And I'm a strong-willed woman, not a stubborn bitch.

I wear rose-colored glasses, I'm not naive;
I embellish the truth, but I don't deceive;
I buy my happiness, not waste my money
And I prefer subtle humor to slapstick funny.

I'd rather be dysfunctional than just a nut;
I'd rather be an escort than just a slut.
I'd rather be acquaintances than fair weather friends
And I like gentle closures more than bitter ends...

This poem has now come to a gentle closure, i.e.,

The End.

This Kid

This kid--the one I will probably always think of as my Sunshine--is thirteen now.

I met this kid when she was just a few hours old. I looked into her perfect little face and gave her a piece of my heart, which she will own forever.

I have written birthday blogs for her before. It's hard to think of new ways to say how much I love her. But this is a milestone birthday. She's a teenager now(!) That means I will have to love her in a new way...

She no longer wriggles with joy as soon as she sees me. That would be awkward.

I can no longer tell her "I love you" a bazillion times a day, although I do still say it a lot.

When it comes to that, I no longer see her every day. She doesn't need me to pick her up after school. She comes over to spend time on her days off, but not because she needs to--maybe not even because she misses me. Maybe because she knows how much I miss seeing her. I love that about her.

She still likes to sleep over, but now, instead of curling up with me, she has her own room. That's okay. I sleep better that way, too.

I still love taking her places--to lunch, to a movie, the bookstore, the library, shopping. She's actually a more agreeable companion now than she was when she was two or three. But I used to love taking her places, and having people think she was my granddaughter. I would tell them she was my "imaginary" granddaughter.

I no longer have to worry about her wandering off and getting lost when I take her places, but I can't help but feel like I am losing her--at least the baby part of her.

As birthday blogs go, this one seems random to me. I have mixed feelings about this birthday. It's late. I wasn't aware that I was putting off writing this post, but maybe I was, subconsciously. I love this kid, and I'm excited for her to be on the threshold of her teenage years, and everything that comes with them. I want her to know that I am always here, and I hope we will stay close.

Happy Birthday, Jordyn Paige Gottlieb. Some of the truest words I ever say to you are that I will love you forever.

Remembering Janet

They never said blogging would be easy. Sometimes it is, but this one is hard to write. It's about my friend Janet. We didn't get a chance to be friends very long, but in the six months I knew her, I came to feel like she was my sister. I guess bonds are formed quickly when you know you don't have much time.

Janet with my "borrowed babies,"--her granddaughters--Taylor and Jordyn, November 2002

When I met Janet, she was living in Greensboro, but traveling back and forth to New York for her cancer treatments. What struck me first was her fierceness. She told me that when I offered to take care of Taylor while her mommy and daddy were at work, she thought I was trying to take her place as grandmother. Thankfully, I got her to see that I was only looking for someone to play with. It was Taylor who got us together to paint ceramics, because we both liked to paint, and we both loved her. Good call, Taylor.

Janet loved her family and her friends, and she made me feel welcome in whatever group she was in. She beamed one day when I told her that Taylor had said, "But, Kate, you are family, because I'm used to you." Janet made me love her, and she made me want desperately for her to get better so Jordyn could also grow to know this courageous, funny, creative grandma.

I only know young Janet from her stories. I know she did not have an easy life, but she was happy. She loved her life, and she was not ready to leave. She reminded me of Taylor when Mommy or Daddy would come to pick her up while she was still playing. "I'm not ready to go yet," she would wail. Well, Janet was still playing, and she was definitely not ready to go.

Today would be Janet's 64th birthday. She died 13 years ago, when Jordyn was only a few months old, but she still speaks to me through her emails. It's all there in her messages--her fears, her anger, her love and her hopes. She made me laugh at her stories; like the time she woke up in the middle of the night and cut lips out of a rubber stamp because she wanted to use them on a frog she was painting. She had no memory of having done it the next day, but the evidence was there. Actually, Janet made me laugh a lot. We had fun.



I think this picture of Janet and her son, Jason, must have been taken in the late 1970's. I wish I had known her then, when we had years of living ahead of us. I can only be thankful for the short time that I knew her.

Happy Birthday, Janet. Be at peace, my friend.

I Was Thinking...

My Awesome Husband Greg eating ice cream in Muskegon, Michigan, July 2013.


I was thinking about how you always fall asleep halfway through an episode of Seinfeld with your mouth open and your head cocked off at a weird angle, and sometimes you don't even close your eyes; but then...

I thought about how you get up at 5:30 every morning, even on weekends, to let the cat out and start the coffee, and how you always bring me a cup with a straw in it and set it on my bedside table so I can just lean over and sip it as I lie there looking out the window, waking up gently.

I was thinking about how there are always wet, sweaty clothes (yours, not mine) draped in the laundry room and the bathroom and on the deck and in the garage, and it seems like they're never going to find their way to the laundry hamper; but then...

I thought about how a few times a week--if it's not raining too hard, but sometimes if it's been raining for several days, and you feel like you've got to "just do it," you dress for the weather, put on your shoes and hit the road running so you can stay strong and healthy and alert--yes, for you, but also for me--and I don't have to worry and nag you about getting enough exercise.

I was thinking about how you borrowed my best tweezers the other day--the ones that belonged to my mom, and I've never been able to find another pair that worked as well--and did God knows what (I probably don't want to know) with them, and then you didn't put them back in the tray, and I had to call you at work to find out if you knew where they were, and you had to think about it for a while before you called me back and told me to look in the pocket of your green shorts, and you are sooooooooo damned lucky they were there; but then...

I thought about how if you have anything that I need, you are more than willing to let me have/use/wear/drink/eat/sell/read/break it, and if you don't have something I need, you'll go to the store and get it for me.

I was thinking about how you lose your temper quickly, with little prompting (oh, all right--after I've pushed a few of your buttons), and you yell at me very vigorously; but then...

I thought how you go out and come back in and you're not mad anymore, and neither am I, and we've been married for 42 years, probably because of stuff like that, and I love you very much.