Mary Gabriel

I've just found out that our dear friend, Mary Gabriel, passed away in a house fire last night in her home in Berea, Ky.

As far back as my memory of being aware that I am a Baha'i there is a memory of Mary. She has had at least two strokes that I know. Major strokes. The first one when she was in her forties, she woke up and couldn't move anything. Finally her daughter, Suzanne, came in to find out why her mom wasn't up and about yet to find her mother incapacitated. Mary struggled back after that. She was an instructor at Clatsop Community College for eons. I think she was in Phys Ed., but now that I think about it I don't know for sure. She was always in matching sweat outfits.

I can't imagine the pain that her children and grandchildren are going through, now. She flew out of Berea at least a dozen trips a year visiting them. She was ever practical, such a dry, dry sense of humor. Right now, the humor that I can remember I laugh but do not write, too personal and maybe something which grandchildren wouldn't so much want to know about grandmas!!!

So sorry to see you go, old friend, so sorry to see you go! You taught me a lot about courage, being tough, fighting hard, letting go, hanging on, giving it your all and protecting the children. You will be missed and although I know you are closer than my life vein, you are behind the veil that does not lift from this side. Look over us, remember us, love us and as we will for you.

Good-bye dear friend.

And thank-you, dear Sali, for your kindness in letting this family know of her passing. I won't forget how generous you were in keeping us in the loop.

Tagging Along

I am really not sure whether or not I have been tagged, however I haven't posted forever and my sister is probably tapping her fingers thinking I have been lazing about and abusing our mother so I will use the questions from MOT's tag for my post today.

Q. What were you doing 10 years ago?

A: We were raising 4 fifteen year old daughters (and hubby was growling at TH) and a 14 year old son, still homeschooling but they were taking a few classes at CCC by then. I was commuting to Roy Washington and working half the month as the manager of a multi-cultural family retreat, designing programs and helping kids w/homework via the computer and fax machine.

Q. Name 5 snacks you enjoy.

A. Pink Lady apples, cold and crisp; Saya Snow Pea Crisps; dried mangos; hard peanutbutter cookies; popcorn (any kind, but especially Orville Reddenbockers sweet corn popcorn).

Q. Things I would do if I were a billionaire

A. WOW! Pay off all debts. Pay hoquq! Buy house for each member of fam. Hire a lawyer. Okay, okay, of course, TH, yeah, you'd get yours and we'd take "them" on. Hire a lawyer. Did I mention that? Hire a lawyer. Then while TH and the lawyers were handling things hubby and I would travel and invest in people, but only after we had worked with them to see if what they were doing was sustainable and actually what "the people" wanted, where ever they were in the world.

Q. Five jobs that I have had

A: maid at RedLion, waitress at House of Chan, self-employed children's care giver, manager of multi-cultural retreat, member of board of directors for same

Q. Three bad habits

A: Ummm. procrastination, obsessively compulsive, addicted to ...

Q. Five places I have lived

A: Astoria, Olney, Svenson, Youngs River, Walluski (What? Shut yur face, I could have named five different blocks I lived on) note: i had to change the Alderbrook answer because hubby says technically where we lived was not Alderbrook, however I had forgotten the year out in Youngs River when the girls bedrooms burned down!

Q. Five people I want to know more about:

A:
1) Paula @ On a Rainy Night
2) LA @ The Art of Astorian Housewifery
3) Elizabeth @ Life in the Great Northwet
4) Jen @ Highliners and Homecomings
5) Aubrey @ Breeeish

Papa's Posse & Paparoni

I do not carry around photos of my children or my grandchildren. I never have. My husband is the sentimentalist with the pictures and the remembering of the anniversary (the 25th, 25th, 25th I think I'll remember it, someone order flowers for me, okay?) the birthdays, etc ... And his reward? One of them is this little guy who names his food after his papa.

And this other little guy who's best friend is his papa, no matter how infrequently we see him he has hugs and kisses for Papa but 'Bika? Sometimes he recalls who I am and other times he's not so sure.

The other little guy has adopted "papa" for his own and greets him with very deep chortles of delight (my gosh he has a deep voice for such a little tyke). And this is Papa's Posse. No matter how late he comes through the door if one of the posse are here he is ready to flop on the floor and play cars with them, or talk in funny voices with the assortment of stuffed animals or power rangers. Or watch Animal Planet with them and say, "Ooooo grooossss" at all the right moments.

With each of these kids one of their first words were "Papa"! And it is no wonder, since it was a word that brings the most rewards. It is Papa's lap they sit on when they are tired, and his shoulder they cry on when mean ole 'Bika has said "no," his hands that hold the treats and his face that makes the funniest looks, and his mouth that laughs the loudest.

For a man who was never "blessed" with a child of his "own blood" one would never know it to see him surrounded by these squealing children demanding their share of his "Paparoni" (that he buys almost daily under the name of pepperoni at the Tillamook Country Smoker), the name bestowed on this wonderous treat by the child in the top picture. Something so marvelous must carry the name of something else even more marvelous, obviously.

The other night we were treated to twenty minutes of dueling air guitars by the three year old and his papa. Back and forth they went trying to outdo one another, using youtube's Jack Black and the Chinese Dormitory boys for backup. The crowd went wild - we really did to, it was the funniest thing to see both the 3 year old's and the 47 year old's rendition of "the sprinkler" while hanging on to their air guitars.

Sentiment does appear to have its upside. I can't wait until he has the whole posse together for an air band jam session (then again, maybe I can).

Ornery is as ornery does

Our mother is probably one of the most orneriest people I have ever known. To say she is stubborn is a complete understatement. On her first day of school the bell rang for the children to line up and go inside. She was stunned when the children all ran and obeyed. She tried to convince them that there were more of them than there were teachers and they should all just stay outside and play, what could they do? But everyone else got into line and finally, when she couldn't convince anyone to stay and play, she did, too. But she didn't like it.

While I was growing up I thought I was entirely different than my mother. I would have been HORRIFIED to try to convince the children to rebel against the bell! And yet, my mother reminds me, she got a phone call from a mother who said I was no longer to talk to her son. Now, you are probably snickering. Was I boy crazy? Was I pestering the young lad? We were in second grade. I wasn't allowed to talk to him any longer because he was a Jehovah's Witness and he was supposed to go to the library while the rest of the class had their halloween party.

I was shocked that he had to leave while the rest of us had our party, and he was so sad! I convinced the poor child that it was no different than any other moment in a classroom of laughing children, because it was what you believed in your heart. If he didn't BELIEVE it was a religious holiday, if he just thought of it as having fun with his friends, it wasn't really "celebrating" a pagan holiday. So, he stayed. And, he brought home his halloween candy. Obviously, he didn't use my argument very effectively with his mother! My mother informed me that while I didn't do something wrong, I really didn't do something right. I should not come between a child and the parents' beliefs.

I do wonder what would have happened if my mother hadn't been the type to try to organize playground rebellions.

A few years later I had a teacher that still used the paddle to not only discipline but supposedly as a learning "encouragement" tool. If you didn't memorize a poem by the day set for reciting you were "hacked". There was one boy in class that was "hacked" every single day for not memorizing something, or for not using some social grace, or for being last to get in line. I began getting ulcers in the fifth grade. This man made me physically ill. Every single "class party" day he would make this boy go to the neighboring class room and miss it for some imagined slight.

Our Christmas party my mother was the "homeroom" mom. She brought the treats and helped disperse and clean up. I was the room monitor in coordination with my mom. My mother brought a store bought sheet cake from Home Bakery, just the very best thing! The teacher asked me to bring a piece of cake to each of the other fifth grade teachers with some punch. I delivered the cake slices with punch, one at a time and as I came into the classroom with the boy who had been banished from our class he looked up and said, "OH! Is that for me?" so hopefully, that to this day my heartaches. I replied, "No, but I'll be right back with yours" and brought the teacher up her piece.

I then went back into the classroom and up to my mother and told her what had happened. She cut the biggest piece and handed it to me on a plate. I picked up the cup of juice and started across the room and out the door when my teacher called to me. "Where are you going? Didn't you already take cake to all the fifth grade teachers?"

"I am bringing this to Jeff," I replied. "Oh, I don't know about that!" he said. I was trembling as he stomped towards me. And suddenly my mother was standing there. "But I do," she said quietly, "I told her it was the right thing to do, don't you agree?" The teacher stood there looking at my mother and she at him. "Of course I agree, I was just going to do it myself," he said and reached for the plate. My mom gave me a shove, "No, let her," and out I hustled.

The look on Jeff's face was pure joy! The next day winter break began. I hope life wasn't harder when we got back from break. I hope the teacher didn't bear grudges. I really don't remember. I know it didn't get better. I know my mom was startled years later when I told her how much a truly, truly, truly hated fifth grade. Although I do know Abou Ben Adam may his tribe increase ..., and Four Score and seven years ago our father brought forth on this continent a new nation ... it took me years later to enjoy and understand them.

It is odd, though, how that fifth grade class prepared me for things in my later life. I really hate confrontations, and I don't go out looking for them, but neither do I allow them to side step me from doing what is right. And, if I can't convince anyone to join me, I can always decide to get in line or leave the playground.

For #4

My littlest sister keeps checking back on my tired old blog and I keep disappointing her. She should know better, however. Our whole family has Chronic Focus Disorder - CFD (our kinder term for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a family that goes crazy together doesn't commit one another). Whatever task we have before us basically consumes us. I think that's how we made it across the ocean and then across the continent just to make it this far west "back in the day" before being in the far east once again . Like our forefathers (and mothers) we remain a very "focused" herd of people.

Our mother has been known to scrub out the bathtub tile, with a toothbrush, fifteen minutes before we were to leave for Christmas Eve dinner at our aunt's home. When we take on a new job the whole family usually takes a vote on it because if it is too "much" we will literally lose that person for a year or so. We vote to see if the job is worthy of the person they are getting and we are loosing. We are the dedicated worker who takes on all the tasks that everyone else has learned to say "No" to. We organize the place, pull it out of the red and put it into the black, negotiate and win over tough customers, all the while the household falls apart unless we've pulled in another family member to take over there (and change the perfect spot where the potholders go or else the universe will cease to exist as we know it).

Psychologically many have said it is because we are so egotistical we can't believe someone else will do as well as we will do (or secretly we are afraid they will). Others have said it is because we don't have control of any other area of our life so we micro-manage where we can. As someone with CFD I can state that while those things may be side effects what really drives me is a thirst to "know". I want to know if the plan of action I have set in motion will work. I want to know if my hypothesis is correct. But even more, I think the end result isn't half as important as the process in getting there and if I am not there to take part in the process I won't KNOW how it worked.

What we haven't learned is moderation. I think, of course, I am a little bit better than the generation before me (and a little bit better than my siblings, if truth be told). I would not, for instance, arrange a vacation cruise around my car's maintenance schedule. I'm just saying. However, just try serving my rice with a freaking silver serving spoon. I swear if one more of my kids does that I will bury that spoon where the sun does not shine (which around here is most any place). You work all day on a holiday meal and then they stick a silver serving spoon in the rice! Or use paper napkins with dinner! Now that's just plain disgusting and rude. Hahahaha!

When most of my siblings and cousins get together it is chaos. Fifteen micro-managers with their corresponding parent(s), fingers itching to "finish" the project at hand, with our own ideas of how it would make life so much easier for the world if done using "my" theories.

No wonder we no longer all live in one town! Not even Seattle could contain my cousins. My own siblings have had to spread out to different areas of the world, all of us on one continent is a little too much for those around us.

So, dear number four, as you may have guessed, I have started a new job and am "focused" and slightly neglectful. What's that? You have a new job, too? Oh! I do have a suggestion or two that will work perfect for you and if you don't use it, well, I think the world just might possibly end. Maybe.

Pupil of the Eye

Debunked

As you know by now if something says it has been researched I want to see the proof. When I saw this on a local forum and received it in my email I remembered back to when it first was making its rounds.

Olny sarmt ploepe can raed tihs

I cndolu't bvlieee taht I culod autclay uesdrantnd waht I was rndaieg. The poanhoemal pwoer of the hmaun mnid, aodcrincg to a rcehsecaerehr at an Elgsinh Utvinersiy, it dsone't mteatr in waht odrer the ltreets in a wrod are, the olny irpmoatnt tnhig is taht the fsirt and lsat lteter be in the rghit pcale The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sltil raed it woihtut a pelorbm. Tihs is bseucae the hmaun mnid deos not raed ervey lteetr by ilstef but the wrod as a wlhoe. Aznamig huh? Yaeh and I aylaws tughoht slinpleg was irmtapont! If you can raed tihs psas it on!

If, however, you were unable to read the scramble above and don't know what it is asking you to do, let's try it again below.

Olny srmat poelpe can raed tihs. I cdnuol't blveiee taht I cluod altaucly uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rcseareher at an Ensligh Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! if you can raed tihs psas it on !!









Most people are amused that they can read the paragraph in this rendering and readily agree as to why they can do so:

Only smart people can read this.

I couldn’t believe that I could actually understand what I was reading. The phenomenal power of the human mind, according to a researcher at an English University, it does not matter in what order the letters in a word are, the only important thing is that the first and the last letter be in the right place.The rest can be total mess and you can still read it without a problem. This is because the human mind does not read every letter by itself , but the word as a whole. Amazing huh! Yeah and I always thought spelling was important! If you can read it pass it on!!

When this first went around my homeschooled kids cheered. Hahaha mom, see, you really don't need spelling! My son, however, was a good speller and stared at it puzzled. Do you see what was done in the second rendering of the paragraph that, though slightly scrambled, makes it much more readable than the first? The letters are switched in a pattern (often mirrored) and your mind quickly picks up the pattern and automatically makes the adjustment in the rest of the words.







uesdnatnrd unsdeatrnd undseartnd undesratnd understand?

It is a fascinating ability of the mind to look for patterns and automatically assimilate them. However, that is not the conclusion that the paragraph is telling you to come to. The power of suggestion, eh? A trick within a trick. How often do we fall prey to them?

Baha'i Children's Classes on NPR!

"It sounds like the start of a bad joke: A Jew, a Baptist and a Baha'i get together every Sunday morning ..."

NPR news article regarding one of the types of children's classes that Hubby and I teach facilitators how to do as well as host ourselves. This summer we plan to hold a couple week long summer sessions for children, pre-youth and youth. The pre-youth and youth classes, of course, are markedly different than the children's classes.

The Junior Youth series is designed to build reading, vocabulary, and problem solving skills. Future books for the series will include math and the sciences.

Youth classes use the RUHI course materials with the only difference being at their own pace (about two or three times faster than adult classes) and more music.

All of the classes are centered around strengthening communities. First the individual learns to strengthen themselves, then they learn how important their contribution to society is and how to develop tools within themselves to help communities be a better place to live for everyone.

Anyone interested in attending children, pre-youth, youth or adult classes can email the local Baha'i RUHI coordinators (serving Clatsop and Tillamook Counties). Classes are open to people of any religion or philosophy, send email to: bahaicoast at twowings dot net.

I am deliberately keeping this blog entry short. The NPR article does a very good job describing a Baha'i children's class and I encourage you to go there and either read it or listen to the news story about it.

Secondhand Lions

I only got to watch the last 15 minutes of a movie that I have been looking forward to watching all week because I totally forgot it was on, instead the tube was hogged by people watching some basketball game or another. Natch! I love this movie, too! A great example of story telling. I wonder if I got it as an audio if it would be just as good?

When we would go camping when the children were young we would bring books on tape/cd and in the evenings (or afternoons if it was a rainy trip) we would put the tape/cd on and watch the fire as books came alive in our minds. We listened to the Lord of the Rings, Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, and Pride and Prejudice are the ones that I can immediately think of. Games of cribbage or dice (played to 25,000) or endless rounds of Yahtzee would also be played as we sat listening to the voices, each of our own mini-movies spinning in our heads.

When Hubby and I gave a class on teaching children's classes we showed a series of movies that featured the art of story telling. So much of what we teach our children can be best taught (and best learned) through a story and it is wonderful to see that this is not a lost art. And art it is. Over on Auntie's blog she had a contest for people to name a piece of art. Most people couldn't stop with a name, they gave it a mini-story.

When I read the blogs of others there are so many stories out there. Often what I read is obviously something that the writer has either told or heard numerous times. Oral story being preserved in the written form. I read the words aloud to my family and a little later I overhear one of them retelling it over the phone to one of their friends. Yes, it has changed a little, much like the stories of the secondhand lions. How much of the story is what actually happened and how much of it is what all players wished happened? How much of it is colored for a better effect, or a worse one? Would the original cast recognize their roles?

The beauty of the word and how it caresses the idea giving the creator the opportunity to communicate love, anger, joy, sadness, ecstasy, despair is one of the most important things that a parent, mentor, can give to a child.

Good-By Ha, Hello Fast

Let the days in excess of the months be placed before the month of fasting. We have ordained that these, amid all nights and days, shall be the manifestations of the letter Ha, and thus they have not been bounded by the limits of the year and its months. It behoveth the people of Baha, throughout these days, to provide good cheer for themselves, their kindred and, beyond them, the poor and needy, and with joy and exultation to hail and glorify their Lord, to sing His praise and magnify His Name; and when they end -- these days of giving that precede the season of restraint -- let them enter upon the Fast. (Baha'u'llah, Synopsis and Codification of the Kitab-i-Aqdas, p. 13)

Fasting and obligatory prayer constitute the two pillars that sustain the revealed Law of God. Bahá'u'lláh in one of His Tablets affirms that He has revealed the laws of obligatory prayer and fasting so that through them the believers may draw nigh unto God. Shoghi Effendi indicates that the fasting period, which involves complete abstention from food and drink from sunrise till sunset, is ...essentially a period of meditation and prayer, of spiritual recuperation, during which the believer must strive to make the necessary readjustments in his inner life, and to refresh and reinvigorate the spiritual forces latent in his soul. Its significance and purpose are, therefore, fundamentally spiritual in character. Fasting is symbolic, and a reminder of abstinence from selfish and carnal desires. (The Kitab-i-Aqdas, p. 176)

The above is in answer to friends' questions regarding why Bahá'ís fast. Personally, I love this time of year. The prayers for fasting bring me peace, make me think, contemplate what I am presently doing, what I want to be doing, is it in accordance with being a Bahá'í and what does "being a Bahá'í" mean?

Totally opening my mind to possibilities, which at times can be quite terrifying and others reassuring. It is a time to free oneself from the mistakes of the past year, while reaffirming what went right. Acknowledging debts owed, making plans for repayment. Understanding why things went wrong, how things went right. Puzzling about things and comprehending that, yet again, it may remain unresolved. Taking one step closer to just being.

Physically, I become more conscious of the day. I am up before the dawn and watch the sun rise with my morning prayers, I say my evening prayers with the sun going down. I am much more aware that spring is upon us and our daylight hours are growing longer. Nature and my spirit both seem to unfold at the same time, a little bit more each day. I am reminded that it does not happen all at once, but by degrees. Sometimes so slowly that unless I am looking for it, I don't even realize it is happening.

My First Rant

Intrigued by the rant posts of others' blogs, I have decided to do my own rant.

I hate that:



I am so damn stubborn I waste hours, days and weeks on a line of thought that could easily be resolved by looking at it from someone else's point of view.



Eight times out of ten my husband, mother, father, child or grandchild is correct in the argument and I am, gulp, wrong.



I take an offense when none is intended, am offensive when I don't intend to be, try to offend and no one notices.


Am, apparently, able to write on multiple forums without any conscience knowledge of doing so.


Write my best pieces about an hour before I wake and forget them within three minutes of rising.


I most often forget to thank those who deserve to be thanked the most.


Generally forget to give more than I receive.


There are so many in this county who do so much more than I do to make this community a better place to live in. I should appreciate what they do, instead of griping about what they don't do.


So many living so very near by have so much less and I still consume too much, recycle too little, overspend and under save.


Whatever the December storm taught me, I have forgotten too soon.


In most people I dislike, I see some part of myself.

Hold Me 'Bika

The sound of an umbrella unfurling over my head wakens me. As my eyes peel open a little voice lisps, "'Amorning, 'Bika!" "Good morning baby, Allah-u-abha," I murmur back. I stare up at the umbrella. It is black with swirls of red through it, looking like waves of fire. He is twirling it over my head as he unsteadily settles next to me. It is a large umbrella, old fashioned with a wooden handle, and as one of the spokes plunges towards my eye I put my hand out to grab it. "How did he manage to get this into bed without gouging my eye out?" I think. "Baby, why do we have an umbrella in bed with us?" I inquire. "It maybes going to rain, I think," he says. His voice is fuzzy and I look over at him. His cheeks are very rosy and his normally sunny blue eyes are stormy gray. "How do you feel, baby boy?" "'Bika, I don't feel good. My back's mad at me. It's hurting me." "Can we close the umbrella?" I ask. "Oh, sure, sure!" he says. It's his new saying for the month. "Oh, sure, sure," and he pats the air reassuringly. I wonder which one of us he has picked that up from. Such a small baby boy, my grandson. What was it, day before yesterday when my baby boy was just as small?

"'Bika, can you hold me?" "Sure, sure," I say, not quite certain if I picked it up from him or vice-versa, at this point. He snuggles in next to me and lays his head on my chest. He is so warm. I rub his back. Yesterday my other baby, this one's twenty-four year old uncle, had stopped by to play a game. It was his day off and he had asked if him and I could spend some time together and play, "Axis and Allies." He hadn't had time for his old mom in quite a while so though I had a jazillion writing assignments to research and finish I knew these opportunities don't come often so I thought, "What can a little game hurt?" Nine hours later I told him I just didn't have it in me to try to defeat Japan and Germany any longer. Sorry, World War Two must end in a stalemate." He said he had grown tired of the game two hours earlier but thought I was enjoying it so didn't want to ruin my fun!

Throughout the whole game Kaden had to be entertained with various side games. We all play with his stuffed animals with him and use different voices so he is doing that now. As the day progressed he went from happy boy to grumpy boy to whiney boy. Then to quiet boy. That's when, "'Bika, hold me," became his mantra. "Can you hold me, now, 'Bika?" So I would take him up and roll dice or move my "army" with one hand while holding him to my chest, rocking and and making sushy noises. The older boy, who was this small it seems, what, just yesterday(?) and now could easily hold me, patiently explained for the hundredth time why I couldn't attack one of his countries since my planes weren't strong enough to fly back to safe territory. Men play by too many rules! No wonder they don't like women in wars. So, I say, my planes are kamikaze. He protests, You aren't Japan and kamikaze aren't in the rules, anyways. So, I say, my pilots have parachutes and they are meeting up with the Resistance after they bomb and bail out of their crippled planes. And he protests, Moooommmm! So, I say, Okay, okay! Sure, sure, have it your way.


"'Bika, can you hold me?" I look down into those eyes. I have stories that need to be completed. I have research that needs to be done. I look over at my son, who, just hours ago, was this tiny and small. "Yes, 'Bika can hold you baby." I scoop him up and hold him. Too soon he will be too big to hold. Too soon he won't have the time for me. Too soon, it will be tomorrow and the day after. I will take this moment in time and treasure it. "Yes, baby, yes, 'Bika can hold you."

Happy Birthday TH!

HARTILL Power

Tryan said “Being born was great for me,”
he couldn’t see how anyone could call it a chore.

And every year he’s pleased to see,
That it’s him we all adore.

He prances about shouting over dale and hill:

“Bloggers flock right and left to stay close to me;
They claim to know me well.
They’re proud to know a celebrity,
And gee, I know they’re swell,

They celebrate, they laugh and sing,
And gifts on me they shower.
I must have done a wondrous thing,
My birthday cries, HARTILL POWER!”

Requiem

Winter months of solitude bring thoughts of death. What might have been, what still might be, what was, was not, and won't.

I have prepared Muslim, Christian, and Baha'i mortal remains for their final resting place. Very few acts of service have I been allowed to do that have honored me more. I have been honored to be called mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend. Cousin, niece, aunt. I long to be called Baha'i, but that isn't really for here. It is what I call myself but if I will be called that only time will tell.


In preparing someone's loved one's remains for their final rest it is truly unbelievable the amount of trust they have in you and it is with a shock each time when I realize how much they wish to know that this last act is taken so solemnly, so carefully, and done so sacredly with love. Your hands are their hands, your eyes are theirs, your lips, theirs, as you chant the prayers they want said. Your ears theirs as you listen to the music they wish played and your minds eye theirs, too, as you see the life of "once was" passing softly as wisps from the smoke of candle wicks, sputtering in soft evening light.

Attar of rose oil rubbed into the skin, the more pure and pungent leaves my hands tinged purple, and then the body is wrapped in swathes of silk. Round and round, billowing up and down, and around and tucked in. A final cocoon and hand stitched so as to not become disturbed with the rocking of the casket. A few times, on this final wrap, an assortment of pins frames the face or adorns the chest. "#1 Dad" reads one, "Love" says another, a shamrock pin, a bowling pin, a teddy bear. Love notes to be tucked in now. A poem from a grandchild, a drawing from nephew, a song sheet from an old love. Closure, the ache shared is not as heavy as those born alone.

I think of these caskets of love. The honor that people give in these last moments and I think of those who die alone, none to honor them, love them, hold them, wash this world from them and today I ache for them. So much senseless death, so many dieing alone, so many not caring from one moment to the next who is going without when they are so focused on who has more then they do. And I ache for them.

A child, alone, no one to hold it for those final moments, no one to wash the cares away, the soil that was this world, rest the head on the pillow, kiss the closed eye good night, to say good-bye. And I ache for that one.

Dressing for Today

I don't like to be lied to.

I don't like to be patronized.

I don't like to be put off.

I don't like to be ignored.

I don't like people to use their perceived power to hurt people.

I don't like crybabies.

So, today, I think I'm gonna kick some ass.

Big girls don't cry

Yesterday was one of those days which I wanted to spend in tears. You know those days? When what you have to do is hard, so hard because what you are doing is affecting peoples' lives and what you are finding out are things that are shocking and what you really didn't want to know. By the end of the day I really didn't like people so much. A defense mechanism goes up, I think, where, if you don't like anyone what you have to do just doesn't matter?

I think people think I am made of concrete. Or maybe steel. Maybe no tissue, no blood coursing through me or tears pour out of me. Maybe they think that I can find all of this out and not want to just scream, or throw things, or vomit. I ran around interviewing people Thursday, and leaving messages, and begging for records. Records, which I came to find out, others didn't have to go through the same process I did. Records which appear to be kept from me. Why? Because of the information I am after? Shit! That means what I am after is on target? Shit, shit, shit!

Friday one real important meeting and then people start calling me. Right and left people are calling. Confirmation after confirmation. People wanting to tell their story. So many people talking I grow tired of hearing people talk, but I still need to clarify a few points and I still don't have the paperwork from records. I do, however get the "exciting" news that they released the same records to someone else. That can go into the story.

I don't think they are the same records I am asking for. I hope not. We will see. I get a call back from a few other official sources and read legal documents. So much to read and my eyes are burning, my chest is throbbing, my throat is raw. Obviously, I've got the crud.

So, last night to release all of that pent up sadness I watched the Netflix that had arrived in the mail, Two Weeks, with Sally Field. Oh my gosh. I cried within the first 15 minutes and didn't stop until it was over. My mom and dad watched it with me, which was nice. They don't do that often, sit and watch a movie on the big screen. They asked me if I was crying because I was thinking of them dying and being there when it happened or if I was thinking of my children watching me die? Who was I identifying with?

Actually, neither. I was just crying because all day I had wanted to cry and cry and cry. But I couldn't. I had my big girl pants on all the while knowing what I wanted was to peel them off, throw them into the hamper, crawl back into bed, pull the blankets up over my head and pretend I didn't know a damn thing and hope the big pink elephant trampling the county would disappear, on its own, without me doing anything.

But it won't. So, today I got up, put on another pair of big girl pants, got another interview which confirmed another fear, had a wonderful birthday with my grandson, spent time with the hubby, read more legal documents brought over by my editor that an attorney had sent to us, and made plans for tomorrow. The movie for tonight? Driving Lessons. I hope it makes me laugh. I want to, after this week. Long and hard.

The Pace of My Life

We are a family of pacers. We don't sit and think, we pace and think and many of our friends are pacers. What is it about motion that seems to help the thought process? I watch Blues Clues with my grandson and the main character encourages the kids to sit and think about the clues. Sit? My grandson knows better, you only sit if you have needle work in your hands. Or in his case, needle unwork.

The other day I was pacing in the kitchen and our friend was pacing in the green room. My mother paced in back and forth, commiserating with each of us. I left the kitchen, paced through the green room to pace the hallway for a different perspective but hubby was already there, pacing with a cell phone in his hands, talking to a contractor, on his day off. Back through the green room into the kitchen but I had vacated and Eldest had taken it and was pacing with her cell, making a hand flicking motion that I shouldn't "bother" her with my pacing.

I paced on to the pink room, where I did stop my pacing. To gaze transfixed into the fireplace. I have found that the one thing that can stop a pacer is an open flame. The dancing flickers gave my legs a rest while my mind still raced. Back and forth, up and down, pace, pace, pace. Then slowly, calm came. Puzzle pieces began to fall into place. This step should lead to that one, which could mean this was so, which meant the possibilities there were open and thus.

Back to the computer, quickly acting before I lose the inspiration, pulling the story together. Fingers fly over the keyboard. Slight distraction. What the heck? Why are all of these people walking around? So annoying! Why don't they hurry up and come to their inspiration? Where was I again? Shoot! What was that thought? Where was I going with that line of reasoning? Why are my legs so figgety? Oh, I better get up, what room is open? Why doesn't it quit raining? Crap! Too many people are here pacing, pacing, pacing.

For I am their leader, and there they go

Being the eldest I was always in the middle. I was the one that babysat so the rest of the kids saw me as middle-management, yet when something went wrong I was punished as one of the kids. I sat with the kids at the holiday dinners and in the middle seat of the station wagon on long drives. We lived next door to my aunt who had four kids, we had five kids in our family and one of my mom and aunt's best friends had five boys, all younger than me. Yeah, 14 kids and I was the eldest.

On our street we had the Vetriceks and right down the way the Hansons. From those families have come police officers. Chuckle. Could have predicted that from the games played. Anyhow, back to me. I led the fourteen of us (plus whatever neighborhood gang was there) up hill and over dale. We combed the woods from 19th and Irving to 25th and up to the Column. We knew where the overgrown long forgotten gardens were and each spring had the best pick of flowers to sell door to door. Each day we wanted to we could sell about $15 worth of flowers, which back in the day was quite a bit. Each older kid would team up with two of the little kids and go door to door using the little kids to hold out the bouquets and look up adoringly. I don't remember ever setting a price on those flowers. People just gave us whatever they wanted to.

We would also organize parades. "Give a hoot don't pollute" was very profitable for us. We would make cardboard signs and hang them around our necks, with various slogans regarding polluting on them. Then half of us would have kazoos and the other half would have cymbals, blocks, and an assortment of other noise makers. We would parade up and down 19th street screaming, "GIVE A HOOT DON'T POLLUTE" until one of the neighbors came out and gave us fudge sickles or money to run down to Public Market for treats. We thought it was in praise of our efforts! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

In the evenings we would put on "shows" and charge admission. One of our most popular shows was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It was very, very dramatic and we were asked to perform this one many times, to my recollection. My parent's and aunt's friends were duly impressed and paid us for their tickets. We even gave this performance for a Tupperware party or two!

Imagine my surprise when one of my sisters called me a while back to ask if she was having a horrible dream or if I had actually really and truly made her blow a kazoo in a Give a Hoot Don't Pollute parade! Made her? You begged me to be in it, was my memory. You have got to be kidding, was hers. You threatened our lives if we didn't. She's crazy, always has been.

Now, that shook me up a bit. A leader doesn't like it when the troops have different memories. This was a glorious memory of our childhood. Checking in with other members of our past and it seems that quite a few of them have been discussing things on their own and coming up with an unauthorized history of 19th street. According to some, these events were embarrassing! According to some, they were traumatic, needing years of therapy to get over! According to some, the little cuties were unhappy with their cut of the flower proceeds and are thinking of a class action law suit after all these years.

What the? It wasn't about the money, it was about fun, camaraderie, being with the big kids! Sheesh. Look where they are at now. One of them has a PhD and is head of her department working for the state of Hawaii and runs triathlons, owns her own house there! Another owns a home in Bellevue, blocks from Microsoft, head of PTOs, organizing marathons, go-to-guy for the school's money making ventures, another is the very first white person to hold tenure at the private school where he is teaching in a foreign land, another was head of her division at Boeing making mother boards for 747s, two more are in rock bands cutting cds as their part time jobs, full time one's a pastry chef for an eatery in downtown Seattle and another is an electronic technician. Thank God, none are in Hollywood writing a movie. No Jeremy, you are not.

I mean if not for the creative childhood "we" had together who can tell where they would be now? At home, in Astoria, watching television, writing on a blog?





Hey! Hmm, like my eldest has been known to say, "My mom always made it easy to leave home."

Blush of Winter

The other day I went into one of the small local stores where the counter was a couple hops, one skip and two jumps from the door. As I waited my turn I heard the door behind me tinkle open, the bell above chiming in the next customer, and then, ever so slightly, a tug at the bottom of my pant leg. My stomach did a little flip.

A wave of deja-vu floated over me as I contemplated how I was going to handle my exist, should the need arise. With fear and dread I slowly and ever so slightly peered down my leg and slightly behind me. To my utter relief a little white fluff ball of a dog stared back up at me. Its owner apologized if her dog was being overly friendly and I waved off the apology, so relieved that it was a live animal that I was assaulted by and not the dreaded pair of static cling underwear.

A long, long, long time ago (I swear it wasn't last month) I went into one of the local stores with a counter a couple hops, one skip and two jumps from the door. I went and stood at the counter and the door swung open behind me and my pant leg was tugged and I turned to see what it was, only to be humiliated by the sight of one toe of a pair of pantyhose being snagged on the opened door and the other obstinately attached to the inside of my pant leg and all the middle part stretched out in between.

Its not like you can deny they are yours. One end's attached itself to you. It is in your pant leg. A million thoughts ran through my head. Do I try explaining the morning's rush? Do I swear I yanked the pair of pants out of the dryer just before leaving the house? They are clean pants I swear it, as are the nylons, that's why there's static cling! Neither are Fabreezed hamper dwellers! Do I pretend I don't notice, maybe no one else will?

As if in slow motion, I just remember those nylons stretching, stretching, stretching and still the toe didn't come out of my pant leg. I reached down and yanked on it and it came free on the end snagged to the door. Quickly I wadded it up, refused to look at the person at the door and turned to the counter. "I wondered where they had gotten to," I said. "Will, now you know," the counterwoman replied. I made my purchase and left.

Another time I was walking up some stairs at a rather nice event and attired appropriately. I was wearing a draping evening gown, a style that I had never worn before, and we were going up some stairs that were placed rather closely together. The stairs were wide but not very well lit and I was going up chatting away with a friend of ours, with our husbands following behind (chatting as well but they like to call it talking, men don't chat). As we talked and walked (or rather climbed) I began to get shorter and shorter, but because I was so animated in what I was talking about I really didn't notice until, suddenly, I couldn't bring my knee up to walk any further. I had walked right up inside of my dress as we climbed the stairs!

My husband had noticed and, apparently, (or so he says) had been saying, "Um, honey, um dear, your dress, your dress!" There was a line of people behind us who had to wait as I backed out of my dress and shook everything back into their proper spots.

So, you see, I was quite justified in being relieved in the store the other day to see it was a dog, and not a piece of my clothing, that was accosting me. Dogs I can deal with, I just can't seem to win when doing battle with pieces of my clothing.

Urban Legends

I love a good ghost story, but it annoys me if someone really believes it. I really dislike urban legends, mostly because so many people believe them just because someone has written them down. Just because someone wrote it doesn't make it true. Sometimes I wonder if an Egyptian chuckled as he carved a hieroglyphic, knowing full well some jackass 2,000 years later was going to believe that the Pharaoh may have been a hermaphrodite just because he said so.

I love the people who send me forwards, a lot of cute stories come and so often its a love note that means, "thinking of you" from some really busy people. I don't have any friends who have nothing better to do than just forward many dozens of posts each day. With each story that I get I still feel the need to check snopes or urban legend.com just to see the status of the story.

How come, even when the story even started out true, people couldn't leave it alone? What is this perverse need that people have of taking a story that is true on its own merit and embellish it to make it a lie? Take the story of Dr. Howard Kelly. A very nice, wealthy, doctor who lived in the late 1800s to mid 1900s, billing rich clients a goodly amount so he could write off the charges of those less fortunate. A wonderful story in and of itself.

Why couldn't someone leave well enough alone? They had to tweak the story, make him an impoverished youth working his way through medical school who repays the kindness of a young woman years later when she comes to him for medical treatment of a rare disease. Don't you think his real story is more important and valid for today? A legitimate and practical way for a doctor to practice now, than to wait for impoverished people to aspire and find a way to attend medical school?

This is not, by any means, a slam on the dear friend who sent me the email. You have to know by now that after I appreciate the story, I have to look it up and see if its true. I always have to know, to the best of my ability to research it or find out, what the truth of the matter is. For those who don't believe in God, that may seem a contradiction of my belief in the divine. I can only assure you, it isn't.

However, isn't that what life is about, in part? Ascertaining for our ownselves what "is", what "matters", and what we are measuring that all by? Atleast, that's what I think for me.

UPDATE
I do love many of my uncle's and friends' forwarded jokes and riddles, etc. I was reading one out loud to hubby, trying to convince him of its merits. "Why is "Bra" singular and "panties" plural?" He responds, "Because bra is short for brazierre. " I give him the wife look. "That's not the point. Why don't you call it braz for short?" He gave me the puzzled husband look, "How would I know, no one asks me what to call undergarments." In frustration that he's not getting it I try to reason with him, "Think about it honey, have you ever said, 'I am going to put on my panty' instead of 'I am going to put on my panties'?" Completely deadpan he replied, "I can honestly say I try not to ever say either of those things."

I don't know if I was laughing harder at the fact that he had such a serious face when he said it or the fact that he said he "tries" not to say either of those things! Ah, my Yogi Berra, and no, none of you can have him. Then he called me the weirdo!