Mind Puddle Potpourri....

I blogged recently about ear worms, those pesky songs you hear...like on Muzak in department or grocery stores, in elevators...that stick in your brain and go on instant replay for days at a time. I get plagued with them a lot, maybe because I have a trivia junk yard for a mind and I can remember the lyrics to songs from...oh...50 years ago. Today's lyrics? Fuhgeddaboutit. I don't even listen to today's music for the most part, as far as pop and all the other youth-oriented stuff goes. I don't think I've ever heard a Miley Cyrus song. Or Jonas Boys or Brothers or whoever, whatever they're called. I. Don't. Have. Time. But an old Beatles song? "Happy Together" by the Turtles? "Our House" by Crosby Stills & Nash? "Taxi" by Joni Mitchell? Oh, I could go on and on and on. But every now and then I'll catch myself singing something over and over again and I'll suddenly begin really listening to what I'm singing. And quite often it'll be something like this:

I will call upon the Lord

Who is worthy to be praised

So shall I be saved from my enemies

I will call upon the Lord

The Lord liveth and blessed be the Rock

And let the God of my salvation be exalted!

That one's been on spin cycle for several days now. And it's like maybe the Lord is dropping those words into my subconscious to work their way into my conscious mind and letting me know He's there for me. After a day like today, I need a little boost like that every now and then. More often now than then, let me tell you. But the day is over. It's Friday.

At one point today my grandson Dylan was racing himself back and forth, back and forth, from the couch in the living room out to the cupboards in the kitchen. I had to yell, "On your mark! Get set! Go!" And boy-howdy, how he went! One time as he reached the couch he flew into my arms and patted me heartily -- very heartily -- and told me, "I hit your back!" but I thought he told me, "I hit the old bat!" Well, I've been called things in my life time but never the "Old Bat". So when I was taken aback by it and said, "Old bat?!" He said, "No, Mommy...me hit your back!!" Oh. Ok, then. Maybe I better speed-order some Beltones after all....

A bittersweet moment for me last nite. I was reading a family member's Facebook and saw that one of my grand-nieces is getting married in January. I have never met this grand-niece. I probably haven't seen her mother, one of my nieces, in 25 years??? Good grief, I haven't seen any but one of my nieces in more than 17 years now. The one I saw a few years ago I haven't kept in contact with. Most of this lack of family closeness has been because of a deep rift that happened in 1992 and caused one of my brothers and his entire family to write off any contact with myself or my other two brothers. Some of it has been from me distancing myself away from it all. I don't know...I guess I had so much drama in my 'formative' years that I really don't want drama now. I am selfish with myself and with my time because I have so little of myself to give at this stage and so little time to do it in, outside of my life with my own family and grandboys. And sometimes I feel like I don't have enough to spare for even my own kids any more. At almost 56, taking care of two toddlers is pretty demanding. And I'm no spring chicken now. I mentioned to Dylan a while back when I creaked my way up off the floor for the umpteenth time that, "Grandma's old!" So now when we're out walking and a garbage truck goes by and he asks me to run after and catch it and I say, "No, darling...Grandma's too slow to do that." And he'll say, "Because you old, Mommy?" and I'll say, "Yes, I am." I am telling him the truth. Oh, yeah!!!!

I have nothing planned for this weekend. Nothing. Grocery shopping. Yippee. And a trip to the library to pick up "Homer & Langley", a new book by E.L. Doctorow. His "World's Fair" was one of my favorite books when it came out. I don't have a clue what this one is about. I hope I'm pleasantly surprised. I had 5 books checked out from the library and took all 5 back without finishing one of them. Am I that picky of a reader, or is there truly nothing much worth reading out there any more? Tomorrow nite is Halloween. Depending on the weather we may have a few trick-or-treaters. Our street is rather dark and has never attracted many little ones, tho, so I'm not expecting a flurry of them.

Ok. Enough tripping thru the murky muckiness of my mind tonite. I'm going to go lie on the living room floor, stretch out my back, and go to bed. I'm even boring myself.

Selective hearing...or so I'm told...

Photo by Mark Kozlowski

I can no longer hear Dear Hubby when he talks. Not very often, anyway. On the first try. It doesn't help that he talks to me from 3 rooms away or when he's bent over facing away from me tying his shoes. Or is outside shooting his bow and I'm in the kitchen with the windows shut...it's not summer time any more, don'tcha know. It's frustrating us both to no end. Is it selective hearing on my part? I don't think so. I've been straining to hear him talking from the aforementioned places for 35 years now and have been able to hear him ok for the most part. But now I constantly seem to be asking him, "WHAT?!" or telling him, "I can't hear you!" It's driving him to the point of distraction. I don't seem to have trouble hearing anyone else. Well, outside of our son who mumbles on the phone. He gets driven to the point of distraction, too, by me interrupting him from the get-go telling him to "Speak up!" That may just be our telephone, tho...Dear Hubby and our Daughter can't hear him either.

What's that you say? Maybe I'd better brush up on the few Baby Signs I know already. I might need them sooner than I think.

Time...or the lack thereof...is the enemy here...

I sent a card to a friend the other day, one who lost her mom a few months back. She'd been on my mind a lot lately and whenever a person sticks in my brain for more than a day or two, when I know they're going thru a difficult time, I usually do a 'follow-up' and send off an "I'm thinking of you" note to them. This friend is not a close one but we're working on that. I've known her on the periphery of my life for many years but it wasn't until a few years ago when she began working at the business my son works for that I became better acquainted with her. Back then, before I began taking care of the grandboys, I had a part time job and then the one at my son's work where I'd do data entry work whenever I was needed. Marianne had begun doing the bookkeeping there and we began chit chatting as our paths crossed. I found out she's a very nice person to know. Nite before last I'd headed for bed not long after my usual bedtime of around 7 pm -- I get up at 3:15, for those of you reading who may never have visited here before -- and around 8 my daughter stuck her head in the bedroom and whispered, "Mom?" I was on the cusp of falling in to deep sleep but I heard her whisper and mumbled, "Huh?" from under my pillows. "Did you hear the phone ring?" she asked. "No," I told her. "It was Marianne calling. She thought she was calling early enough to speak to you but I told her no, you'd gone to bed a while ago. She said, 'I knew she went to bed early but I didn't know it was THAT early!'

Yes, Marianne...it is THAT early.

Sigh.......

Was I ever that nite owl in my younger years where I'd sit up and read or write or embroider until 2 in the morning?! When Dear Hubby and the kids were tucked in and asleep and I had the house to myself? The peace and quiet I sorely needed to keep my soul balanced and healthy? Not that I'm not balanced and healthy...but you know what I mean. Time to refresh myself. Time to just be me. In my life now...that's where blogging comes in, the little windows of time here and there I find to just...ramble...for the most part, for lack of a better description. It keeps me balanced and healthy. And sane. Or sort of sane. I know this much: I would wither up and blow away if I didn't have it. Like dandelion fluff on the wind.

Where are all my Coffee Stop bloggers? I've been noticing long gaps between posts. Is time their enemy too? Lack of interest? Real life interrupting?

Just wondering. Just missing.

(PS to myself...I say that, then I looked as I posted this and noticed most have updated in the past several hours. But that was not the case beforehand! Or maybe I've lost what marbles I had left!)

Tea for two and two for tea....

This would be us, both grandboys getting the hang of using the potty. Dylan's the trail blazer and Cooper is his hero-worshipping little mimic...whatever Big Brother Din-Din does, "And ME!" does it too. It is amazing to me how an 18-month-old boy can be catching on so quickly and doing so well. Maybe in another month we'll be able to cut diapers and pull-ups out of our grocery budget. I can dream.

Charity begins at home....

Sometimes I am not a very nice person. I am not going in to any detail as to who this entry is about because it needs to remain generic for a lot of reasons. But, trust me...I am not very charitable at times when it comes to family matters. Or maybe I should rephrase that and say family members. And I don't like myself very much when I feel this way, when circumstances come up where I need to be charitable and I feel myself close down. Draw in. I know where it all hearkens back to and you'd think at the age of 55 I'd be able to overcome such petty brattiness on my part. Because that's what it boils down to, childish petty brattiness. But I can't. Or maybe I should say I find it very difficult because I'm not one who allows "can't" to come in to my vocabulary very often. It's strange, tho, isn't it, how we are categorized in family dynamics as children and no matter how old we become we seem to remain stuck there. We are the only daughter. The only sister. The oldest brother. The middle child. The baby. And we can't seem to see our siblings or any other family members beyond that. And we let those categories, those pigeon holes we've been filed in to from what can seem like a millenium ago color every opinion we have about each other as we move on thru the years no matter how old we are. Or is this only me, only my experience with family? Me, who's known as the 'nice' person, the nurturer, the generous one. But I confess here before you all to let you know that I am not necessarily that person. Deep down I am the petty childish brat. And I'm not proud of it.

Young love, our love...we share with deep emotion...

These two versions of "Where I'm From" are from my young bloggy friend Jaggy and her brand-new husband, The Man. When I say brand-new, I mean a husband of one week! Jaggy is my honorary 'niece'...or so I feel about her. I've been following her blog for a long time now and I told her a long time ago she reminds me so much of myself a million years ago when I was her age. Our minds work alike in a lot of ways. I was around when she first met The Man, who was The Boy back then. Oooooooh, young love! 'Seeing' this romance blossom from the words she wrote on her blog entries has brought back a lot of the memories of the courting days of Dear Hubby and me. I think I've written before how Dear Hubby told his friends when they'd dropped me off at my parents' house after our first date that, "Someday I'm going to marry that girl." These two young lovers sound as if they come from similar backgrounds, as Dear Hubby and I did, and after 35 years together I can say that sharing a lot of the root values in life have helped to enrich our lives. I'm sure they'll enrich Jaggy's and The Man's, too. Thank you, Jaggy and The Man, for letting me share these wonderful poems. First we hear from Jaggy:

Where Jaggy is From

I am from peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, from Scholastic book clubs, and the Beaver State.

I am from the wide front porch, hockey up and down the long hallway, and a slip-n-slide dining room.

I am from red-all-the-way-through strawberries and monster rhododendrons, the Bleeding hearts and grapes tucked away on the side of the farm.

I am from sugar cookies and stubbornness, from Oscar and Jean and parents who loved me whether I liked it or not.

I am from the pioneers, the real Oregon Trail ones, the Protestant ideal of “work hard and ye shall succeed,” and that my word is my bond.

From gingerpeachykeeno and summathat, cricks and oyoyoy!

I am from Sunday morning Nascar races, visiting family all weekend long, and feeling Bible-thumped by friends that now have a hard time understanding why I became Catholic.

I'm from the flatlands surrounded by mountains, from grass county, from the Willamette Valley, from Germany and England and Russia, from milk noodle soup and Mom’s spaghetti.

I am from the woman who fended off angry Native Americans from the back of a covered wagon with an axe, a grandpa whose tickles lasted long after he stopped wiggling his fingers on my belly, and parents who always read to me when I asked.

I am from a hand-made pink flannel photo album, a little blue French textbook, a family tree spanning four continents in six hundred years, from the guffy house full of treasures of Dad’s life, his parents’ life, and lives way way back on the old farm.

Where The Man is From

I am from the forgotten streambed where cattle roamed, from Bookmobile forays and too-short sweat pants.

I am from the creaky upstairs with slanted roof, or the backyard swing set on the kid-imagined mountain.

I am from Kleczynski reunions and bony noses, from Grandma K’s donuts and Uncle Ken’s barbeques and Steinkamp camping trips.

I am from life-long friendships that push me every day just to be worthy of them.

From the land of strangeporks, weirdbeards and bedtime Aesop’s.

I am from tough-kneed Catholics and quiet, powerful faith, where you’re family if you join us twice. Bring food next time.

I'm from stubbornness and determination, a combination just as deadly as Mom’s macaroni and cheese and Linda’s banana cream pie, and where an incurable disease known as Jerkism seems to run in the family.

I am from the thorny blackberry bushes hiding secret forts, the backyard trees with hotdogs for leaves.

From scenic routes through Eastern Oregon, sometimes with no flat tires, and from snow-packed skiing trails perfect for pushing dad over.

I am from whole-family pictures numbered to remind us who is who, JustBesideAndMy and WalkMeBeFriend, and walls stuffed with laughter where the house is warmed by love just as much as woodstoves.

Oregon Coast Sunset

My daughter is at the beach this weekend. She sent me this photo via her blackberry.

I am sooooooooooooooooo jealous.

Loretta left a comment a couple of blog entries ago after I posted a lovely 'anonymous' poem about hanging clothes out on the clothesline. She told me how her mother had certain places on the line where certain items went and she'd have them take them down and do it over again if they hadn't hung the clothes correctly. That brought back memories of when my Mom decided it was time to teach me how to make a 'proper' bed. I had to have been one of the most stubborn children ever created on this earth, as well as being a diehard tomboy, and household chores were not on the top of my priority list. But when I was around 10 Mom told me it was high time I learned how to change bed linen. Then began our battle of wills. My father had taught her the military way of making beds so she set out by demonstrating to me how it was done. Then it was my turn. Nope, no good. Then again. Nope...still no good. And again...and each time she'd strip the bed down to the mattress and make me do it from scratch. By the time I finally succeeded in doing it 'right' I was reduced to tears. Kind of like those "Naughty Chair" sessions on "Supernanny"? Where I was forced to keep at it until I did it correctly? Oh, how I resented my mother on that day. But years later as my mother-in-law was passing thru our bedroom she told me, "One thing you do that I admire so much is what a lovely bed you make." If my mom had been looking down from heaven that day, I'm sure she had a good chuckle!

Private Pain

Photo from St. Vincent de Paul Society

Sadly, this poem I wrote 20 years ago for my mother just before she died has been getting a lot of distribution lately. But for some reason I feel the 'nudge' to share it more with the world in general, for those tens of people who might stop by here randomly or purposely in a day's time. Honestly, I don't have a clue how many stop by but you're welcome to use this poem if you think it'll help anyone you know who's grieving or in their own world of private pain:

Private Pain

There is a place of private pain where only you can trod.

The path is not an easy one unless you trust in God.

The times you feel you can't go on, when no one understands,

The Lord is there to ease you through, to take you by the hand.

There is a place of private pain where silent tears are shed,

Where Jesus is beside you, giving comfort as He said.

His arms wrapped close around you and His Holy Presence near,

You know you can rest easy and you needn't ever fear.

There is a place of private pain...I'm in its midst right now.

I know the Lord's preparing me...I cannot tell you how

But in my heart of hearts I know that when I need Him near

The only thing I'll do is ask and He will be right here.

Coffee time....

I asked Dylan if he wanted to come sit with me in the rocking chair. He was standing over by my desk and he didn't move or answer. "Dylan, are you ok?" I asked. "Yes," he answered. "What are you doing?" "Me taking a little coffee break," he told me.

Trip down memory lane....

A POEM
A clothesline was a news forecast
To neighbors passing by,
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.
It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.
For then you'd see the "fancy sheets"
And towels upon the line;
You'd see the "company table cloths"
With intricate designs.
The line announced a baby's birth
From folks who lived inside -
As brand new infant clothes were hung,
So carefully with pride!
The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed,
You'd know how much they'd grown!
It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.
It also said, "Gone on vacation now"
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, "We're back!" when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare!
New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy and gray,
As neighbors carefully raised their brows,
And looked the other way .. . .
But clotheslines now are of the past,
For dryers make work much less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess!
I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best
By what hung on the line.

-- Author Unknown

I can just picture my Mom outside hanging the laundry for a family of six, wet sheets wrapping around her in the gusty wind blowing in from the coast. In a climate where it rained almost 300 days out of the year, drying clothes was a real challenge. Many were the days I'd hear, "Come help me get the clothes off the line! It's starting to rain!" and away we'd go, making a mad dash out of the back door.

Thanks, cousin Ginger, for sending this along today.

earworm: a song or tune that gets stuck in one's mind and repeats as if on a tape

I hate earworms. Ever since I wrote last nite's entry I've had the Cowsills' song "Flower Girl" spinning over and over and over thru my head. Lately I've had several. "O Glorious Love". "They're Coming to Take Me Away!" "Ooooh Oooooh Ooooh..I wanna be like you oooh oooh" from "Jungle Book". "Looking for a City". "ABC" by the Jackson Five. "A Little Help from My Friends." "Pop Goes the Weasel".

Sigh.

Once on the turntable of my mind, they get stuck in a groove.

And I knew I knew I knew I knew...Life could make me happy, happy, HAPPY!

I am not one who likes unsolicited phone callers. I don't generally enjoy talking on the phone, period. But this evening as I was relaxing on the couch after dinner the phone rang and I assumed it was probably our son so I answered it. Wrong. It was a very nice young gentleman from the University of North Florida calling to do a phone survey. Would I be kind enough to participate? Well, this young gentleman doesn't know just how lucky he was getting me to cooperate. Maybe it was because I'd been sitting there thinking I should get up and do the dishes. Maybe it was the perfect excuse to sit there for another 1o minutes while I answered his questions.

So what was the survey about?

Am I happy.

Why, yes. Yes, I am.

How happy do I rate myself on a scale of 1 to 10? How about 10. Do I drink wine to relax at the end of the day? No. Beer? No. Do I enjoy my job? Why, yes. Yes I do. Am I married? Yes. Straight? Most definitely. Stressed? Not really. Tired at times, oh yeah. Am I all caught up in the political mire we're getting swallowed up in? Oh, no. Did I choose to be heterosexual? Hahaha...I told him I'm the way I was born to be, thank you very much. And on and on and on. I think by the time we finished he was probably rolling his eyes and wondering, "Why did I get stuck with this looney old lady?"

Oh well. At least I was polite. At least I participated. And now I know I'm very happy indeed.

You never know what golden nuggets you might find...

I Often Contradict Myself

I often contradict myself.

Oh no, I never do.

I argue with me day and night.

That simply isn't true.

Oh yes it is. Oh no it's not.

I do this all day long.

Oh no I don't. Oh yes I do.

That's right. No way! It's wrong.

I'm really quite agreeable.

I argue night and day.

I love to be around myself.

I wish I'd go away.

So if you see me arguing,

it's certain that you won't.

I like to contradict myself.

I promise you I don't.

-- Kenn Nesbitt

Dear Hubby and I walk thru the Mt. Tabor neighborhood as we hike our way up to the top of Mt. Tabor park. Recently I've noticed an attractive wooden post mounted along the sidewalk in front of one of the houses we pass by. At first I didn't pay any attention to it, thinking it must've been a "For Sale by Owner" advertisement. Then I realized there was no real estate-type sign along with it and it piqued my curiosity. So, the last time we walked by I stopped and inside it I found several photocopies of this delightful poem by the children's poet Kenn Nesbitt. The home owner happened to be out in his yard with his dogs and he saw me stop and take one of the copies so he came up to us and told us the 'history' behind these wooden posts that are popping up around the Tabor neighborhood. I'm not sure if the poetry is chosen by each home owner -- I forgot to ask the gentleman that -- but the idea behind it is to pass on a little bit of 'art' to the world around us. What a great idea, don't you think? If my curiosity hadn't gotten the better of me I never would've discovered Kenn Nesbitt. I think I need to pass this on to my neighborhood association, too, as we have a lot of foot traffic going by all the time. This world needs a little more beauty in it...something to make you stop and smile or think.

I'm on my second cup of coffee and I still can't face the day...

No, that's not true. The title, that is. It's what popped in to my head the moment I uploaded this photo, tho...I am a Gordon Lightfoot fan from the days of "If You Could Read my Mind".

Boy, I've been busy letting everyone else do the writing for me lately, haven't I? I am beyond thrilled that these friends and family members have taken a part in this "Where I'm From" project for me and so graciously allowed me to publish them. I'm still waiting on ones from two of my brothers as well as a cousin....you know who you are, Ginger!! (She reads this just about every day.) And a couple of friends. That would be you, Mary (who also reads almost daily) And my friend Sue who I've known almost as long as I've known Dear Hubby. Her husband sang at our wedding. She and I have become newly in touch again after a long spree of no contact and I gave her my blog address so I'm hoping she's stopped by to look things over. She lives in south central Oregon in a rather remote area where internet access is prehistoric so getting emails to her and from her were pretty tedious. I think she said she's got better service now, so I'm hoping we'll stay in closer touch.

Amongst family and friends, Dear Hubby and I are notorious for being non-social. Not anti-social. There's a vast difference between the two. Anti-social is not wanting any contact with people. Non-social is not requiring contact. At least that's the way I differentiate the two in my own mind. One of Dear Hubby's cousins had a surprise 60th birthday a year or so ago and I don't know what suprised her more, the party or the fact that he and I showed up, ha! Well, on Saturday nite we went out to a lovely dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory with some long time friends. We had a wonderful time. As Dear Hubby and I were driving along I-205 heading out to the restaurant in Clackamas I asked him, "Do you remember the last time we went out to dinner with anyone?" We both put on our thinking caps and neither one of us could remember a more recent time than 10 years ago with some other long time friends. It's almost embarrassing to admit that. But we did have legitimate excuses. One, the crazy hours we've had to keep all these years with his extremely early work shifts. Two, up until I had my gall bladder removed a year ago I couldn't eat in restaurants without suffering from horrible esophageal spasms. He and I didn't even go out to dinner together! So it really wasn't anything we held against going out. It was for practical reasons. I dunno...we're a couple of strange old birds. We enjoy each other's company. We don't need to be with other people to have a good time. Tho we did have a great time with Bob and Cheryl on Saturday. And Dave and Kathy 10 years ago. Good grief.

I was going to write an email to my friend Karen tonite but it doesn't look like it's going to happen. I felt I needed to update a little bit here and I'm so sleepy I know I'm headed for bed as soon as I hit the "Publish Post" button. It's going to be an interesting day tomorrow. Dylan's going to the dentist for the first time. He wants me to come along because he's scared so my d-i-l and I will take both boys. Cooper can sit in the dentist's chair to check that out. I think I'll sit down with Dylan and describe the whole process in the morning so he'll know what to expect. I always try to do that with new or strange experiences for kids...it takes some of the fear out if they know ahead of time what they'll see and what will be expected of them.

So...off to bed. My happy Menoquil pill is kicking in. I'm going to put a permanent link to the Menoquil site on my sidebar. I kid you not, it's the best thing out there for menopause.

Great-Aunt Susi shares her beginnings...

Photo from SoftExpressions

Aunt Susi...well, if ever there was a person born on this earth with a generous heart, it's her. When I came in to their family she was on the brink of becoming a teenager. From the moment I met her, I sensed such an innate sweetness within her that has stayed with her, been a part of her, all these years. She's a petite fireball, too, who's managed to keep three sons in line and watched them grow in to three fine young men. I don't think she has a clue how much she is loved and appreciated. Here is her version:

Where I'm From

I am from shag haircuts, bell bottoms and clip on earrings, from Tab and Jolly Ranchers.
I am from the old gray house with sparkle siding, from plastic living room curtains, from Lassie and Gunsmoke and a playroom with two of every toy.
I am from the rhododendrons blocking my bedroom window, the fallen pine needles, a weedless garden and a pumpkin patch like no other. I am from the smell of sagebrush of camping trips that I still yearn for today.
I am from Christmas shopping with my precious dad, embroidering with my darling mother and sister in deer camp, from big brown eyes, small bones and very few wrinkles. From "Russ" and "Tillie", my loving siblings and too many aunts and uncles that I miss beyond words. I'm from grandparents I would have loved to have known.
I am from shopping with Mom every Saturday and dancing with Dad when we got home. From quick wit and a somewhat sick sense of humor.
From "This is only temporary", "It'll all come out in the wash" and "If two dogs bark in a coal bucket..."
I am from Sunday School at Bethel Lutheran Church and The Apostolic Faith on the radio. From a strong faith in God that helps me through every day of my life.
I'm from Austria and Ireland and Germany and Portland. The smell of galishti every Thanksgiving and Easter, Mom's potato salad , from depression era possum eaters and Norse Hall dancers.
From Sunday morning Harley rides to Daybreak and back, from garage sale's on Thursdays and gum braces.
I am from Grandma's buffet full of family memories, the times of my life I'll never forget, the loving parents who made me who I am and thankful for the incredible journey I got to take as a child.

I wish everyone could have the same...

Great-Aunt Shari is from here....

Photo by Burdett

I have been married to Dear Hubby for 35 years. When we married back in 1974 his youngest sister Shari was soon to celebrate her 8th birthday. I have a hard time remembering life before she became a part of mine. I don't know if she can even remember her life before I became a part of hers. She has gone from being the darling little girl with ringlets and huge brown doe eyes, the ear-to-ear grin, into a beautiful and talented woman. I have been blessed to watch it all. Here is Aunt Shari's version:

Where I am from

I am from Barbie camper buses, pink foam curlers, Coppertone tanning oil and Love’s Baby Soft perfume.
I am from uneven walls, opposite-handed faucets and black electrical-taped wiring.From wood-burning heat, cockapoo companions and a home filled with toys and holiday decorations.
I am from playing under the walnut tree, sucking the centers out of sour green grapes, selling pumpkins on the side of the road, and picking cattails, daisies and dandelions for my beautiful, adoring mom.
I am from cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning, and fresh green beans, corn on the cob, and cucumbers all summer long. I am from Jim Reeves and Hank Snow, Hee Haw and Lawrence Welk. I am from big brown eyes, olive skin and German stubbornness. I am from Russell Robert and Mathilda Helen. I am from brother D, and from sisters Sandy and Susi.
I am from giving to children and others in need, going to Sunday school, always saying “Please” and “Thank you,” respecting my elders, and loving God with all my heart and soul.
From “Buckle up,” “Drive safely” and “No boyfriends,” to “Call me when you get there” and “Don’t forget to pray.”
I am from Bethel Lutheran Church and Battle Ground, Washington. From sauerkraut with pork, liver sausage for breakfast (yuck!) and ham-bone soup with potato pancakes.
From camping trips to Warm Springs, Shaniko and Lincoln City, hunting trips to Klickitat, and road trips to Aunt Norma’s house. From panning for gold, picking up pop cans, and playing Spoons and Rack-O.
I am from prayers before meals and bedtime, hugs and kisses every morning, every night, every hello, every goodbye. I am from 5 p.m. family dinners, 9 p.m. bedtimes, and Sunday afternoon pot roast with mashed potatoes.
I am from love.

From your beloved Papa...

(Painting by Elizabeth Daggett Ganji)

This is from your grandfather and I wouldn't let him get away with saying, "I can't do something like this." I told him 'Yes, you CAN!"

He's quite the poet, don't you think?

Where I'm From

I am from playing Army, from 5-cent Milky Ways and my Rifleman rifle.
I am from the sense of security of hearing Dad early in the morning and coffee perking on the stove.
I am from the smell of fresh cut grass in the Spring, the scent of sage and juniper on the Deschutes.
I am from Christmas morning, from running to hide when the doorbell rang, from Ginny, Agnes and Jule,
and Carl and Mathilda.
I am from the sarcastic tongue and hard workers.
From "Be early" and "Be a man of your word."
I am from a love of Biblical truth and the search to find it.
I am from Stumptown, from garden spinach and Grandma's homemade chicken soup.
I am from Dad setting the curtains on fire the day of the Columbus Day storm, camping at Warm Springs, and salmon fishing in the spring.
I am from "Duk-a-Luk", Dad's guns, Grandma's bear claws, the thrill of my first shotgun, generations of outdoorsmen, and the farm on the hill where my mother was born.

My "California friend" Liz is from here...

I have been blessed with two wonderful friends in my lifetime named Liz. There is my best friend Lizzee and then there is Liz-from-California. To keep news of them separate without confusing my family, that's the way we've identified them all these years. Lizzee has been my best friend since 1967. Liz-in-California was my first 'adult' friend made outside of high school. I met her at my first job in a Portland hospital. We clicked instantly. Our actual face-to-face time as friends lasted less than a year before she married and moved to southern California but before I married Dear Hubby I went down to visit her twice. We've kept in contact all these years thru notes, cards, and emails and whenever she's passed thru the Portland area on her way to visit family she has stopped in for a visit. Every time it's as if we've picked up our conversation from the last time we saw each other, as if -- sometimes -- several years haven't passed in between. She has always been a special part of my life and as I told her, this journal project for my grandsons wouldn't have felt complete without her contribution. She told me this was a tremendous undertaking for her, and I thank her so very, very much for sticking with it.

Without further ado...here is hers:

I’m from the Brooklyn brownstone, with a “stoop” and a porch.

From the Rose of Sharon gracing a storm cellar aside the “pulley-clothesline” .

I’m from the back-lot mulberry tree - summertime clubhouse.

From the Olsen’s Christmas Eve, cookies & a tree with “icicles and snow“.

From the Barrett’s surfside summer excursions with salty, sandy hands and egg salad sandwiches.

From serious, creative Norwegians and dry-witted, thoughtful New Englanders.

From God fearing immigrant Lutherans & hope-filled South Lancaster early-Adventists.

I’m from Soren, the Norwegian sailor who drowned in New York harbor, working to support his wife and 5 children (home in Norway).

I’m also from Rose who sang aboard a ship to earn money on her immigrant journey from England.

I am from treasured family albums, mostly black & white prints, of a by-gone era, of memories, sometimes vivid, other-times hazy, fragmented by time ….

We are so rich.....

Silver in the Hair
Gold in the Teeth.
Stones in the Kidneys
Sugar in the Blood.
Lead in the Feet.
Iron in the Arteries.
And an inexhaustible supply of Natural Gas.
We never thought we'd accumulate such wealth.

And this is where Donna is from....

Donna is another bloggy land friend whose path crossed mine a while back. How, I once again don't remember. I don't question how I find people or how they find me...I just feel like they come in to my life for a reason and enjoy the friendship while it lasts. Donna and I seem to be similar in a lot of ways...we both say it as we see it and we're both a couple of old nonconformists. We hate talking on the telephone. We prefer our own company...or at least the company of the ones we love. She's a farm girl...I'm a small town girl. We've both been married for a long time to men we married young. We're practical-minded and straight shooters. And now here is her version of "Where I'm From":

I am from cast iron skillets; from Stanley Home products and Church three times a week, (and every single night for two weeks straight, if there was a Gospel meeting).
I am from old two-story houses with a switchboard in the living room and the smell of coffee in the kitchen every morning. I’m from an outhouse out back and a pump right outside the kitchen door that had to be primed before you could get water from it. I’m from getting a drink from a dipper in the bucket in the kitchen, the same dipper everyone drank from.
I am from the Top-crop green beans and the wild strawberries growing in a ditch along the road in North Missouri; from the blackberries and black walnuts and morel mushrooms that just grew all by themselves and were there for the picking.
I am from two family reunions every summer and knowing we always pay our bills. From Clara and Everett and Stevens and Allen. I am from the teetotalers and farmers .
From “always wear clean underwear in case we’re in a wreck” and “don’t cross your eyes or they’ll freeze like that.”
I am from Church-of-Christ and a cappella music. I'm from Iowa and Missouri and Pennsylvania; from noodles and fried chicken.
From the time Grandpa Allen hit a horse so hard with his fist that the horse fell to its knees; from the day in December of 1932 that my mom and dad waded through the mud to get married. I’m from babies born to Aunt Ruby and Grandma Stevens that died of pneumonia in their first few days of life. I am from my dad’s mother and his first wife who both died in childbirth.
I am from pictures and diaries my mom kept in an old lard can hoping someone would eventually care about them, and now I do; from a music box I played with as a child at Grandma’s house that I have in my possession, and hope to pass it on to the proper person when I’m gone. I’m from cousins who dig into the past to find out where my ancestors come from and then share that information with me.
Because friends come and go, but nobody knows my past like my cousins.

And this is where your Auntie is from, darling boys...

I am from good books, from laptops and creativity.
I am from the loving, relaxing peace.
I am from the earth, the cool rain.
I am from table marches and eccentricity, from Dad and Mom and us.
I am from the laughter and deep discussions.
From "you're strong for your age" and "Watch out for your brother."
I am from deep spirituality.
I'm from Washington, from many different nationalities, cinnamon toast, cinnamon rolls.
From the great-aunt with her generosity, her great food, and the love of reading that my grandmother passed down.
I am from the old chest full of memories.

My Friend Karen is from here.....

(Painting by Scott Milo)

The history of my friendship with Karen is a rather odd one. We have been attending the same church for years...her for her entire life, me for almost 33 years. Our church is large with many doors leading in and out of the sanctuary. We all get in our comfort zones, entering in thru the same doors, sitting in the same pews...creatures of habit. The only time I can remember having any real contact with her was back in the 1980s when I was on a team writing Sunday School curriculum for primary aged children and one of the other writers and I had a conversation with Karen after church one nite. Otherwise, our paths had rarely ever crossed. Then, a couple of years ago after Dylan had been born I had to do some emailing with Karen concerning an article I'd written for a church publication. At first it was all business and then one of us...I don't remember which one...made a comment about being a new grandma and wasn't it great?! Her first grandchild had been born around the same time. Well, our friendship took off from there and we email each other epic letters...my family and hers can't get over the lengths of them. We email every week or so. And the funny thing is, we still rarely ever come across each other face to face. And yet I consider her one of my dearest friends ever.

Here is her lovely version of "Where I'm From":

I am from roller skates with frayed straps and metal keys, from Skippy peanut-butter sandwiches smeared with honey, and a dollar to spend at Johnson’s Five and Dime Store on Hawthorne.
I am from the white bungalow three houses down from the corner—from popsicles on the porch, a wringer washing machine in the basement, and a closet under the eaves upstairs where the witch lived.
I am from pussy willow “kitties” and hollyhocks in the backyard, from fir trees skirting Lake Dawn, and skunk cabbages with feet in the creek.
I am from flannelgraph object lessons and stars-in-my-Bible Sunday school classes, piano lessons with Mrs. Noonan;
from great-grandma Achsah Matilda, Uncle George, and a kid brother who, amazingly, has grown up to be a fine fellow.
I am from an open door policy, and willingness to start a stalled car, fix a furnace, or mend a toy—day or night.
I am from 25 cent a week allowances, making do, and a “smooth out that wrapping paper so we can use it again” mentality.
I am from Bible-believing, God-fearing, fundamental Christians; from the Rock of Ages, a Firm Foundation, and a life-changing trip to the Old Rugged Cross.
I am from southeast Portland, scalloped potatoes with ham, and my Swedish grandmother’s nice veal roast.
I am from Mary Estey of the Salem witch trials, Morgan the Raider, and Aunt Gladys under the rice chest.
I am a quilt pieced together from bits of memories, though some of those once colorful are beginning to fade with time. I might be a bit worn, but I’m blessed!

Another one takes the challenge....Dori...

(Artwork from Geninne's Art Blog)

I'm so thrilled another friend has participated in this challenge! I'm not even sure how our paths crossed here in bloggy land, but Dori is a younger mother of two little ones who has become a dear friend of mine. With their permission, I'm posting each one as they trickle into my Inbox...and I do mean trickle! I thought this would be a wonderful way for my grandsons to 'know' some of the people who are my friends, my family...where they're from, what kind of people I've surrounded myself with thruout my life. Dori's is just beautiful. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did:

Where I'm From

I am from sunny days and cool nights, a land of two seasons from Cadbury, homemade bread and Sears’ catalog attire.
I am from rain at midnight on a tin roof, crows in the morning.
I am from mango trees and the Jacaranda in full lavender bloom, Lake Victoria ablaze with the rising sun and the bath water temps of the Indian ocean.
I am from crowded holiday tables and laughing out loud, from preachers and missionaries and 2nd generation Navy “Mac”.
I am from prayers at mealtime and hugs at the airport.
From Girls have to know how to change their car’s oil too and Easy on the throttle.
I am from women who pray and men who cry. And from those who have called down angels.
I'm from the shores of Scotland and the homeport of Blackbeard. I am from samosas and collard greens. I am unsweet tea in the land of sweet.
From a hobo train ride home for Christmas, motorcycle rides across the dusty savannah, and the tenacity to never accept “I can’t” and “you can’t”.
I am sea trunks in the attic, old black barrels untouched in 20 years, our own National Archives, pictures lining the hallway and roots that span the oceans and continents.

Monday...again...

(painting by David J. Veres)

I am now prepared for rain, wind, and snow. I went out and bought rain ponchoes for the grandboys and me and a pair of snow bibs for Cooper. The ones Dylan had from last year should still fit him this year, I'm hoping. They're 5T and he's in 5s-on-the-verge-of-6s right now. Outside of days with frigid east winds, ice, or downpours we should be set to walk. The idea of being cooped up inside day in and day out for weeks on end does not appeal to me at all.

I've got two "Where I'm From" 'poems' now that friends have sent to me. I'm waiting to hear back from both of them as to whether or not I can post them here publicly. I plan on posting all of those the writers give me permission to. I want them as living legacies of my friends and family for the grandboys to have. Did I ask my daughter to do one??? Hmmmmm....I need one from her, too.

I slept like the dead last nite. Maybe it was from the two walks Dear Hubby and I took to the top of Mt. Tabor this weekend but I've been sleeping soooooooooo much better since I've been taking Menoquil. I call it my "happy" pill. Because I feel like I'm finally in touch with the 'original' person I used to be once upon a million years ago before menopausal issues ever came in to my life.

A busy week coming. And we're going out to dinner with longtime friends Saturday nite, something Dear Hubby and I haven't done in so many years I can't even remember the last time. Between our rising-in-the-middle-of-the-night-and-going-to-bed-before-sunset -- at least in the summer -- hours, we're usually heading for bed before most people eat dinner. And before my gall bladder was taken out and I suffered from esophageal spasms for years, eating out wasn't an option for me. Now I can, even if I can't taste anything. But Bob and Cheryl are such lovely people it'll be fun to spend a few hours with them.

And now it's time to hop on the train and get this ol' body moving. Chooo-chooooooooooooo...

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. ~ Albert Camus

Yesterday Dear Hubby and I walked here. No, we're not the talented photographers who took this picture. I used it on another blog entry a few years ago and I found it at PortlandGround. The credit belongs to Miles Hochstein. I've used several of his photos in the past to illustrate this beautiful city we live in. This photo was taken above one of the reservoirs in Mt. Tabor Park and looks west towards downtown and the West Hills. Beginning just on the right edge of this photo on the hills is Forest Park, the largest city park fully contained in a city's boundaries in the United States at 5,156 acres. The highest point of the West Hills range is around 1,500 feet. And underneath them runs a large seismic fault. Another one runs down a street about a mile north of our house. Mt. Tabor Park, where this photo was taken, is a dormant volcanic cone. In other words, there could be a whole lot of shakin' goin' on around here one day. We took our walk early in the morning before all the serious walkers, runners, bicyclists, and moms/dads with jogging strollers showed up...we pretty much had the place to ourselves. The view of Mt. Hood as we trudged up what I call 'the Big Monster' on the east side was spectacular. It's amazing how the body gets used to exercise, especially when you do a lot like I do. Dear Hubby and I hadn't hiked to the top of Tabor in several months -- we've been too blasted busy -- but he tweaked his back at work the other day and his chiropractor told him in the past one of the best exercises for the back is walking. So....off we trudged. I trotted up the 1/2-mile stretch of the 'Monster' like a kid....piece of cake! I know I do a lot of walking with the grandboys but most of it is on flat ground...pushing over 100 pounds of boys and stroller up an incline is more work than I care to do. But I wasn't even the least bit winded. VAST improvement over the first time I attempted walking it when I was 60+ pounds overweight and hadn't done any exercise in years. That first time I had to stop ever 20 yards or so and catch my breath, and my heart felt like a triphammer slamming against my chest wall. I thought I was going to die. So now, when I watch episodes of "The Biggest Loser" I totally understand and sympathize with the contestants when they're agonizing thru their first physical challenges. It's a very scary thing when you're morbidly obese and begin exercising...you're sure you're going to die. But, oh my...once you get your body into a regular routine of it you crave it. You feel SO much better and alive! Energized! One of the reasons I began getting in to shape is because 10 years ago this month I had a medical crisis and my doctor told me if I didn't make some drastic changes in my lifestyle I wouldn't live to see too many more sunrises. That was my wake-up call. And just imagine if I hadn't listened to her. I might not have been around to see my beloved grandboys. Oh, how thankful I am that I listened to her.

And another thing I'm thankful for is this. Towards afternoon Dear Hubby and I decided to take a ride out to the Goodwill in Sandy, Or. We take the backroads to avoid a lot of the traffic which takes us out on to a main two-lane highway leading towards the town of Estacada, where we eventually take a cutoff that brings us almost to the front doors of the store in Sandy. Just about every time we go for a long drive, and before I take the boys for a walk, we always say a short prayer, asking for traveling mercies and the Lord's protection for us and for our family, which we did yesterday. As we're driving along this two-lane highway enjoying the Autumn beauty and sunshine, two motorcycles were heading towards us from the other direction. The speed limit on this highway is 55 miles per hour. There was a truck right behind them. Suddenly, for no apparent reason at all -- no slick roads, no curves, just level straightaway -- it looked like the front wheel of one of the motorcycles just caved in to the side. As Dear Hubby and I watched in disbelief, this motorcycle AND RIDER hit the ground and began sliding towards us head-on in our lane, the driver tumbling head-over-heels. Thank the good Lord that Dear Hubby had the presence of mind to react as quickly as he did, swerving sharp and fast to the right. We just missed running over that person. We pulled over to the side of the highway to stop, our hearts in our throats, and looked at each other in horror, thinking we were going to see absolute destruction behind us, since we'd had traffic behind us, too. But, miraculously, the driver was standing up, walking around, and appeared not to be seriously hurt, tho I imagine today they're feeling it as far as bruises and joint pain goes. When we took off again I looked at Dear Hubby and said, "What if we hadn't prayed?" I don't think either one of us could've ever forgiven ourselves if we'd run over and killed that woman driver, even if it wouldn't have been our fault. A very good lesson reinforced on this one, that's for sure.

So, that's how our weekend's been going. This morning it'll be church in a few hours. Dear Hubby just left to drive his Sunday School van, something he's done for around 30 years now. I'm going to stick a lasagna in the oven to have ready for dinner when we come home. Then it's up the Big Monster again for another walk. Today the east wind is blowing and the weather is transitioning towards rain. But what glorious walking weather! And yesterday's walk improved his back a thousandfold. This one ought to make him good as new. But for now, I'd better get busy on answering some emails. I haven't been on the computer all weekend until now...I've been reading. And I'll be reading when we get home from our walk, too.

Life, truly, is good.

When the rain comes....

It's just past 3:30 am. Dear Hubby's been awake since 12:30 and I've been awake since 2:15. Ahhhhh, the joy of having weak bladders and the inability to go back to sleep some nites after we get up and 'go'! He hurt his back at work day before yesterday so that didn't help matters, either. Ah well...welcome to old age, eh? Older age.

Some things I need to pick up at the store today:

1. Heating pad

Hmmmm...I had a whole list in mind. Where did it go?

I'm already missing our sunshine that will still be around for a couple more days. Tomorrow and Sunday it'll be accompanied by a cool East wind blowing out of the Columbia River Gorge. But come Monday the forecasters are showing an entire week of rain, rain, rain. I think I'll send some of it down to Paraguay to Betty. I am tired of it already and it hasn't even arrived yet. Oh, that reminds me:

2. Rain ponchos for the grandboys

The rest of the list is still MIA.

No big plans for the weekend. Dear Hubby's on call so that means we'll stay close to home. I do have "The Biggest Loser" taped. We also have Style network as a free preview channel this month on Dish so I've gone and scheduled all the "Clean House" episodes I've missed the past several months since we downgraded. Also, "Supernanny" is on there now and I like seeing how the plain common sense of Jo the Nanny can transform those totally out-of-control households. Aren't there any young parents who know how to raise kids? The theme in most of these houses is control, control, control. Of course the kids are going to rebel. Is it so hard to remember back to when the parents themselves were kids? And how much they hated control? Or unequally balanced attention paid to one sibling and not another? And how far praise goes compared to nagging, threatening, bribing, and verbal abuse? Good grief.

OK...so nothing earth-shattering. But a reminder to anyone I sent the "Where I'm From" challenge to, especially family. I would so, so appreciate it if you'd do it and then allow me to publish the results here. The reason behind it is having it 'recorded' here for posterity's sake since this is supposed to be a blog mainly for my grandboys. As I publish them, I'll put a little blurb on them to let the boys know how the writer is related to me, whether friend or family. I think that'd be soooooooooooo cool! All anonymous...maybe a first name and that's it.

Thank you...and have a nice day.

Safety vests and Barbie doll babies....

I am really really REALLY getting tired of Portland motorists and bicyclists almost mowing my grandboys and me over as we go on our daily walks. I want to reach inside vehicles and rip those stupid cell phones out of their hands and give 'em a good whack across the head, I am that fed up with drivers who are completely oblivious to the traffic and pedestrians around them. And I am normally a peaceable, easy-going, hard-to-rile individual. As for bicyclists, it's the LAW that you ride your BIKE on the ROAD!!!!! Do you hear me?! With the load I'm pushing the least you could do is give me the right of way. But, oh no...no. You expect me to pull over into the grass. Into the bushes. Give you the curb ramp so you can come off the curb without a bump. You've pushed me out into traffic lanes to dodge you. You have endangered my life but, more importantly, the lives of my grandbabies!!!!

Ok...with that rant out of the way...you'll never guess what I've begun wearing every day out on our walks now. One of my husband's fluorescent green hunting vests. Yup. They may run me over but they won't be able to say they didn't see me. Like I told Dear Hubby, I'm not out making any fashion statements as it is...I just want to survive. And I am NOT going to quit walking...oh, no.

And now, with that said, I found this photo of a Barbie outfit I once had. Or maybe a better description would be an 'accessory' set, since there's no dress included. Or pants and top. I loved this play set, tho. I still have the baby doll. Naked as a jay bird, but intact. And now my grandboys have it mixed in with all their little Fisher Price people and other sundry bits and pieces of toys. I've told Dylan the story of the little doll, how Grandma played with it when she was a little girl. He loves to hear stories about my childhood and this little doll intrigues him. Whenever he finds it he holds it up excitedly and yells, "Hey!" to get my attention. It's like he's found buried treasure every time he unearths it. And little Cooper understands there's something special about it, too, that it means something to Grandma. When he finds it he yells out, "Baby! Baby!" and waves it at me. My son would kill me if I passed on my paper dolls to them. But this little baby doll is totally generic...just a naked little he/she my grandbabies love as much as I did.

My Best Friend Lizzee Came From Here....

Where I Come From

I am from Hockinson Highlands, from Avon and bowling. I am from the white house on top of the hill, from the Lilac, the Hydrangea.
I am from raising cattle and clean living, from Wileys, Farleys and Applegates.
I am from the southern travelers and Pacific Northwest settlers.
From “never leave home with holey undies” and “there are starving children in India that would love to have that food”.
I am from one end of the spectrum to another, Pentecostal to Seventh Day Adventist, Mormon to Lutheran.
I'm from Oregon, ground beef and fresh veggies.
From the bonding of a Cherokee Indian Princess and a white man in Illinois, from a wagon train leader from Missouri to Oregon, a Scottish immigrant.
I am from many generations of 3 ring binders of genealogy, many hours spent looking for lost members, finding skeletons in the closets and enjoying living their lives through history.

Since this blog is basically a journal I'm keeping for my grandsons to have some day, I want them to know that Lizzee has been my best friend since February 1967 when, on the first day of attending a new school, she turned around in class after I'd sat down at a desk behind her and said, "Hi, I'm Liz. Do you want to be friends?" And we have been, all these years. Some years we were thick as thieves, for several years we kept in touch with birthday and Christmas cards and occasional notes to each other -- that was before email. The past few years we've grown quite close again. I can't imagine life without her. I had no idea she is such a marvelous poet! (And thanks, missy, for taking part in my challenge. Love you, girlfriend. XXXOOO)

15 words

jeweled skies

lumbering dryer

waiting anxiously

wilted lettuce

cups of coffee

lists

too much confusion

No Time....No Time....

Don't you love bubbles? I just found this stashed in my pictures and it reminded me so much of the fun I had blowing bubbles this summer with Dylan and Cooper. Talk about making a person feel young again!!

Julie from "Midlife Jobhunter" brought it to my attention that it's hard to contact me by email because there is no link provided. Honestly, I don't think there's any other way you can contact me by email other than copying and pasting my email address on an email you write to me. Is there??? I'm thinking if I provide a direct link it'd take you right in to my email account...and I DON'T think I'd want that happening, haha! If someone is more computer savvy than Donna and me are, please email me and let me know. I went to check her "No Comments" blurb in her sidebar and hers is set up just like mine -- you have to copy and paste her email address as well.

Long day. Heading for bed. But I wanted to clear up the email question....

Where I'm From

I've been challenged by Donna to do this. I've done it a couple of times in the past but I'm sure I can come up with some different answers:

Where I'm From


I am from Little League games, from Black Jack gum and Silly Putty.
I am from the big brown house on the corner, from trailing ivy, and swinging bridges over the river.
I am from setting out cookies for Santa and 'bed bouncers', from Christina and Minnie and a name that translates into birch trees.

I am from the practical Yanks and the stubborn Swedes.

From "Use it up and wear it out. Make it do or do without" and "You can do it."

I am from disenchanted Methodists, who left the church because "things happen".
I'm from 'the Harbor', from corned beef and cabbage and leg of mutton.
From the Post War New England newlyweds who 'emigrated' to the Pacific Northwest, the sister of three, the good girl.
I am from family Bibles, treasured books, WWII war photos, a cigar box full of old photos, and too many family members lost to eternity in photos with no names.

"Summer House" Review

I had a few readers who asked me to write a review of Nancy Thayer's newest book when I finished it. So I've finished it. In the spectrum of 20-some years that I've been reading her books, starting with "Three Women at the Water's Edge" that I LOVED to her "Hot Flash Club" books that I detested...in fact, I slogged my way thru the first, tried the second, and ignored the third...this one falls somewhere in the middle. I didn't love it. But I didn't hate it, either. It renewed my hope in her as a novelist, tho, and I'm hoping in future books she'll follow down this path and not wander off to the wayside again. I'm sorry, but I didn't find her characters in the "Hot Flash Club" series the least bit believable. If she'd thought about every woman in everyday life...like Joanna Trollope did in "Second Honeymoon" which was a book I loved...I would've identified with them sooooooooooo much more. Most of us peri/post menopausal women are dealing with trying to become acquainted with this...stranger...who's moving in uninvited and is overwhelming us. That's what I want to read about...the woman who sweats her way thru the night. The one whose skin itches and prickles and doesn't want to be touched or bothered with by anyone. The one who feels fat and bulky even when her clothes and scale tell her she's not. The one who has sudden fits of anxiety blow her off the planet. The one who just. wants. to. be. left. alone. PLEASE!



Ok, so I'm not the best reviewer in the world. I hate reading the blurb on the book jacket that gives away more information than I want to know...to the point where I wonder, "Why do I want to read this now?!" But I'm not the norm, not in a lot of the ways I think, so I can't judge anyone by my standards. When I review, I tell you I liked it or I didn't. I might give you an idea of why I did or didn't. But I want you to be able to go pick it up, think "Well, let's see why Kris liked/hated this"...and make your own judgment.

My grandson Dylan's days are filled with "my buds". These are all the people who've become familiar to him over the past 3 1/2 years we've been out walking. There's Bob-the-little-gray-guy...he collects our regular garbage every week in the gray can. And Roger the mail man. John, a warehouseman at a plumbing supply company a few blocks away whom we've befriended as we pass by. All the men who work at a radiator supply store we walk by almost daily. The UPS delivery man. The checkers at the Save A Lot store. The librarians. The people who work at Walgreen's and Little Caesar's Pizza, the neighborhood bakery, and the Subway down the street. The postal workers at the front counter at the post office.

I love how getting out has created a sense of community for my grandchildren, even tho we live in a large city. I love how they wave at and greet everyone we come across. In this world full of Stranger Danger, I don't want them to be fearful of everyone they come in contact with because not everyone out there is waiting to do them harm. Race and religion don't even enter in to it for them...everyone gets a wave and a cheerful "Hi!!!" And rarely does anyone ever ignore them. Even teenagers.

I teach them caution. I tell them never to wander off, to stay with Grandma. But they feel secure in knowing when they're with me all's pretty much well with their world. And hopefully it will stay that way. Because, in all actuality, this world is still a decent place to be in. Most of the time.

I can't believe it...I did it AGAIN!!!

I don't know for how long my "Favorite Coffee Stops" went AWOL. I didn't even notice they were gone. But then I got an email from my cousin Ginger yesterday letting me know she was missing them because she liked using it to go visit some of the blogs listed on it. Well, you'll notice it's back. For how long I dunno. Until I somehow hit the Delete button again.

Sigh.....