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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.