Enter 2009

In keeping with tradition, I did not greet the new year awake. Instead, I was in bed with my head under the covers.

A new beginning is a time for optimism, even for an Eeyore like me, and surely inaugurating Barack Obama is reason for optimism; but there are also things that go bump in the night and other shoes to drop.

Still, just as Cecilia is trying to make the best out of another long winter, and I tried to find something to like about summer, I try on this frigid first morning of 2009 to imagine a hopeful, happier year ahead.

For those with nothing to lose, I hope for jobs, housing, food on the table, dignity and someone to love.

For those having to make do or pare back, I hope for satisfaction in learning they can meet the challenge.

For those who are lonely, I hope for friendship and comfort.

For those who are lost, I hope for an angel to light their paths.

And for those in despair, I hope for hope.

I realize that hope will not be enough. We may receive grace without works, but works are what we sorely need right now. What's that little quip? Be the change you hope to see in the world. That's a good place to start.

2009. Bring it on.

I don't do New Year's

www.flickr.com Guy Lombardo doing his New Year's Eve show live from the Waldorf Astoria in New York


See you in 2009.

Red or black: It's all the same to me

Every newscast, every newspaper, every radio station has been bemoaning the poor retailers who aren't raking it in this holiday season. You'd think this was the single most important story in the world.

I've long since reached the point where I play my little violin for them and shed a phony tear. I mean, do we really care whether or not they end the year in the black or in the red?

What really gets me is that the other part of the story isn't getting told. If people are buying less, first of all, hurray for them. But if some people are buying less or not at all, couldn't it mean that there are people doing without this holiday season? And isn't it those very people -- the ones who couldn't get their loved ones a gift or even a necessity -- we should save our sympathy for?

But, no. From the corporate news sources, trying to wring some sympathy from the public for the retailers, you'd think that we all owe them our allegiance and our money.

"I pledge allegiance to the stores of the United States of America...."

I'm just not a very good capitalist. In fact, I think we would all be fine if we had only, say, 5 percent of the retailers we currently have. I mean, just how many kinds of mustard are we entitled to choose from? How many ladies' apparel (I hate that word) stores do we need? How much stuff can we continue to buy and then dump into landfills before the Earth collapses under the weight of it all?

The sad part is that our economy is now dependent on all of us shopping every day, not just on Christmas. And when we don't do our part and buy, the effects are felt in China and other countries where people make all the stuff we buy. Have you ever wondered what those sweat-shop laborers must think of the people who buy some of the junk they crank out?

I'm not dumb. I know those stores employ people, and having them go under will hurt the economy. But I don't really care one whit for the companies that have to shut their doors because we've finally reached the point where we don't need what they sell. The thing is, we probably didn't need it in the first place.

Maybe we're finally realizing that what we need most isn't for sale in any store.

For crying out loud

From today's Washington Post.

The Afghan chieftain looked older than his 60-odd years, and his bearded face bore the creases of a man burdened with duties as a tribal patriarch and husband to four younger women. His visitor, a CIA officer, saw an opportunity and reached into his bag for a small gift.

Four blue pills. Viagra.

"Take one of these. You'll love it," the officer said. Compliments of Uncle Sam.

The enticement worked. The officer...returned four days later to an enthusiastic reception. The grinning chieftan offered up a bonanza of information about Taliban movements and supply routes -- followed by a request for more pills.

Okay. It may be better than waterboarding, but this article says something unflattering about men, especially tribal chieftans who bite off more than they can chew.

To be fair, women are getting botox injections in record numbers, not to mention tummy tucks, face lifts, breast enlargements and who knows what all. For a lot of women, it's all about appearance.

But for a lot of men, it's all about sexual prowess. Performance. And let me tell you something that those Cialis and Viagra commercials don't mention. This does not make most women happy. This is not nearly so thrilling to them as men want to think.

In fact, I don't know a single woman who wants her man running on high-octane Viagra.

Maybe its real future is as a weapon against terrorism, not against women.

A Christmas gift for all of you

Whether it's a Red Rider BB gun or a zepellin or world peace or peace of mind, may you receive something that warms your heart and give whatever warms someone else's.

Merry Christmas!

Cookieless

Twas three days before Christmas and all through my house, not a cookie was baking, not even a ... snickerdoodle.

Which got me to thinking about Aunt Viola and her cookies and how she baked more cookies than the Keebler elves ever did. Do I recall that one year she baked thousands and thousands of cookies -- enough for every man, woman and child in the Columbus area?

How I remember those vanilla strips and little rolled-up, sugar-dusted little bites of heaven.

But, God forgive me, I also remember how few cookies she gave us for a hungry family of seven. How we were lucky if we even got a vanilla strip, let alone two of them. And I remember wondering who all the people were who got so darned many cookies when we got a small tin of them. Yep, that's the Christmas spirit, nannygoat!

Mom also made beautiful cookies, cookies I can only dream about now -- springerles, green wreaths with red berries, date pinwheels, and cut-out cookies, especially the Santa face. Even more spectacular was her divinity in pink, green and white. And fudge. And popcorn balls.

Heck, Mom was making cookies right up to the time she went to First Community Village, and I'm surprised she didn't find her way into the kitchen there and whip some up.

The real question is: Is the cookie-making gene extinct? (And who did Aunt Viola give all those cookies to?)

Turning toward light

The winter solstice is almost here, the shortest day of the solar year and a mystical one for pagans and worshippers of earth and heaven everywhere.

When I visited Stonehenge years ago, I expected to be underwhelmed. Instead, I felt like an ancient druid, dumbfounded by the experience and drawn to it in a way that defies words.

So what better place to celebrate the solstice -- first with this photo of sunrise and then with one of sunset -- than at Stonehenge. Or, of course, wherever you happen to be at the time.



















It always seems to me that I can feel a sort of turning of the earth on this day, a tilting toward the course that will carry the sun higher in the sky as the days began to lengthen again. And though darkness still reigns, we inch ever so gradually toward the light.

Frosty

Meet Frosty, a very old gentleman from the early 1950s who adorned our house at Christmas time while Loie and I were growing up. Plugging in Frosty and watching him glow was warm and reassuring to the little Simpkins girls who waited impatiently for Christmas morning.

Of all the ornaments and decorations, he was always our favorite.

Plastic was a new thing in the mid-19th century, though it's hard to remember that now. This little guy wove some special kind of magic in our home, and Momma kept him all those years we were gone. He is somehow, in my mind, the watchkeeper of Christmas.

Because Rita has him now, she took this picture for me and Lois so that Frosty could sprinkle some of his Christmas fairy dust on us from afar. And he reminds me that it's usually the little things that we hold close to our hearts. I don't remember most of the presents I got or what I did on those countless Christmases, but I remember Frosty, our snowman who glowed.

Calling on all for thoughts and opinions!

QUESTION!!

It was brought to my attention years ago by a Pelican Post guest that I, and I assume some of you, have a speech oddity that is "regional"-- which means, I assume, a bit "country." The region this little speech pattern is found in reaches to Carlisle, PA, at least, because the guy who asked me was a professor at Penn State's law school there and said when he arrived he was amazed to hear everyone from store clerks to lawyers and PhD's using it. When he told me what it was, he knew only that I had been an English teacher and teacher of English as a Foreign Language and had no idea that I spoke this same regional oddity!

Are you ready? Now don't tell me what you know to be correct, but notice if you also use this and try to justify it grammatically. ;)

You find library books that are overdue and you say, "The library books need returned." You notice a messy kitchen and say, "The kitchen needs cleaned."

I want to say that it's a participle functioning as an adjective, but apparently that's not right. Is it a contraction of "need TO BE returned," or "needs TO BE cleaned"?

Aggghhhh!! Do NOT tell me I'm the only one from the Hills of Ohio who has used this grammatically incorrect phrase all my life! ;) I KNOW that the books "need returning" (the simple gerund), but how dumb does that sound to me? And the kitchen needs cleaning? Well, maybe, "The kitchen needs a good cleanin," but just "cleaning"?? I KNOW it's grammatically correct so do I now need to watch my speech carefully or may I continue with my good ol' regional use of "needs cleaned," or "needs returned," or "needs thrashed"? ;)

So?

Our libbyllama (babyllama and misterllama)

Earlier this month, this stunning niece of mine celebrated an over-forty birthday, and I just can't understand how that's possible.

Some people get older, and others, well, don't. Now it may be because I don't get to see her very often, so that she remains frozen in time or something. But just look at this picture and tell me what has changed in the last 20 years. Not our Libby, that's for sure.

Except, oh, yeah, she is now a full-time mommy (Is there any other kind?) to Nicolas, and even though I didn't witness it, I know she married Byron about seven years ago.

This is the granddaughter who called, wrote and visited her grandma and grandad to the end, who never forgot about them, who loved them hugely.

I only have one bone to pick with her: She has gone Californian on us. She lives in sunny San Diego and has been converted to West Coast living. And that means I don't get to see her except in photographs.

So a belated happy birthday goes out to my darling niece and oohs and aahs and hugs to those two men in her life, little Nicolas and big Byron.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

After much begging and whining and promising to take perfect care of a dog, should we be lucky enough to get one, Loie and I welcomed a rowdy young beagle into the family and named him Mr. Chips.

The problem was, Chipper wasn't allowed inside, so there he was, stuck on a rope or chain in the back of the house, where he got muddy and barked incessantly and wanted nothing more than to play and run free.

This was not what we were expecting, and we didn't know how to take care of him properly.

So our dad finally assured us that he had found a nice farm for Chipper, one where he could run free and have a nice doggy life. He loaded him up in the car, and we sadly waved goodbye.

Whenever I thought about Mr. Chips, I pictured him happy on a farm, leading a carefree life. Little did I know.

Fast-forward about 50 years when the truth comes out. There was no farm. There was no carefree dog cavorting across the fields. There was no happy ending.

Our dad had simply driven him out into the countryside and turned him loose. Did Chipper hunt down rabbits and avoid rabies and make it through the winter? Did he get hit by a car, starve to death?

We'll never know. The happy ending was just another one of Dad's stories.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

O Christmas tree!

Three years ago, we planted a live tree in our back yard, and this was my vision of how it would look each winter.

Alas! It made it through one season and died the next summer.

Last year there was no Christmas tree for us, because we lost Momma, and I was too sad for a tree.

But Mom loved Christmas, and she was tickled with their little artificial tree, so in her honor, I ordered a similar one this year. It's shining in the corner of my living room, reminding me of all the past Christmases that Mom made so special for all of us. With Roena for a mother, how could we not believe in Santa Claus? I still marvel at how she did it all, year after year.

I remember how we always had to wait for everyone to be present and accounted for on Christmas mornings and how long it seemed to take for Don and Dad to get downstairs. I remember one Christmas Eve when Rita let Lois and I sleep in her big bed and read us the story of "The Littlest Angel" before we went to sleep.

And I remember one year on Morris Avenue when the gifts in the front hallway were knee-deep and how my friend Anne talked about it for years. Christmas was a big deal in the Simpkins house all right, and I would give anything to go back and experience one of those Christmases again.

When I began to make Christmas coffee cake like Mom did for years, I asked her how she managed to keep it warm for breakfast without the frosting melting away. Her answer was that she made it fresh, starting around 3:00 a.m. to give the dough time to rise several times. Wait! She made it in the middle of the night? Were we spoiled or what?

The house isn't clean, there are no lights outside, no candles or arrangements nor any sign of Christmas except right here where my little artificial tree is shining with memories of Christmas past. And that's good enough for me.

And Lily makes three

Nearly 10 years ago, when our family was devastated by Zach's illness and trying to find help for him, I was seeking any port in a storm -- drugs, therapy, whatever was available. My daughter silently wrote on the corner of a piece of paper just this: Rx one dog. She knew even then, long before she became a veterinarian, about the healing power of dogs.

For a long time, it was Zach's beloved Chessie, Desdemona, that provided the healing, but she wasn't mine, and she died last year. Then two years ago, Beth found the perfect dog for me: a shaggy little mutt named Fiona. She moved right in and claimed her place in our home and hearts. Everyone but our cat welcomed her.

Now, much to Lily Cat's chagrin, Fiona loves to burrow in for a good nap on the sofa, appropriating as much space as possible, refusing to budge an inch and relegating Lily to another spot.

On this particular occasion, an emboldened Lily shoved her butt into Fifi's head and claimed her rightful place on my chest. She is a notoriously wussy cat, so I was proud of her for standing up (or down) to the fierce Fiona.

Just like Peck, Beth was right. Rx: one dog.

To sleep, perchance to dream

As we wind down to the winter solstice, I've gone into semi-hibernation, sleeping as many hours as I'm awake. It's pathetic but true that my favorite time of day is bedtime.

Partly it's because my dream life is more interesting than my waking life. I have dreams in full surround-sound, wide-screen Technicolor that would do Cecil B. DeMille proud. They aren't all pleasant dreams, but they are action-packed and rollercoaster-riding thrillers.

It's such a contradiction. I lead a plain brown wrapper life, but I must have a secret Walter Mitty side that plays out in my subconscious and manifests itself in my dreams.

Maybe its's the drugs. Maybe it's that I'm an intuitive introvert. Whatever it is, it's better than television or Netflix.

Let's see what's playing tonight.

Living in the present

Maybe one of the reasons I've had such a hard time accepting Momma's death is that she was a woman who lived every moment in the present. If she worried about past mistakes, she didn't show it. She was always up-to-the-minute on everything that was going on around her. And while her body aged, she really didn't.

It was different with Dad. He had run out of things to do, and that made it easier somehow to let him go.

But Mom was full of life. Corny as it may sound, she always bloomed where she was planted. She had plans when she died. She wasn't done with living. And maybe it has taken me the year since her death to appreciate fully that one fact about her. She made the best of whatever she had at the time.

Possibilities and "what-ifs" haunt me like Marley's ghost. Momma was made of stronger stuff than I am. She just went about the business of life and took the best from it. As much as she dreaded going to a nursing home, she knew when it was time. And then she put everything she had into making it be okay -- more than okay, actually. She made friends. She stayed busy. She learned as much about the staff and residents as she could and loved them the best she could.

This remarkable woman, Roena Elizabeth Shafer Simpkins, is my mother. It's hard to use the past tense when I talk about her. She may have left us a year ago, but she is still my mother -- a tough act to follow if there ever was one. I miss her.

Don't worry, be happy

If happiness is indeed contagious, as this much ballyhooed new report states, does that mean that I have a natural immunity to it?

If I were to assemble all my friends at a party, assuming any of them would even come to a party, I think it would look like this. It's true: I have one happy friend. And even she has blue periods.

I'm deeply suspicious of anything that begins with, "Researchers report..." First, how do they define "happy"? Do people define it for themselves? And who, really understanding the world we live in, can actually be happy?

I understand contentment. I get it when someone is up or down, happy or sad. But I think of these as momentary, fleeting conditions. And I admit that I'm a little leery of so-called "happy" people. Or maybe I'm just envious of them.

So does this latest report mean that I need to find new friends -- happy ones -- just so that I'll catch their happiness? The thing is, I love the friends I have. It doesn't matter to me if they are happy, though I'm always pulling for them. It's just that it's not a criterion for friendship. In fact, my closest friendships have been forged by walking through the fires of hell with someone, not by dancing in the streets together.

Where are all of these happy people? Are they taking happy pills? Or are they just wired differently from everyone I know? If they would have me for a friend, would I really be happier myself? And if their happiness is really contagious, why isn't the whole world happy already? Now that's something that might be worth studying.

Dance of the Spirits

Mostly because I walk the dog before going to bed each night, I've become an amateur night sky watcher. I can locate several constellations and planets, and I look forward to the meteor showers. One night a few weeks ago, I saw a shooting star whiz past.

But only two times in my life have I experienced the magic of the aurora borealis -- and neither time as spectacularly as in this photo.

The first time was in Athens, Ohio, when Dad called upstairs to tell us to come and look at the sky. I'll never forget the pinks and greens dancing across the heavens. I was probably about 12.

The second time was here in W.Va. about three years ago, when the northern sky was mint green with rosy ribbons swirling through the green. The Native American Cree call the display the Dance of the Spirits, and I can't imagine a better description.

No scientific explanation can dispel the sheer wonder of something so beautiful. I like to think that it is a kind of compensation nature provides to those who live in northern latitudes.


The odds are very long that I'll see the northern lights again in my lifetime, but sometimes just the possibility makes it a little easier for me to get up off the sofa and go out for that nightly dog-walk.

Faith to move mountains

In the book of Hebrews, faith is described as the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things not seen.

Martin Luther King said, "Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase."

Actually, I spend a lot of time thinking about faith, how it sustains us and how to nurture it. It's common for intellectuals to sneer at those who have faith and to dismiss it as a narcotic for the masses. But I don't quite understand how we can live without it. It seems to me to be as necessary as the air we breathe and as fragile as life itself.

Sometimes I wonder how people manage to get up each morning and face the day ahead, knowing the privation and pain they face. Is it survival instinct or faith that keeps them going?

And those who face disasters of epic proportions: When they lose everything they have, what exactly gives them the strength to go on? The human story is one of suffering and hope -- and faith in something much larger and more meaningful than a single life, no matter how well lived it is.

These children have faces of faith. The Muslim who carries his prayer rug, the couple who says grace in a fast-food restaurant before eating their burgers and fries, the mothers of dying children and those who walk through the darkness against odds that defy hope seem to understand the significance of faith. My own precious son who suffers from schizophrenia once told me that although he doesn't have hope, he has faith. That one remark touched me more than I can say.

Even the scientist who discovered the human genome and who had been an atheist until that time wrote that when it was complete, there were still things that science couldn't account for, and to his own surprise, it sparked faith as well as religion. The two are not the same, of course, but they often walk hand-in-hand.

So here I am at the start of the Christian advent season, hoping to come closer to the mystery, to sit in the question mark, to grow stronger in my faith journey. The words of long-ago prophets, the birth of a baby who would change the course of history, and the simple faith of those who come together to celebrate this story -- all touch my heart and encourage my own doubting mind to open like a flower. While all religions can mislead and warp their followers, people follow in a quest to put a name to the unexplained. I believe that faith is the alphabet of spiritual language.

I want the kind of faith that moves mountains, and I don't have it. So I will light my advent candle and take the first step up, even though I don't see the whole staircase.

A truly golden anniversary

I'm a little late in wishing our Rita and Don a Happy 50th Anniversary! So here's a virtual cake and our love and congratulations to both of you.

Unlike most couples I know, these two seem perfectly matched and as much in love now as they did when they got married.

And here, in the photo below, they had already been married for more than 10 years! Now great-grandparents, they really haven't changed all that much, and I hope I'm around to celebrate their 75th anniversary, just like we did with our mom and dad.

Here's to you, Rita and Don!

A totally Falterian holiday

Yep, Cecilia made it for Thanksgiving, snatched from the jaws of another holiday with Uncle Warren and Grammie Brooks in Colebrook, N.H. This was her year to surround herself with her Falter family, a mellow bunch indeed. It's as close as you'll get to no drama and whatever.

So here's Mitch with his two wee ones, with baby Thomas being the most recent cause for gratitude and also being Mr. Popularity all day, eager faces watching him sleep and waiting for the first sign of his stirring.















Beth was chauffeur-in-chief, auntie extraordinaire, extreme sports champion in stuffing the stuffing, and kitchen elf. Dave did an ace job of chilling out and hanging with the Falters.





Laurie found a master turkey carver in Zach, and she and Mitch worked the kitchen to make it all look easy.


There were no Bumpass hound incidents, no gravy dumped on anyone's lap, no quarrels, no complaints. Just a warm and fuzzy family holiday and some Kodak moments, like this one of big sister Cecilia snuggling her new baby brother.

We gather together...

... to celebrate our bounty. And we all have a lot to be grateful for today, most of all for each other.

And, um, a new president and a new beginning.

So no matter who or what we are, I hope we are gathered around a table somewhere, feeling loved, even if we pull up to that table in a garbage can or wearing fangs.

Happy Thanksgiving to my Ajax Rock family.

May the blessings be.

Start your shopping carts

So how many of you are going to do your patriotic duty and go shopping on Friday?

How many of you think it's really, really stupid to be herded like cattle and roped into this annual "Black Friday" shopping frenzy?

How many of you find a surreal contradiction between being told to save your money because the sky is falling at the same time you're being told that the only way to stave off certain disaster is to spend your money?

Here's my quandary: I love to give presents, but I hate to shop. For me, the answer is the virtual shopping cart, which I can fill up to my heart's content, park on whatever Web site, and either go back and roll it through the check-out line or, conversely, leave it there in cyberspace indefinitely.

One thing I know for sure: The thought of being mobbed at any store and waiting in line forever to spend my money is worse than having my eyes poked out with hot sticks. There's not one thing I want badly enough to go through that kind of torture.

And here's another thing I'm old enough to know for sure: In the last 30 years, shopping has become a hobby, a sport, not something we do in the tradition of hunting and gathering. It's something we do to have something to do.

So I'm already sick of hearing about the poor retailers and how they are suffering and will suffer more if we don't show up with our credit cards. Here's my harsh opinion. I don't care one whit about the retail market. All I can remember is that Christmas was a lot more fun when we made things ourselves and traded tokens of our affection rather than unloading a dumpster's worth of stuff on everyone we love. It just was.

So here's what my shopping cart is going to look like on Friday. If you look real close, you'll see the real spirit of Christmas under those dry leaves.

This does not mean that nobody will receive a gift from me at Christmas, but it does mean that sometimes the gifts that mean the most aren't found in any shopping cart at all. They just magically appear under our trees come Christmas morning.

Almost sweet sixteen

We seem to be on a Cecilia roll here, so I'm posting a fairly recent photo of her, taken in Ireland last summer.

Here's looking at you, kiddo!

See you in just a few days.

Cecilias

So, in honor of her birthday, I thought I would share a couple of my favorite Cecilia stories, for those of you who are not lucky enough to know her well.

My all time favorite Cecilia story takes place in Cape Cod about 12 years ago. Me, mom, Mitch, Laurie and Cecilia went to the beach for the day. We were hangin' out on our beach blanket, Cecilia was looking at a book she'd brought (yes, a four year old brought a BOOK to the beach!). Suddenly, we heard the magical sound that lifts every heart - the jingle of the Good Humor ice cream truck. Naturally, we were all up and running pell mell towards the sound - when halfway there, I realized there was no Cecilia. Alarmed, I figured her leg must be broken so I turned back to find her (this, by the way is a Big Deal - usually nothing stands in the way of me and ice cream. So, dear niece, should you ever doubt my love for you, remember - I went back for you). And there she was, still sitting on the blanket, looking at her book. Our exchange went something like this:
Me: Good God child, what is wrong with you - there's ICE CREAM over there!
Cecilia: No thank you, I haven't eaten my lunch yet.
And back to looking at her book, without a second thought.

True story. I have to admit, it crossed my mind that there might have been a mix up at the hospital. Fortunately, she has since blossomed into a true Falter, dispelling any doubts I may once have had.

Second story:
This one takes place in a large chain bookstore. She was about 2 or so. She was standing in line with her mom waiting to check out and was playing with the tall thing that holds postcards. Angie got annoyed and told her to sit down and cross her hands in her lap, which she did without any fuss at all. But, when Angie's back was turned, Cecilia reached out and plucked a single postcard off the rack and set it gently on the floor. She then crossed her hands and sat quietly for the rest of her penance. I was, I have to admit, delighted at this small act of non-violent resistance.

Final Story:
When Cecilia was around 8 or 9, I again became alarmed at her unfailing Goodness and lack of overall mischief. So, one day I asked he what the worst thing she had ever done was. She thought for a moment and then, her face fell and she couldn't look me in the eye (at this point, I was a little excited, thinking I was going to get something juicy to blackmail her in the future with). And she said quietly to the floor "Once, my mom told me not to take my scissors outside, and, I... did". I kid you not, she looked like she was going to cry with shame. Of course, I beat her soundly for the infraction, so I don't think we have to worry about it becoming a habit.

So that's just a little insight into my little baby niece. Who, by the way, has been more mature and responsible than her auntie since she was, oh, around 2.

MY BABY IS COMING!!!

In less than one week, I will have my tiny infant niece Cecilia in my clutches. I will smother her, snuggle her and bounce her on my hip. I will dress her in bonnets and pinafores and give her a bottle whenever she asks. I will place those little fingerless mittens on her hands so she doesn't skwatch herself wif her tiny little fingernails and I will swaddle her tightly to keep her from fussing. I can't wait!!!!

Chow down

I know it's supposed to have something to do with the Pilgrims and all that stuff, but when it comes right down to it, it's about family and food and gratitude for both.

This whole blog is really a tribute to family, so let's get down to the food part.

Yeah, there's turkey, but the real stars of the meal for me are the cranberries, shown here in their natural state (no, Laurie, not jellied and cylindrical with the markings of the tin can still pressed into the blob) in a bog on Cape Cod.

When I lived on the Cape, I loved the cranberry bogs, and watching the harvesting of the plump, sour, red berries was fascinating. Sure, it takes a lot of sugar to make them edible, but it's all worth it. What's a hunk of turkey breast without a spoonful of whole-berry cranberry sauce?

And then there's this:
Last year, we actually had Thanksgiving dinner without the pumpkin pie! Everyone thought someone else was bringing the pie. So we have the pumpkin, another unsung round thing from the fruit and vegetable group. And add to that the New England must-have -- turnips. It wasn't until I married George that the turnip tradition began.

What's your favorite part of the Thanksgiving feast? The one thing that fills your heart with gratitude? I've known people who had to have creamed onions (What's that all about, anyway?) and green bean casserole and oysters in their stuffing.

For me, it's all about the cranberries and the pumpkin pie.

How to get your red bicycle

I mean no disrespect here. We've all been or know a desperate little kid! This just made me laugh out loud today, and I thought the rest of you might want a chuckle. ;)


Little Carol came into the kitchen where her mother was making dinner. Her birthday was coming up and she thought this was a good time to tell her mother what she wanted. 'Mom, I want a bike for my birthday.'

Now, Little Carol was a bit of a troublemaker. She had gotten into trouble at school and at home. Carol 's mother asked her if she thought she deserved to get a bike for her birthday. Little Carol , of course, thought she did.

Carol's mother, being a Christian woman, wanted her to reflect on her behavior over the last year, and write a letter to God and tell him why she deserved a bike for her birthday. Little Carol stomped up the steps to her room and sat down to write God a letter.

LETTER 1:

Dear God:
I have been a very good girl this year and I would like a bike for my birthday. I want a red one.

Your friend,
Carol

Carol knew this wasn't true. She had not been a very good girl this year, so she tore up the letter and started over.


LETTER 2:

Dear God:
This is your friend Carol . I have been a pretty good girl this year, and I would like a red bike for my birthday.
Thank you,
Carol

Carol knew this wasn't true either. She tore up the letter and started again.

LETTER 3:

Dear God:

I know I haven't been a good girl this year. I am very sorry. I will be a good girl if you just send me a red bike for my birthday.
Thank you,
Carol

Carol knew, even if it was true, this letter was not going to get her a bike. By now, she was very upset. She went downstairs and told her mother she wanted to go to church. Carol 's mother thought her plan had worked because Carol looked very sad.

'Just be home in time for dinner,' her mother said.

Carol walked down the street to the church and up to the altar. She looked around to see if anyone was there. She picked up a statue of the Virgin Mary, slipped it under her jacket and ran out of the church, down the street, into her house, and up to her room. She shut the door and sat down and wrote her letter to God.



LETTER 4:
I GOT YOUR MAMA.
IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER AGAIN, SEND THE BIKE.

Thanksgiving yet again.

Hi all,
way back in February I wrote on here about Thanksgiving. Now we are upon that time of year again where the winds come in hard and the air turns crisp and cold. We are back to a time of year that I love and despise with equal measure. There is one very happy thing happening this Thanksgiving, however. I will be getting out of shool at 11:10 on Thursday and hopping on a flight that will be headed down south for a few days. I will be flying to see you all for Thanksgiving! There is no excitement in the air yet, no 'yes! we have vacation' but it will come and I will be right in the middle of the excitement. I have four shows left, a cast party, my birthday, and then I'm where I love to be, in the heart of Virginia (the state that went blue!) So, to break the writers block we seem to be experiencing, I thought I would thank anyone and everyone who will be giving me the best birthday present ever, a chance for a normal Thanksgiving.

Another Milestone!

Tom the Turkey is getting to be a big boy. Although he does not turn 3 months old until later this week, he is already wearing 6 months- sized clothes. Additionally, he rolled over for the first time today! He's a happy little monster man who is making progress towards sleeping-through-the-night, much to his parents' delight. Thomas would like to say hello to his second cousins Rebekah and Nick! Maybe someday they can come together in a sandbox somewhere.

It's come to this

While it was good to have the "rock on" support of many of you, this blogger has a serious case of writer's block. Constipation of the brain. Whatever you want to call it. But it's more serious than that. It's not like all kinds of things are roiling around in my head, begging for a chance to be expressed. It's that almost nothing is going on inside my head.

It's partly because I'm back on my meds and I've increased them. Kind of kills any creativity that might be there.

It's also that blah time of year, rainy and chilly and gray as a tombstone.

So this is a post to say there's nothing new to tell.

How's that for a conversation stopper?

Time to move on?

While Loie is somewhere in Texas today, heading for the border, I'm planted in my chair, musing about the future of our meeting place here on Ajax Rock.

She and I have wondered if it's not time to pack up and move on, close up shop and think of another way to keep in touch.

Maybe this little blogspot has done its job. Maybe it hasn't. But we're hoping that if you ever stop to visit here -- or if you have taken the time to share your point of view or your thoughts -- you'll let us know what you think.

We could start another blog, maybe one that's more inclusive. Or we could go back to e-mailing each other individually. Or not. As long as technology pervades our lives, though, we may as well figure out how to use it to keep connected, not to the larger world, necessarily, but to the people and places that have given us our identity, our security, our sense of belonging.

To rock or not to rock: That is the question.

Peck and the beanstalk

One thing our dad had in abundance was curiosity. Even into his ninth decade, he kept some of his boyish playfulness.

Take this tree at the edge of the road in front of their house. When it got to be about nine feet tall, Mom wanted him to prune it so it didn't look like a beanpole. He, as usual, resisted, insisting that he just wanted to see what it would do if it were left alone. He wanted to see how tall it would get, whether it would fall over in a storm, or if it would one day reach the sky.

I thought of it as Peck's beanstalk and wondered if it was magic.

When he died last October, it was Rita who took a piece of his beloved tree and tucked it into his casket. The tree, after all, spoke volumes about our dad. While our momma cared a lot about what the neighbors would think, Dad just plain didn't give a rip. He thought his tree looked grand, and, you know, when I'd visit the house and look ahead for the place I'd make my turn into the driveway, that tree became my marker.

Rita and Don took this picture when the leaves turned this fall, and I have to think that Dad would be quite proud of his beanstalk. Looks to me like it's going to reach the sky after all.

Meet the boys...

Well, I'm hitching the wagon tomorrow morning for my journey to the Yucatan. Remind me to carry cold Cokes for these boys who will stop me periodically to check to see if I'm carrying drugs. I am, of course, but not the ones they are looking for, I assume. It's pretty hot wearing those clothes and standing all day in 95º heat. They appreciate cold Cokes. No problema. Cokes for them, no problemas for me.

Another little bud on the family tree

Meet baby Rebeka Ann Kovaleski, the newest little twig on our tree. She's lucky to have Rita for her grandma, and though it may be a long time before I meet her, I'm her great-auntie.

That's her mama, Regi, with her. Regi is married to my oldest nephew Don, and they live in Tennessee. Gee, I can remember when Don was born. I was so excited to become an aunt in the sixth grade, and now he's a daddy to three girls.

Rita is just about the best grandma in the whole wide world, and she'll get to hold this little chubby-cheeked bundle at Thanksgiving. That's a lot to be thankful for, isn't it?

Nicky, Thomas and Rebeka: three little second cousins, separated by many, many miles, just like the first cousins are. Yep, we've scattered our seeds far and wide in this family, for better or for worse.

Welcome to the big family, little girl.

A picture worth thousands of words

It has been a long time coming, but today millions of people are walking with their heads a little higher, with a little bounce in their steps, with a lot more pride and the assurance that what's always been just out of reach is now possible.

I know that there are many, many people who are disappointed, angry, even afraid. For them, embracing change is like drinking the Kool-Aid. I haven't forgotten what it feels like to be on the losing side. But I do believe we want to be better than we are. That we need to look for the best in each other. That only in looking will we find it. That every single one of us is called to work for a better future for our planet and every living thing on it.

I hope for healing. I pray for reconciliation. I cannot get Gandhi's words out of my mind: An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Let's set an example for the world and put down our weapons, pick up our tools and get to work for the greater good.

A new day dawns...!

A new day is dawning in this country!! Let's all roll up our sleeves and go to work with him to make it better for all of us!!!

Hallelujah!! There IS a Santa Claus!!!

All I can do at this point!

Johnny and gang are probably out there at the 4-way stop with their huge sign, yelling and cheering, and Ms. Moon wrote a wonderful entry in her Bless Our Hearts blog, but I'm just sitting here frozen, sign in my yard, with my fingers crossed and jumping out of my skin...how about the rest of you?

Man of the Hour

I'm standing on my Ajax Rock today, looking backwards and forwards.

There have been a few times in our history when certain men have been called as president because the set of circumstances and times called for their special talents. I think of FDR who told the country, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." If ever a people needed to hear those words, it was the desperate people living through the Great Depression. Having FDR at the helm lifted them up and gave them hope, and the country was able to move forward. When FDR signed the GI Bill in 1944, he basically created the foundation for a middle-class in this country. The GI Bill was a genuine attempt to thwart a looming social and economic crisis. Yes, Franklin D. Roosevelt was indeed a Man of the Hour for America.

Then when I was 14 years old, I recognized another Man of the Hour in John F. Kennedy. All that talk about the pope taking over the country I knew, even at that young age, was not what it was about. Within the next few years, the social unrest of the 60's became quite serious with a long-dragged out war which was killing and maiming too many people, a civil rights movement which was long overdue, and the threat of nuclear war hanging over our heads. As a teenager, this was very scary and I  felt quite powerless. But I recognized in JFK another Man of the Hour, a man equipped to deal with problems in a rational, intelligent way rather than an egotistical or hot-headed way, and who would not stick his head in the sand. Yeah. A president smarter than most of us!  

And this year, after 8 years of the disaster this country and government have become (and I never used to equate the two), Barack Obama is our Man of the Hour. We really do need serious CHANGE in Washington and Obama, like Kennedy, is smarter than most of us. I know many people don't like and even fear change, preferring the pile of warm crap they're already sitting in, but I believe most of this country knows that once again, we don't need or want someone who's worked his way to president via the Peter Principle. When a Man of the Hour shows up, the people recognize him, and this Tuesday, they will elect Barack Obama as our Man of the Hour in this new millenium.

And for an excellent read, check this out: Give him the @#!% ball

P.S. Those of you who read this entry and don't agree are reminded that this entry is MINE and I get to speak my mind on my own blog. I've suffered 8 long years with your guy, and this really matters to me. I am not in the mood for spamming or trashing me or my candidate so just move on and find your own rock on which to express your opinion and don't crash my party. ≈

Don't it make my brown eyes blue

I want to live in a blue state. For a while, West Virginia went from red to pink, but this morning it's red again. And I just read an article that says that many West Virginians won't vote for Obama just because he is black and/or he's not endorsed by the NRA.

Now I like living in this beautiful state, and I at least admire the honesty of those people who speak their minds and say flat out what many people think but won't say. It's disheartening, but there it is.

Blue is my color. Blue skies. Bluebells. The Blue Man Group. Bluer than blue. True blue. Blue bayou. The blues. And the polls all tell me that at long last, blue will prevail a week from today. Still, I'm afraid of saying it out loud. No yard sign. No bumper sticker. It's almost as if I fear that voicing my support, my hope, will jinx the whole thing. Two close elections in 2000 and 2004. Two terrible disappointments. Will I finally be able to let out the breath I've been holding for eight long years?

On election night, I want to be in a blue state. But I'm just a few miles from Maryland, from Virginia and from Pennsylvania. And Shepherdstown is about as blue as it gets. That will be close enough for me.

Let the shoe be on the other foot. Let those who have had the power for so long know how it feels to watch from the sidelines. But then let there be a time of making up, of realizing we really are all in this together, of beating our swords into ploughshares, of forgiveness and reconcilement. If blue triumphs over red next week, just remember if you're red that we can feel your pain. We've been in solitary confinement for a long, long time. Maybe we'll finally see blue skies again.