Going home

Photo courtesy of www.flickr.com


My favorite place in Athens has nothing to do with the university or any of the places we once lived that now seem changed forever. Court St., once the center of my universe, holds no meaning for me now.

No, the place that captures my heart is White's Mill, maybe because it seems timeless, tucked into that bend in the river. It's my Athens landmark and the only place I feel a need to see when I'm back home.

This week Rita and Don will be heading north, back to take a load of their things to what was Mom's and Dad's house and is now theirs, back to the place that whispers "home" in their hearts. I don't know what their favorite spot is, but they know every back road and stream and hillside in Athens County, so they probably have many favorites, depending on the season.

For about 40 years, they have had a longing to return to the hills of Southeast Ohio, and I know that those old hills and valleys are waiting to welcome them home. For me, they are a part of memory, but for Rita and Don, they are both memory and future. There's nothing in the world like going home. Drive safely and enjoy the ride, my sister.

Family matters

Photo taken at Burr Oak Lodge on Mom's and Dad's 70th wedding anniversary.


When I look at this photograph, it makes me miss all of you so much. (Don K., Don Jr. and Wally are there in the background, so click on the photo and enlarge it to see them.) After all, you were all there when I came into the world, a ready-made family for me.

Mom and Dad were nearly 89 and 90 years old in this photo, and yet they are so cute! Look at Dad's expression and Momma's sweet face. It was a happy time. Dad hadn't started down the road to dementia yet, and Mom didn't have her walker. All of us were together for the last time before their funerals.

Can you imagine how few families get to celebrate this milestone in their parents' lives? I remember that Don, Jr. and his family camped out in the rain, and a lot of us shared cabins. Debbie's whole family came, and I have a picture of Walt there, too -- and George. We were quite a motley crew, weren't we?

It was all over too soon, but I will treasure that day forever, because again, Dad was right. In the end, the thing that matters the most is family, and we have one we should be right proud of.

= ] Onward and upward!

Yesterday I arrived at school at five o'clock in the morning. I stapled three-hundred programs (two staples each) and then was pleasant and nice to everybody (even the people I can't stand). What, you may ask, possesed me to do this on a lovely Saturday? The love fo the theatre. Yesterday was our regional drama festival, hosted by our high school. For those who don't know, seven schools come to the school and they each have a thirty-five minute tech rehearsal where they spike their set and check their lights and things like that. They then have to put up their set in five minutes and take it down in five minutes. There are two judges who then watch all the plays and critique them and at the end of the day they decide three shows which are going to the state drama festival April 10th and 11th. This brings me to the end of this short paragraph by saying that our show, I Never Sang For My Father, stage managed by yours truly, was chosen as one of the three to go to the state drama festival!!!!

Cast of characters: the Simpkins-Robertson offspring

The year is 1971. The scene: a living room in a house somewhere in Sebring, Florida. The suspects: big sister Libby and little-boy Johnny, wide-eyed in front of what we can only suppose to be a television set. I'm somehow sure they are not being held spellbound by their mommy.
Well, we all have to grow up and make our peace with the world. Looks to me like this young man here, one of those "unglaciated Allegheny Plateau people," has done just that. He's staring down the world like there's no tomorrow. Who could guess that he's a Florida boy, born and raised? Looks like we're related after all. Maybe that "boy ain't right," but I'm proud to claim him as numero uno nephew. Johnny can look -- and act -- normal, too. See? There he is, below, with Libby and Byron and their cousin Stewart on the far right. I think this was taken at their grandma and grandad's 70th anniversary.


















And that little girl is now a mommy herself. Here's Libby holding little Nicky, born last August, making my sister Loie a granny at long last. Same wide-eyed look, even though she's all grown up now. She didn't rush into this motherhood thing, but looks to me like she's a natural. She's now a California girl, so I guess she wants to keep some distance between herself and her weird relatives. But she's not fooling anyone. She's still my little libbyllama.
Your auntienan doesn't buy this story your mom tells about you being too busy to climb on Ajax Rock once in a while. Until you do, you're at the mercy of the old ladies, writing whatever they want about you. Rise up and defend yourselves! I've got more photos stashed away, including ones of you running around nekkid. Stoop to bribery? Who, me?

In praise of dogs

Bethany Claire, the "dog whisperer," leads the pack on our back deck.


When we were growing up, there wasn't room in our house for a dog. Oh, we begged, Lois and I, and finally got Chipper, a beagle who was tied up outside where he barked and cried until Dad promised us he'd found a "nice home on a farm in the country" for him when, in fact, he later admitted that he had driven out in the country and let the dog out to fend for himself. I've tried to tell myself he was probably happier, that at least he could run loose and chase rabbits. But I think of dogs as family members, not hunters and not creatures to be tied or chained outside.

Enter Bethany Claire, our family dog lover and authority on all things dog. This girl loves dogs, and as soon as she was old enough, she got her own dog and proved to all of us that she was serious about her passion. Harvard Charles (Harvey), seen below, is now 14 years old and is so obedient that he is like a well-mannered person wearing a dog suit. I've never known another dog even remotely like Harvey, the love of my daughter's life.
In order to keep Harvey all to herself and not have to share him with her husband Dave, she bought Dave his own Australian Shepherd, the intense, athletic and driven Kirby, seen here in a scene from his trip last summer with Beth to "Camp Gone to the Dogs" in Vermont.
Kirby is a tireless dog, a dog with an agenda who comes from a line of proven search-and-rescue dogs. Of course, like all dogs, he bonded with Beth rather than with Dave.

Beth found the perfect dog for me when a rescue woman brought a group of dogs from a "kill shelter" in North Carolina to her veterinary practice. Having an instinct for what makes a dog a good pet, she culled Fiona from the herd. She's a shaggy dog of questionable pedigree, but she's a joy.

But the dog who won my heart and soul was Zach's dog Desi, pictured below in my garage with her favorite moo-cow in her soft retriever mouth. Untrained and strong as an ox, she became a lovely companion to Zach and to me. She died last August, and I miss her dearly. Desi, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, was loyal and stubborn to a fault, but she was sweet and devoted and goofy.






Wait! There's more. Mitch and Laurie have a beautiful Rottie named Cub. He's something of a rascal but belies the mean and aggressive reputation of Rottweilers. He is their third Rottie, following Mia and Ilsa, both of whom died of cancer.


The newest member of the family is a delightful old beagle Beth rescued for her dad. Barney is, by Beth's description, a "regal beagle," and she had a hard time parting with him after she found him for Steve. But she's a good daughter, so Barney is sharing his golden years with her dad. Meet Barney.


If there's a lesson here, it's that you can't have too many dogs in the family. If there's another lesson, it's that if you have this many dogs in the family, you need a family member who is a veterinarian.

A magical place called Shepherdstown

Shepherdstown, West Virginia, is one of the prettiest towns anywhere on earth. And I'm lucky enough to live just two miles outside of town.

This is our local library, lit up during the winter like the rest of the old buildings in town. And above are a few of the old houses on German St., the main drag.


Shepherdstown is on the banks of the Potomac River, just a stone's throw from Maryland where I walk along the towpath on the C&O Canal every day. We are in the cradle of the Civil War, with Harper's Ferry just 10 miles south and Antietam Battlefield just 4 miles west across the river. The picture below is of the bridge over the Potomac with the towpath below -- my favorite place to walk. The Appalachian Trail is nearby, and there's kayaking and whitewater rafting in the Shenandoah River and on the Potomac.

The town is home to Shepherd University, so it's a melting pot -- or the closest to one that you'll find in West Virginia. President Clinton held the Israeli-Syrian peace talks here when he was top dog, and the town in much more affluent and liberal than most of West Virginia, an interesting blend of the old-timers and the newcomers.

When we moved here from Cape Cod, I thought my New Yorker husband would suffer culture shock, but he continues to be in awe of the natural beauty and kindness and civility of the people here. And after searching for "home" for decades, I can say unequivocally that I have found it. I love the land. I love the sense of community. I love the atmosphere of tolerance. I love my church (seen below). I love my home here. Actually, I'm grateful for Shepherdstown, if that makes sense.

Steps of New Street United Methodist Church, with kitty cat making herself at home
Shepherdstown sort of puts its arms around you and embraces you like an old friend. It's in danger of becoming too yuppified, but it seems to hold it own. Only 75 miles from D.C. and Baltimore, it's another world entirely.

Voted the "smartest" of the Washington exurbs, Shepherdstown, admittedly, is not your typical old West Virginia town. It has a future and a past, but the river, the railroad with the constant sound of trains passing, the lucky geography it enjoys and its history as a refuge and a place of healing make it unique. After the bloody battle of Antietam, as southern troops fell back across the river, every available building in our town was converted into hospitals to treat the wounded and dying, regardless of whether their uniforms were blue or gray. Originally part of Virginia, it was annexed to West Virginia by Lincoln's decree after the war, and it is considered to be the oldest town in West Virginia.

It's a special place, my hometown. Ask anyone who's been here.

Former barbershop with red door; freight train crossing river on trestle.

Cast of characters: Zach

Photo of Zach with his beloved Chessie, Desdemona, taken about two years ago.


Zach is the last of my family to be included in our "Cast of Characters," not because he's not important, but because he's such a huge part of my life, and it's very hard for me to write about him. If I took a photo today, it would be Zach alone, without Desi who died last August, and you would see that he has shoulder-length hair and the same handsome face as he does in the "little Zach" picture below.

The younger of my twins by 7 minutes, Zach was by far the most curious and outgoing of my 3 kids -- also the most sensitive. I rarely worried about him because he was such a capable and loving child, but I should have. He was much more "Simpkins" and far less "Falter" than either Mitch or Beth, and he seemed to have Peck's spirit from the outset.

Today Zach lives totally alone, has no friends and sees only me for days and days on end. He has been diagnosed as "paranoid schizophrenic," and the last 10 years of his life have been more difficult than any of us can imagine. He has been homeless, jailed, tasered, beaten, institutionalized and marginalized. He showed signs of mental illness during his last year at the University of Virginia, but he graduated with a 3.2 GPA in spite of that. Then the all-out battle for his freedom and his mind began, and he went down hard. His illness shaped our family and challenged each one of us to dig down deeper than we could imagine to see him through this life-altering illness. I feel equal parts indignation, sorrow and outrage that our society treats those with mental illness as if they are criminals, but I've spent myself in futile attempts to change that.

This wonderful child is still locked up inside him, the boy who was musical, verbal and athletic, who loved his family and was full of ideas and plans. But most days I don't see it, and I have to trust that it's still there. I've done everything I can possibly do to keep him safe and give him a chance at a life of his own, but it never seems to be enough. On most days, I simply take him as I find him and offer my love and support and presence.

Before Daddy got trapped in his own mental confusion and dementia, Momma told me that every night before he went to bed, he got down on his knees and prayed for his grandson. He could never quite accept what happened to him, but he needed to know that Zach wasn't alone, abandoned. Maybe in the growing confusion of his own mind, he had some deeper understanding of what it's like for Zach.

It's impossible for us to understand the disintegration of a brilliant mind, but I want to believe that it is still a "beautiful mind," that he has some chance of recovery, that his gifts that are hidden will be revealed again.

Back-door friends and front-door visitors

Photo courtesy of flickr.com

Thinking of all the houses I've ever lived in, I realized that the only people I really welcome are those who enter by the back door. People who come to the front are often bad news, with the exception of deliverymen bringing flowers or parcels.

Growing up on Woodward Ave., especially, I can't recall any good coming out of answering the front door. In fact, the only people I can recall coming to the front door are Mr. Sinclair, the man who collected for garbage removal, the Watkins man and Jenny and Nip Jackson, who arrived on New Year's Eve.

Mr. Sinclair was benign enough, and the Watkins man was kindly but suspicious, at least to me and Lois who were mean to him, even though he brought little rolls of Life Savers as a bribe for our affections. Momma must have been mortified to hear us chanting from behind the closed bedroom door, "We hate the Watkins man! We hate the Watkins man!" I mean, what did he ever do to deserve such treatment? Maybe we just knew somehow that if he didn't come to the back door, he wasn't a friend.

Then there's the matter of Jenny and Nip, who always reminded me of Jack Sprat and his wife -- he tall and paper-thin and she short and pudgy. They must have been friends of Mom and Dad, but wasn't it weird that we never laid eyes on them except occasionally on New Year's Eve when they would arrive for a not-especially-festive evening that always seemed strained to me. Later, when I was about 12 and they came to our house on Morris Ave., Jenny came in bearing her offering for the evening: diet ice cream! Then she, to my horror, she of the Pillsbury Dough-Boy figure announced that she had brought it "for Nancy"! What the....? Clearly she had no manners nor tact, and she sealed her fate right there, as far as I was concerned, demonstrating once again that front-door people are suspect.

Okay, so I was psychologically scarred by Jenny Jackson, but think about it: Do you really want to invite inside people who show up at your front door?

Nantucket-bound with Rita and Debbie

When we lived on Cape Cod, we had a revolving door of visitors coming and going. But one of the best visits I had was with Rita and Debbie.

Here we are before we boarded the Grey Lady ferry to Nantucket for a day trip. Those southern gals found their sea legs, and we had a great time playing "tourist" on that beautiful, fairy-tale island.

Seems to me we also took a whale watching trip and had some good food and lots of girl-talk while they were there. I also remember that Deb could tell that the sheets on their bed had been line-dried, something I did because I loved the way they smelled when they were hung outside in the ocean breeze.

It goes down in my book as one of the nicest family times ever, and I hope this photo brings back some good memories to Rita and Debbie too.

The 1934 McQuay Norris Streamliner: Don responds

I should have known better than to challenge Don.

Here is a picture of the restored "whale" -- or "teardrop," as it was known!

Turns out that he had one of only six of these babies, built in 1934 to be driven by engine component sales reps to advertise the McQuay Norris company and to test new engine components.

The interior was fitted with lots of dials and instruments to monitor performance and engine condition, while the chassis and running gear were based on a Ford V-8. The body was made from steel and aluminum attached to a wooden frame, and the curved windows were made from Plexiglass.

Don reports that restoration was completed around 1990, and it's now in a St.Louis museum where the asking price is $149,995. He sold it in 1979 for $6,000, and it was restored in a shop in Conn. at a cost of about $90,000. Now we know why he didn't restore it himself!

Brother Don and "the whale"

Don has some explaining to do here.

I unearthed this old photo (circa 1960s) of one of his "finds," which he called "the whale." You have to understand that this sort of obsession defines Don. He sees possibilities where the rest of us see, well....what you see here.

He held on to this piece of junk for years, swearing he was planning to restore it.

So what happened to this project?

Where is the whale today?

Merida, my home

I live in Merida. Merida, Yucatan, Mexico. The Yucatan Peninsula is way closer to Cuba than to the U.S. border. It takes me 4 days to drive from the Texas border to my house. But it's getting so modern here that I hardly notice I'm not in Kansas, er, Florida, anymore. This photo is of "el centro," the old downtown. I rarely go there unless I want to go to the English library or find a bargain worth putting up with trying to find parking.

 Merida has about a million people now, I think. It's known all over Mexico as being small-town safe, and yet it's cosmopolitan. (Yeah. The people speak Spanish. Usually I understand them and I can make them understand me. This morning the cashier in WalMart spoke so fast I had no idea what she said.) People move here daily from Mexico City, I'm told. The local people are called Yucatecans and they are friendlier than people from any other Mexican state, I do believe. Until the 1960's they weren't even connected to Mexico by road and considered themselves The Republic of Yucatan. Their ancestors are Mayan, not Aztec or Tolmec, so they look different, too. They are a mixture of Mayan and Spanish.

One thing I don't like is that the Yucatecan seems to have had a war on trees since time began. Anything taller than a man gets chopped down. I suppose originally it was for firewood, and then perhaps for the henequen plantations. Also, there's no ground water ( lake or rivers) in the State of Yucatan. The soil is porous limestone and beneath it there is lots of water. In places that water reaches the surface and appears in little pools called "cenotes" and many are great swimming holes. Some are slightly underground and rays of sun shine through holes in the roof of their caves and give the water a gorgeous torquoise color.
They connect to an amazing array of underground springs which they've recently discovered connect all the way to the Caribbean, opening out south of Cancun.

South of the state of Yucatan, but still on the Yucatan Peninsula, there are trees and hills in the state of Campeche. That area kind of reminds me of southern Ohio. It's also not as sunny as it is here in Merida. Oh. Did I mention the SUN? And the HEAT? Yeah. HOT. Merida is always HOT. We're having a little cool spell now with the windows open, but by Friday it will be 95º again.

 During the late 19th and early 20th century, Merida was extremely wealthy due to the production of rope and twine from the henequen plant, known as "green gold." Europeans came over and built huge haciendas and got really rich off the stuff by transforming barren plots of land into acres of henequen Eden. By the 1880's, Yucatan into was one of the richest states in Mexico producing ninety per cent of the rope and burlap bags used worldwide. The hacienda owners lived lives of wealth and privilege, like the silver barons in mountainous Mexico. But like all things, that came to an end and all around the state are old haciendas in ruin, some being renovated by brave or stupid souls and turned into hotels, etc.



This is a photo of the big FiestaAmericana Hotel and mall. (It did NOT used to be a hacienda!)

Since NAFTA began allowing for the import of US goods, I can now shop at Home Depot, four WalMarts, Sam's Club and Costco, Office Depot, GNC, and Starbucks. In the last year, 4 malls have been built here. But I pretty much stay holed up in my house because our house is such a haven. This is our 4th house we've owned in Merida, and we finally got it right, but that's for another entry!

Oh, and I forgot that Chichen Itza, recently voted one of theSeven Wonders of the World, is about an hour and a half from here and someday I really must see it. ;)

An old, country custom

Photos courtesy of www.flickr.com

Driving to Hilltop Cemetery in Millfield after Dad's funeral, on a windy October day with the clouds gathering low and dark, we had to go around the Athens bypass and then on to Route 13 through Chauncey and Millfield, along a winding country road.


One of the things I'll never forget is seeing cars and trucks pull off to the side of that old, two-lane road and wait in respect as our small procession passed by on the way to bury our father. Such a simple and decent thing to do -- such a humble and right thing to do -- and yet I had never seen anyone practice that old country custom anywhere else. Even here in West Virginia, I have occasionally seen cars cut off funeral processions, though most let them pass. But to pull off the shoulder and simply wait as the hearse and mourners pass struck me as the most lovely thing.

When we are trapped in our grief but the rest of the world goes on as if nothing has happened, as if the sky hasn't fallen, it is such a comfort to know that others recognize our loss, that they will take a few seconds or minutes to honor a life ended. A small gesture but a genuine one. We really are all in this together, and in at least two small dots on the map in Southeastern Ohio, there are folks who know that. This old country custom touched my heart in a wholly unexpected way.

The next time I see a funeral procession coming toward me on the road, I intend to do the same, hoping to offer just the smallest assurance to those mourning their dead that I feel their loss.

Happiness.

I didn't have the easiest childhood. I know, I know, that is what everyone says. There are problems in every family, there are always money issues at some point, the teenage years are hard on everyone, etc. These are the things that happen to everyone. They may be four or they maybe fifty-four but that doesn't really matter does it? What matters is how that four year old is going to deal with the difficulties life throws at them or what the fifty-four year old does with the rest of their life.

When problems crop up some people go into recluse, hide away within themselves and go about the normal day feeling hollow. Some publisize their problems hoping to get pity, but not help, never help. Then, once in a very long while there is the person who finds the gold on the other side of the rainbow. These are the people who can say "yes, life is hard and sometimes it sucks, but I'm alive and it is beautiful outside." They are the people who dance in the rain and catch snowflakes on their tongue. People smile for various reasons, to hide something, to cover up their misery, to create a strong illusion. But these speacial, amazing people can smile because for one moment things are good.

I suppose I don't have extremely strong beliefs yes, at fifteen I'm still working on it. I haven't decided about religion or what I want to do with my life yet because I have yet to find something I can imagine doing the rest of my life. I decided when I was very young, maybe about eight, that I will be one of those special happy people because although there is always some rotten things in life I'd rather ignore all that and live in an alternate universe, where I am happy, becauseright now my one solide belief is as simple and complex as it gets, I believe in happiness.

Peep-peep

"Elvis Peepsley," an entry in this year's Washington Post peeps diorama contest. Copyright washingtonpost.com. Go online to see all entries and the winner on Easter Sunday.

What would Easter be without Peeps?

Our brother Don likes to open his and let them get as hard as brickbats before he eats them. I once found Peeps that were at least two years old in Beth's drawer, and they were still edible. It's hard to think of them as "food," so try thinking of them as "art." The Washington Post has challenged readers to create dioramas for its annual contest. They're wonderful and silly, and I love to imagine grown-ups laboring over their Peeps dioramas for weeks on end, savoring victory and their ten minutes of fame.

I can't remember a time that my Easter basket didn't have Peeps in it. All of those delicious artificial colors and flavors and preservatives just waiting to be eaten! You can have your bonnets, your chocolate bunnies, your hams and your Easter lillies, but me, I'll take my Peeps!Wouldn't it be fun to create a diorama of a Simpkins-Shafer family reunion, using only Peeps? Maybe next year.

Handouts for hobos

One of the many things our mom taught us by example was generosity. She wasn't just generous with her family, but she shared what she had with strangers, too.

When I was in fourth grade, which would be about 1957, long after the Depression, we moved to Morris Ave. There were train tracks about three blocks away but no station or stop for many miles. Hobos were sort of mythical creatures to me, and about all I knew was that they grew in numbers during the Depression and rode the rails.

Then one summer day in 1959 or '60, I was sitting on the front steps with a girlfriend (of all things, we were admiring the polish we had just put on our toenails!) when a man approached our house and tipped his hat to us; then without a word, he walked to our back door, which was on the side of our house. It's a sign of the times that we were curious rather than afraid, but the gentleman looked pleasant, if a little ragged. I recall turning to see him speak to my mom, hat in hand, and then wait patiently at the door.

It wasn't long before Mom handed a paper bag out the door (sandwiches, perhaps), but he was still there. Then I saw my mother give him a large glass jar of homemade soup that she had heated up for him --and napkins and a spoon, of course! The funny thing is that it didn't seem all that unusual to me that a strange man would pass all of the other houses for three blocks and come straight to ours. Obviously, the word was out that a good woman -- and a good cook -- lived there. Nor do I remember ever asking Mom about it. It was just what you did then. You fed a person who was hungry, even if you didn't have a lot to share. I suppose people who had lived through hard times understood implicitly that the man at the door who tipped his hat could have been them, their loved ones, their neighbors.

I don't think I ever heard my parents refuse to help someone in need. They didn't get their names in the newspapers or get recognized by local organizations. That's not why they did it. My mom just did it because it was right, because it was what you did. No Sunday school lessons ever taught me as much about the Golden Rule as my momma did.

Now we call these people homeless, "bag ladies," street people. We don't look into their eyes and see their pain. We bolt our doors against strangers. We don't interact with the likes of them. And worst of all, we say we have made "progress." Progress? I think something's been lost in translation.

Can you hear me now?

An announcement from our Blog Queen (LoPo):

It has been brought to the attention of the "queen" that some folks want to get up on Ajax Rock with us but can't find the path, so I'm going to do my best to explain to those of you whose company is sorely missed how to add comments.

If you have no idea where to start or you're frustrated when you get to the "sign in" part, just look below each blog entry, and you’ll find the word "Comment." It might already say "2 comments." Doesn't matter. Click on the word "comment," and it will take you to a page with a text box on the right. The simplest way is to enter your comment in the text box, and then do that stupid word verification entry (which I personally always mess up and have to redo because I'm half blind). It’s there because one time a spammer actually horned in on our blog, so I took this seriously and left it in. Trust me. It's just so they know you're a real human being and not an automatic spamming thing or a terrorist coming to perch on Ajax Rock.

● Then just click on the little "button" by Name/URL and enter your name. If you’re shy or sneaky, you don't have to use your real name. Make one up. We'll have a good old time trying to figure out who you are. If you want to really drive us crazy, you can always just use "anonymous."

● At this point, you can get yourself a Google account if you want. That will earn your name a blue link instead of just a plain old black one. This is not a big deal. To get an account, you only need to pick a "screen name" and password, and then you can even use it for e-mail via Google if you want. If you do sign up for a Google account, you'll be given the chance to establish your "profile" so that the rest of us know a bit about you. If you dare, you can even put your photo in there. Or you can skip the profile. Hey, we’re a tolerant bunch. If you can express yourself without profanity, we will entertain your comments.

So if you feel the urge to say “hi” or even to write a few paragraphs, that's how you do it. In the old days on Ajax Rock, we just used two tin cans connected by a string, but we’re modern now. (Actually, the tin cans and string would be easier.)

And if you want to become a Team Member and make contributions to our blog, contact the blog queen at loiskpost@aol.com and ask for an invitation. We are happy to share our perch with genial people who want to be part of our family.

Good Friday

Today, on Good Friday, I will sit for an hour in the Presbyterian meeting house, quietly and without any preaching or singing, and grapple with the same questions the apostles faced over 2000 years ago. Why do we deny and betray God? What does God require of us? If Jesus was the son of God, why did God make him suffer so terribly?

I've heard faith described as being willing to "sit in the question mark," a difficult thing to do when most of us want answers, and we want them now.

I still find myself amazed that I belong to a church, that I have a church family -- that, frankly, I was willing to join anything. Maybe it was no accident that I was led to my chuch right after this country elected Bush to his first term. I joined the ACLU after he was elected to his second term. I think it comes down to this: Being part of a community of people struggling to walk their faith journeys is a whole lot easier and more inspiring than stumbling along in the dark, cursing the darkness without lighting a candle. When a whole group of people light their candles together, you can see the path more clearly. And I believe in the deepest part of me that whether we choose to affiliate with any religion or congregation or not, we do have a purpose here, and that purpose will be revealed if we are open to it. I'm still searching, but I'm not searching in the dark.

Talk is cheap but words are priceless

Until modern times, words had value. People were said to "weigh their words." A man was "as good as his word." Oratory was an art, and poetry was celebrated. Wedding vows were sacred exchanges of words, letters were cherished and oral histories were carefully preserved. The Bible tells us that "the Word was made flesh."

Somewhere along the way, we started using words lightly, choosing them carelessly and damaging our ability to connect in a meaningful way to others. I remember that our dad pointed out, correctly, that the advertising industry was spoiling our language when it promised we would "fall in love" with a car or a hamburger. McDonald's slogan is "I'm lovin' it." Score one for Dad.

To me, words are like a color palette is to an artist. They hold endless possibilities for combining, blending, shading to draw the pictures I hold in my mind, the subtle shades of meaning implicit in every thought we try to convey. Language is cause for celebration. After all, how else would we acquire knowledge, build empathy, convey our hopes and dreams, share so much of our lives?

Today, talk is cheap. Proof: television and talk radio. Stock phrases turn up over and over again. "At the end of the day......" or "In the final analysis....." or "OMG" in text-speak. Thoughtful discourse is rare, and everything seems canned and programmed to push our buttons of emotional reactions. People admit to not reading books, to consuming the disgorged streams of thoughtless words and images poured out of the airways by the boatload. Today Abraham Lincoln's speech at Gettysburg would be dissected and torn apart and discarded as political rhetoric.

To me, words are treasures. They can contain actual pearls of wisdom. They can transport me places I couldn't otherwise go. They can connect me to my past, to my present, to my loved ones near and far. Great speeches, simple sermons and letters between friends can open our hearts, start movements, heal wounds, build bridges of understanding. And aren't those all things our world needs more of? If we were to be struck dumb, maybe then we'd understand that words are priceless.

The RED DOT

Heads down. Now raise your hands. Who loved the Red Dot? Who hated the Red Dot? Ahhhh. The votes are in, but I'll never tell.

The summer of 1964 was the summer of the Red Dot. I had just graduated from high school and Nan and I had spent 3 weeks in Manasquan, New Jersey at the beach, coming back with incredible tans! And the work schedule was posted for car hop duty at the Red Dot. Now you're going to have to help me here. My memories are limited vivid ones, and others, whether you loved it or hated it, will have completely different ones. Mine are Gladys the cook who stood like a wooden cigar store indian when she had nothing to do, and after Dad pointed that out to me I couldn't look at her with getting the giggles and trying to hide them. Then there were the pizzaburgers which were a big hit. Why didn't we make them at home? (Two thin patties with mozzarella cheese layered in between.) Paula racing to get our customers' trays and swiping up our tips. Dad putting me inside at the counter and Nan and Paula "hopping." (I think this was because Nan, uh, didn't practice the art of filling the soft ice cream cone orders with a sleight of hand necessary to get exactly the amount of ice cream, brought to a nice curl, that would leave Daddy a profit.) I still have a the recipe for Red Dot barberque if any of you plan to feed a very large crowd.

Oh, and my garbage men who came in during the afternoon lull and lined up on the counter stools. I guess it was a big thing to them to be welcomed. Hmmm. I suppose they must've stunk, but all I could see were polite guys with dollars in their pockets who showed up when no one came, about 2:00 pm. They always hollered at me from the garbage truck that next couple of years when I was an OU student and they were on their routes around town. My garbage guys. :)

After a few years at the Pelican Post, I told Dad, "You should've let me manage it for you!" Of course he would never have considered letting an 18 yr. old me manage it, using the excuse "and supervise Nancy and Paula?," but you know, I think I would've done a darn good job, and it would've been fun to get to be the boss of those two! ;) I could've threatened Nan with firing her if she didn't let me be the 'bu driver instead of passenger more often!

C'mon Rita. I can't remember the "pies" part. Did you or did Mom bake pies for the Dot? Did John work there, too? Skip Layton did, but what was Skip's job? Did I replace him "inside" when he left? As you can see, my memories on a lot of stuff aren't too clear!

Weeding the garden

Here's the thing: Our family garden has a few weeds growing here and there. Like any family, we disagree, resent, compete and sometimes neglect each other. It's easy to do because we count on not having to earn the love of our other family members.

It's time to confess that we are not always one big happy family, and so far, I've committed some "sins of omission" in my blog entries. I haven't talked about the time Don wouldn't let me carry even one of the 13 stuffed animals he won at the fair just for the evening -- or the fact that Dad and I had some rip-roaring fights or that he was often cantankerous and controlling to a fare-thee-well. Lois and I spent our teen-age years bickering, while there were financial worries and the usual family disputes. I'm sure that the older siblings probably think Lois and I had it easy, while we sometimes think that they were favored. Oh, we could go on and on with this, couldn't we? We could air the dirty laundry and trade accusations, but to what end?

Yes, things could get loud in the Simpkins household. There were arguments and tears and hurt feelings and the whole lot. But what I think is this: It's easy to love what's lovable, but loving the foibles and flaws in another person is a whole different ballgame. The challenge is not to take the bad with the good: It's to love the bad as much as the good. When we do, we experience something that is transcendent, almost spiritual.

No, I don't forget the weeds. It's just that one man's weed is another man's flower, and weeds, after all, are sometimes beautiful. Just look at the photo above.

The Big SHOULD

I love my SImpkins/Shafer, but this morning I woke up and thought, I, the most unconventional of all of you, am sick, sick, sick of SHOULD's!!! (And the Post family I married into has their share, too!)

When everyone started in on me in their voices full of sorrow for Daddy's being stuck in such an AWFUL situation -- and not just that Hickory Creek nursing home was awful which it probably is -- but that all of his life he had withstood pain and pressure from everyone while he stood by his own convictions that if you go near a doctor, you end up worse off instead of better! He distrusted institutions and bureaucracy to the point of neuroticism, but who's to say that even though he was paranoid they were NOT out to get him?? And get him they HAD!!

Then Rita, John, and Nan all started in on me that I needed to get myself up there to SEE him!! SEE HIM??? Get up there to SEE DAD IN AN INSTITUTION???? To me, perhaps the most like Dad in many ways, both being extroverted and prone to unreasonableness, that meant GET HIM OUT OF THERE!! I had in my heart, understanding how important a person's convictions are to him, if he indeed has them to the level that Dad did, promised that when the time came I would remember how in One Hundred Years of Solitude, when the old dad "lost it," they tied him to a tree out front where he was still in the middle of things, involved in their lives, but couldn't hurt himself (or wander of, it sounds like). So you see, I had a conviction about Dad's conviction, and I also couldn't stand to be told SHOULD one more time! I felt, "If you say I should come up there, then you'd better be ready for me to be who am I and do what I do!"

Since I was a child, I have lived with performance anxiety from the great Simpkins/Shafer SHOULDS.
I am glad I got the chance that once to play out a part in helping Dad in MY way, not the way the rest of you actually intended when you laid the big SHOULD on me! And I know Nan and Rita and Don supported me, but I suspect it was the kind of very anxious support that you all would have felt had I been carrying Dad across a high wire to freedom! Now help me get freedom from the family SHOULD's by NEVER telling me what I SHOULD do again, AND never telling me "It's OK NOT TO" because that's just as bad. Being one of the "babies" means when you're 61, you still have "imbecile" written on your forehead I guess! ;/ And maybe I am an imbecile because even my two grown children tell me what I SHOULD do!!

My mission in life is to somehow spare my grandson from the great SHOULDs that will probably surround him. Nicolas, Grandma is gonna come and get you and take you to Belize where there are NO RULES!! ;)

It has been anounced!

Yesterday, the exciting news was announced. This will be short because I am sick and need sleep but here it goes! I will be receiving a half brother in August!

Five years of war with no peace in sight

Anti-war protesters in Washington


An Iraqi woman grieves, above

Tomorrow marks five years since this country invaded Iraq. On a bitterly cold January day in 2003, I marched in my first peace protest in Washington, naively sure that if enough people took to the streets, our government would stop beating the drums of war. There was no stopping them, no way to prevent what was to come: all of the senseless dying and misery and disruption of millions of lives for a purpose I still don't understand. In March of that year, Suzi and I marched again, but it was to no avail.

This is not the place for rants you've already heard. My political opinions don't much matter to anybody else. But it is the place for me to mark with great sorrow that once again, senseless violence and killing prevailed over other solutions, that war simply breeds hatred that leads to more war, that we never seem to learn. And I take cold comfort in foreseeing that it was all lunacy, a terrible mistake.

When I told Dad that I was planning to march in Washington, he gave me his blessing. So I joined hands with millions of people on this planet who still believe in giving peace a chance. Far from being the "lunatic fringe," these people were thoughtful, normal people who had no recourse but to use their feet, their voices, their right to peaceful protest, and it was a defining moment for me. Call me an idealist -- and I'll take it as a compliment.