Who, I ask, looking at the unbridled joy on the face of this child, could fail to smile? She is, you know, still inside each one of us, just waiting to be let out to play.
This birthday card was given to me on my un-birthday, as a vote of confidence that I, too, could reclaim the little girl who climbed on Ajax Rock, who skated with abandon on roller skates with a key on string around my neck. And although I don't actually remember wearing a cape, there was certainly some kind of magic that propelled me along those cracked sidewalks on Morris Avenue.
A few years later, Loie and I discovered indoor skating at the Rollerama, and we collected old pop bottles in tall weeds, carting them in a rusty red wagon to Andy's Confectionary for the return deposits, finally counting up our pennies to the magic number: 150. Enough for admission and skate rental for two,
When I lived in the ghetto in Panama City nearly 40 years ago, the unforgettable sound of roller skates hummed its way into my brink-of-adulthood life. There, Christmas day was a sort of city-wide rollerskating day. Children poured out of their crowded homes to skate along Fourth of July Avenue, the downhill street that separated those of us in the slums from the affluent Canal Zone on the other side -- a place where people pretended that roaches didn't crawl across their dinner tables (though they did, as I learned while dining at an officer's home, much to my fiendish delight) and all the palm trees were manicured so that they swayed in perfect synchronicity over the wide avenues and grassy lawns. Where I lived, there was no grass, and the palm trees hung limply in the humid air. Oh, and in my world, there in the slums, the children skated on one skate, thank you, having to share the skates, and also the fun, with their siblings or cousins.
Fast-forward another decade and one-half, and rollerskating beckoned me with a new promise: to feel like the grown-up mommy of three "gnarly" kids could still cut the mustard. Armed with Woolco skates in all sizes for the kids and those skateless kids on George Mason Avenue in Falls Church, as well as a perfect pair of honest-to-goodness shoe skates exactly like those of Linda Rondstat on her current album cover, I handed myself over to the glory of skating, even in short-shorts, up and down the hills of our neighborhood. At one point, we had 16 people on one block out skating in unison. Not only was it good for the soul, but it did wonders to tighten the sagging butt and trim those thighs. I was once approached in the post office by an older gentleman who inquired whether I might be the young woman who skated past his house; whereupon, dressed in career clothes, I confessed my sin of joy and exhibitionism. He confided that his wife skated in the basement and wanted to join us, so of course I said, "C'mon down." I don't think that she ever did, and she might still be skating in her basement in demented and delirious circles as I write.
Having been asked recently if I knew how to ski, the query coming from a friend who knew I lived once in Colorado, I replied that no, I didn't, that I was too old for that now, with, you know, the dire warnings about osteoporosis and falls sounding the certain death knell. "But," I said, "I used to be a mean rollerskater," alluding to the roller derby era. Well, both sports use the knees and require similar skill sets, don't they?
Pronouncing to this friend that, "No, I do not ski. Cannot ski. Will not ski," did nothing to dissuade. So, he, appealing to the inner child in all of us, sent this card from a ski resort in Utah., and I think it was meant not only to challenge me but also to reassure me that it's never to late to give up control, to feel the glory and the fun of a sunny day with a pair of roller skates on your winged feet. Just don't forget the key.
BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT
Hello out there, all you who climb onto Ajax Rock. I have the privilege and pleasure of announcing that my daughter-girl, my precious and enigmatic child -- your sister, niece, cousin and friend -- is flying to Salt Lake City next Saturday to claim her new baby.
His name is going to be Ben, and he's a pure-bred Australian Shepherd, now eight weeks old. He resembles love-of-her-life Harvard Charles in that he is a red merle who is mellow and snuggly. And if we know one thing about our Beth, it's that she loves things soft, downy, cozy and comfy. And speckles and spots? She's a sucker for anything speckled and spotted -- like a fawn. Adult deer? Get out the shotgun. But a tiny, speckled fawn? No way.
Looks to me like she's found all that and more. A new life to care for, nurture and train. A companion on the bumpy and too-narrow highways of life, jammed with traffic and impatient humans who don't know your name. A helpless creature in need of Dr. Beth -- a woman who loves her boys. Who speaks dog. Who is devoted, steady, whimsical and flexible. Someone who may leave her car keys in the bread basket but who knows exactly where the dog leashes are, the toys and the treats.
I mean, folks, this is a woman whose cupboards may be as bare as those of Mother Hubbard, who may eat Smartees for lunch and be indifferent to her own needs, doing without necessities. But open a cupboard in her kitchen, and you will find healthy, nutritious dog and cat food, home-baked dog biscuits and a mortar and pestle to grind up food for her creatures who have dental or gum "issues." Who can get soaking wet trying to get into her house because she lost the keys, break a window, climb through and rip her pants off but worry only about whether Harvey and Kirby! are getting cold and wet. And they wear fur.
Is this a lucky dog or what?
Godspeed, my child, to Utah to claim your puppy. My love and prayers and hopes and dreams go with you.
Congratulations to the growing canine family. And Dave, get out the cigars. It's a boy!
It may be snowing and sleeting outside, but I'm feeling the sap rise and the turning of the planet toward new light, new possibilities, a new growing season followed by reaping and harvesting whatever rewards God gives me.
Rather than sleep away half of the day, I find myself rising in the night and slipping outdoors to look at the night sky, strewn with stars that wink at me in a silent conspiracy. And when there's frost on the ground, it looks as if some of those same stars have fallen like diamonds from heaven, right at my feet. It's like a promise of eternity that warms my soul until I no longer feel the cold.
Isn't it a miracle that we mortals share the same instincts and hope as other creatures and plants? The buds are slowly swelling on my pear trees and forsythia, and the daffodils are emerging under their blankets of dead leaves. It's an annual promise of sweeter, longer days to come. And for someone who is a believer, as I am, it parallels the new life that God has prepared for us.
Lent begins next week. A time for introspection and for "giving up" or "doing more" or whatever your own heart tells you to do in preparation. You just have to be still and listen.
Can rebirth be far behind? Not while our planet continues to hurtle through the heavens. Stop. Listen. You'll hear it in the stars, the birdsong, the whisper that speaks the language of faith.
Look no further. Miracles are all around you. Open your eyes and watch along with me.
For those of you who are rolling your eyes at the mere notion that Mr. Foyle or Michael Kitchen could have been in love with me in another life, I want to clarify that it's not my 61-year-old Nannygoat self that might win him over. Rather, it is a long-ago version of the present-day me: Nanny at about 33 years old, shown here.
Beth likes this picture of her mom at about the age she, Beth, is now. It's not a worn-out mom but a sort of sexy, come-hither mom.
And I ask you, what other daughter would believe that this woman might, indeed, capture the heart of Mr. Foyle?
Thanks for the vote of confidence, daughter-girl. Methinks that Mr. Foyle would be shocked at such a come-on, but who understands what makes men tick?
On your left is the official charter of The Lincoln Society of Athens, Ohio, phonied up by yours truly to allow two members to crash the official ceremony held every year on February 12 at the Lincoln Memorial to honor our 16th president.
In that picture are seven high school girlfriends who got together every year for four years to hold a birthday party for the man we most admired. We did not do this in jest. It was somewhat solemn while we recited from memory his famous and not-so-famous speeches, but when the stovepipe-hat-shaped cake or log cabin cake came out, we partied hearty.
We were dateless wonders in high school. Being a smart girl pretty much killed your reputation with the boys, the ones we disdained anyway because of their pronounced immaturity. But they did us a favor by not asking us out, because we formed lifelong friendships that thrive today.
Even after we all went our separate ways, we would remember each other on Abe's birthday, even if we didn't stay in touch the rest of the year. And many times, Anne and Mary Ellen and I got together in our adult years to attend the ceremonies and do something Lincoln-related. That man had a strong influence on our young, idealistic lives.
Some 35 years later, five of us got together in Florida to celebrate our 50th birthdays and to spend time 
with Patti who was locked in a life-or-death struggle with cancer. She lost the battle, but we all visited and loved her and helped her accept what was so hard for all of us. The first of our group was facing the mortality of all of us. So here we are in her kitchen in Orlando, blowing out our collective candles.
Patti had an extra connection to Lincoln, having gone to college in Illinois, marrying a man she later divorced but in the process somehow coming to own a burial plot in the same cemetery in Springfield, Ill. in which Lincoln is buried. This was long before she remarried a wonderful man, moved to Florida and later got sick. Her body rests in that cemetery today, and one day we will do a pilgrimage there and light candles and celebrate her life all over again.
During one of our last visits to her, while tears were flowing, we told her we would one day lay a wreath at the Lincoln Memorial in her memory and that of all of those idealistic young girls. At first she didn't believe it until I told her I would find a way to make it happen and that she could send her spirit winging there to watch.
She died in September, and that winter, Mary Ellen and I began to plot a way to make our promise hold. I was living in Massachusetts, but Mary was still in Falls Church, so the planning and conniving got underway. It took only two phone calls and the charter shown above to convince the organizer of that year's wreath-laying ceremony to take us at our word and invite us to the service. We wrangled the name of the florist other groups used out of the somewhat dotty but sweet man in charge. And it didn't stop there. He invited us to all of the official functions. Now we were in deep doo-doo. I was bold enough to get us to that point but needed Mary Ellen's trustworthy reputation and demeanor to pull it off.
Not only did we order a beautiful wreath, shown below, but Mary put a tintype-looking photo of us as girls into the bow. We crashed the service with perfect aplomb and attended the after-service luncheon with others in Civil War uniforms and hoop skirts, some of the women wondering aloud just why they had never, after all this time, heard of us. Mary was our spokesperson, because I was losing it.
But the important thing is that we honored our promise to Patti and honored our decades-long friendship and honored Abraham Lincoln, as well. We did it! We even took along a "press crew" that consisted of Mary's husband, a lawyer at the Justice Department, and his serious-looking friend who had a camcorder.
And here's the proof. Here are Mary Ellen and Nannygoat holding the wreath. And below that photo is another of the memorial at dusk, showing our wreath front-and-center with a visitor peering into the faces of those young girls who found inspiration and purpose in the life of a great man, just as our new president and countless others have done.
... this man was in love with me. I just know it. Or at least I can fantasize about it. It's not just his real persona, Michael Kitchen, the actor, but the person portrayed here as the chief police detective in the PBS series "Foyle's War."
I can just hear my daughter gasping at the thought that her mother --her mother, for heaven's sake -- has a fantasy life that involves, yes, another man. Well, honey, I may be over 60, but I'm not immune to certain charms. And this guy has what it takes.
His acting is so understated that if you're not dwelling on his face, which I am, you will miss the slightly raised eyebrow or downturned mouth that speaks volumes. And for me, never one with an abiding interest in anything WWII-related, watching this man portray the dignity and resolve of the British during this grave chapter in their history makes me wish I had been there to see the courage and shared sacrifices they all made. Not to mention the obvious: to be part of Mr. Foyle's life.
I've watched all the episodes twice and have every intention of watching them again. It's an antidote to the late winter blues. And it's harmless fun, right?
Who, I ask, looking at the unbridled joy on the face of this child, could fail to smile? She is, you know, still inside each one of us, just waiting to be let out to play.
