Birthday Boy

Micah was supposed to be born on November 13th. This was back in the day, before ultrasounds, so who really knew for sure? But I was definitely counting on it.

We were living in a trailer (which I recently learned is not called a trailer anymore. It's a manufactured home, now. But it seemed a lot like a trailer then. You could have hooked it to a strong car and pulled it somewhere.) Anyway, we had a 3 year-old, and an 18-month-old, and it was pretty crowded in our 12' x 48' little home. The kids each had a miniature bedroom, and Dee and I slept on a hide-a-bed in the living room/kitchen. I mean, can you picture how anxious I was to move? We had just finished building a new home 40 miles away, with lots of space, a garage, and a washer and dryer, but we were waiting for Micah to arrive.

Thanksgiving came and went without the awaited special guest, and I was still preggers in a big way. On December 1st I went to the doctor, depressed as could be, since I was now in another month from when I was due. The doctor checked me out, and said, "You know, you could go into the new year." The new year!! I burst out crying and said, "I can't! I just can't!" He patted me on the knee and said it would all be fine. How did we survive in the days before the OB started you? They must have been as happy as women were when they finally invented that technology. Who wants a 10-month pregnant woman crying on your shoulder?

So, two days later Dee called on a snowy, cold afternoon, and asked if anything was happening. "No," I said, glumly. "OK. I'm selling a house tonight, so I won't be home until about 8." No problem, I told him. At the very second I hung up the phone, I felt the tale-tale tightening band in my back that finished in a doozy of a labor pain. No cell phones, of course. The kids were in the tub, and too little to get out and dress themselves. So I called my neighbor.

Cute Merlene. She came and took care of the kids, fixed them dinner and timed my pains. They were stronger and coming every five minutes. She was terrified, but I wanted to wait for Dee. We agreed that she'd have her husband bring her two kids over so she could tend them all. Her hubby, Jim could take me to the hospital if Dee wasn't home by 7:30, or if the pains got to two minutes apart. The hospital was only a block away.

I had already had one baby without my husband (ROTC summer camp) and I did not want to repeat that experience. Especially with Merlene's husband holding my hand. It was very stressful. Her husband was more anxious to take me than to tend all the kids, so there was a "discussion" going on between them while I was writhing around, and reassuring my kids that I was fine. It felt very old-fashioned. Maybe I'd deliver on the kitchen table where my dad was born, with my toddlers observing the whole process. I was reaching the stage of "I don't care....just get this baby out of me!!!"

Right at the exact moment of decision we heard the truck arrive. Merlene opened the door, and told Dee what was happening, they loaded me in and then stayed with the kids, while Dee sped me to people who knew what to do. They put me in a wheelchair, and ran me upstairs, where I was checked, and they immediately said it was show time. Dee was still filling out paper work and they yelled to him to get on his greens (his little pretend doctor outfit), and he ran down the hall to join me.

Micah made his appearance 10 minutes later. My other two babies had been breach and posterior (all-natural births in those days of my hippy life. I never understood why all the other hippies were doing drugs for no reason at all, and my version of the code was having no drugs even when you were birthing a child.) Because of the enormous pain of the two prior inconsiderate entries to the world, Micah became the official favorite kid. He just pretended he was on a luge run, and slid out in record speed. He was darling, perfect, and it was close to a painless delivery. Well worth the wait.

His name had been Seth, Issac, Benjamin, and Jakob (pronounced Ya-cope) over the months we discussed it. The middle name was always going to be Micah. (We were apparently really into Old Testament names at the time) but he just arrived as Micah, and the decision was made. Bag those other names, we had a Micah.

I got a private room for the first time, through a fluke of hospital planning, but it was delightful. It was at the time of the Spiro Agnew scandal, so there was plenty for a political junkie to watch on TV. Micah never cried. He was good natured from the first minute. He laid in my arms while I bit the bottom out of every chocolate in the box searching for a good one, and we watched history play out on the screen dangling from the ceiling.

Dee told me he was moving us into our house. When the baby and I were released, Dee drove us straight to our new digs. Somehow I pictured being carried across the threshold into a perfectly clean, totally organized and decorated home-show type house.

Carrying me across the threshold was out. Dee couldn't carry me even in my pre-pregnancy phase: it was embarrassing to expect it, so I followed him in, carrying my diaper bag, my soggy baby and my now exhausted, soggy self. We headed directly for the bedroom. The bed was in pieces on the floor, with boxes stacked high on the bare, now dusty mattress. I changed the baby, and went into the bathroom. There was sawdust all over everywhere. I had to peel off the sticky labels on the faucets to turn on the water, which initially came out brown. The toilet had been used as a contractor's urinal for several months, and it was already stained and full of floating cigarette butts. The unpacking phase had only gotten as far as hauling boxes in and setting them down on any available floor space.

As this sorted itself out over a couple of days, I got calls from friends anxious to see our new little guy and our new house. I was dying to show it all off. Everyone already had houses, so I was late to the game, but mine was a new house, which had a little edge over theirs. Plus I had upped the ante, with 3 kids to their 2, so it was time to gloat.

I insisted Dee take the kids and get our first real Christmas tree, for our first real house. He said he wanted a living tree. Great! I didn't want pink aluminum, either. When he arrived back, with snow blowing in as he rolled the big stand (it turned out to be a giant pot filled with dirt) into our beautifully prepared living room, I was imagining a giant tree to match the pot. He turned it over and I thought the tree must have fallen out. There was only one skinny branch sticking out of the 3 foot high pot. No pine tree aroma, fresh needles falling off, crisp branches warming up and falling into a lovely triangle shape. The one branch we had was the tree. It was the trunk which was attached to enough roots buried in the dirt to grow a forest. Apparently, this was the living tree I had agreed to, which would later be planted in our yard in fond memory of the lovely Christmas we spent under it's branches----er, stick.

Picture this tree, half the size, with mostly the trunk and a couple of branches; the pot was bigger.

How embarrassing. To have all my friends come to greet the new baby and tour the new house, and have to explain that the (3 foot in circumference) pot of dirt which took up my entire living room, was my Christmas tree. We draped some icicles over the trunk, and luckily Micah was darling enough to keep their attention. This was my first experience with post-partum depression, and I don't think it had much to do with child birth.

I had been scared about life with 3 kids. Two was hard enough, but semi-manageable, but three was going to put a cog in the wheels. I hadn't counted on Micah being the third kid. He was smiley, observant, and funny. When he could barely crawl, Josh would carefully spread his blankey out on the floor. Micah would inch over and tweak the perfect edge, by turning over a corner. Josh would scream and Micah would laugh. He'd figured out how to tease all on his own. Sports teams (the boys that played in the circle) and women (the girl who showed him her underpants at recess) begged him to be their friend from the time he could talk.

As I was telling him off for a major character flaw, he looked up and said, in a totally serious tone, "Mom, you're beautiful when you're angry." Thirty years later I still smile when I remember that line. It's STILL working.

When any of our kid exhibit strange qualities, we always blame it on the other parent. "Yeah, he's a lot like you in that odd behavior." We've each claimed Micah as our clone. We would proudly accept any of his personality traits as our own. He's a gem.

This post has taken so long, that it's not even his birthday anymore. But I've been celebrating his birth the whole time. Happy Birthday, Micah!! You are the Christmas Gift that keeps on giving. Kind of like a tiny living Christmas tree that is now part of the landscape of our lives giving beauty and comfort all year long. You were definitely worth the wait!!!

Preparing for Christmas

Family, food, and gratitude lead perfectly into thoughts of Jesus, giving and joy. The day after Thanksgiving we've always hauled the boxes upstairs, rearranged the furniture in anticipation of the tree, checked to see if the lights still twinkled and unwrapped the Christmas dishes. At one time we had three trees throughout the house, with garland and ribbons on every light fixture and staircase. The kids often slept on quilts under the tree while a fire crackled and John Denver sang Aspenglow (or Please, Daddy...).

When we moved into our apartment, one of the things we divvied up amongst the kids was the decoration accumulation. We kept just a few of our most treasured pieces, but they got the German ornaments, mom's silver bells, some Swiss wood carvings and tole-painted centerpieces. There were plenty to go around, with enough left over to make our new home very festive.

Just before Thanksgiving this year I got smacked with a cold. It got worse, and for the last ten days I've been zapped of energy. The boxes holding the Santa collection and nativity scene have seemed so high on the shelves, and so heavy to lift. Boughs, wreaths, trees...it's so dark and cold and I'm wiped out. Our apartment building has an elegant social room, with high ceilings and a dazzling tall tree. We've reserved that for entertaining, and we'll be partying at our kid's houses, (plus we're going out of town for Christmas,) so I decided I wouldn't bother getting it all out this year. Nobody would even see the decorations, anyway. Whew! What a relaxing thought. No effort. There wouldn't be any of that anti-climactic un-decorating, either.

Yesterday Amy told me about her preparations. She and her kids talked about all the things they're doing to get ready for Christmas. Then they talked about how families get ready for a new baby to arrive. (I must quickly say that she's not pregnant!) They buy diapers, and blankets, a crib and a teddy bear.

She asked how they thought Mary would have prepared for Baby Jesus. There probably wasn't a baby shower where she opened new clothes for her baby, was there? Mary was far away from home, without a rocking chair, or a cradle. Did she bring the swaddling clothes with her? Joseph must have cleaned out the manger, and filled it with fresh straw.

Then Amy asked her little girls, "What would you do to prepare for Baby Jesus?" She showed them a little manger, and suggested they put pieces of straw in it whenever they do something kind for each other. The kinder they are, the softer the bed will be on Christmas Eve. Then the manger will be ready for Jesus, and their hearts will be ready, too.

I felt a pang of sadness that my little kids have all grown up. We're missing the simple and sweet wonder that children have when they hear the Christmas story. And then it dawned on me--I haven't prepared. Decorating is an important part of my preparation. It reminds me that December is different. When my surroundings are sparkling with anticipation, my heart is lit up, too.

I'm still unpacking the nativity pieces, and I need to find a little package of straw for my manger. It doesn't matter that nobody else will see it. I'm getting ready to feel the magic spirit of Christmas.

Christmas Presents

Santa's coming! We're all making our lists and checking them twice. Who to give to? What to give? Where to shop? When to make it? How much money???

With fourteen kids (including in-laws) and eighteen grandkids, this Mrs. Claus had to cut out some extraneous chores and costs. The fun, but time-consuming neighbor gifts were getting out of hand. Christmas cards sent to folks from decades ago had grown to a burdensome number. Extended family gift-giving had to give way to the growing immediate family. I decided to make some changes when I saw Scrooge reflected in my mirror.

There's a time and a season for everything, but trying to cram all the traditions of our 38 years into one Christmas season was dimming the spirit for me. My spending limit for each person was getting lower, costs were getting higher, and trying to find a gift that would be individual and appreciated, plus affordable, was becoming impossible. I'm a shopper extraordinaire, but it had all become an overwhelming chore.

Years ago we began selective Christmas planning. The Sunday after Thanksgiving we had a Family Home Evening where we all made suggestions of our favorite traditions. Then we chose the ones we'd incorporate that year, and designated who would be in charge. Sometimes we did a Sub-for-Santa for a family in need, other times we'd do a 12-Days-of-Christmas for elderly neighbors. We always included a service project for someone outside the family, and Secret Santa kindnesses for each other.

If we went Caroling last year, we might make Gingerbread houses this year, and remember the taffy pull next year. We experienced a lot of traditions over time, just not all the same exhausting week. We still plan Christmas the same way, even without kids. If I'm not in a cookie decorating mood, that activity is saved for Valentine's. If trifle sounds tempting for dessert I make it, but maybe not with a full turkey dinner on Christmas Eve. Dee might light candles all over the house every night this year, and another year make a daily simmering pot of mulled cider his Christmas specialty. I try to send birthday cards, or even Thanksgiving cards, to special people I want to keep in touch with from "way back." I often send Christmas cards if I have time and enthusiasm for it. I've eliminated anything motivated by guilt.

We entertain a couple of times, and we go to some parties, but we don't try to attend every holiday event happening all over town. That would be like eating everything on the menu, and I've learned that's not the way to enjoy myself. Relaxing my own expectations has been the biggest challenge.

A letter from Cindi in Seattle asked:

Dear M+M,
What are some Christmas shopping ideas when you have a lot of people to give to and not very much money?

I shot this question over to mwrites for some creative suggestions.

m(arta) writes:
Hmmm...this is a toughie; a question that is most likely on so many minds this season. Here are some ideas:

1. I think a hand written heartfelt card is always perfect.
2. Small ornaments attached to a touching Christmas story.
3. A box of cereal is unique, cheap and fun!
   
4. Rolls of Christmas wrap and tags to help them get started.
5. Pillsbury cinnamon roll dough that comes in the tube.
6. Anything in the dollar aisle at Target.
7. A favorite family recipe printed out and framed.

Anything can be a sweet gift, if you put some thought into it. Presentation is always key! Best of luck. Wrap those little trinkets with care and they will be a fine treasure to open!

M(arty) replies:
A small bag of oranges, or a jar of jam can become a traditional gift. My good friend solves the problem in a delicious way. In August, when her peaches are ripe, she spends a whole day making fresh peach and whipped cream desserts. She delivers them all over the neighborhood in disposable aluminum pans, and signs the card "Merry Christmas." Everyone is delighted, and during the crazy Christmas season she is able to relax (from that duty at least,) knowing her friends know of her best wishes already.

Our kids' families each contribute a scrapbook page to the other families, recalling the past year in photos and captions. The original is kept by the creator, and copies are put in protective sleeves and distributed to the rest of us, so we all have yearly up-dates in our own binders. We do this instead of drawing names, or purchasing gifts for each person. We all love sharing the memories, and this year two granddaughters are working together on their family's page. Won't it be fun to have newer generations include their talents?

Because I love to shop for books, I have made a book my traditional gift. I research authors and illustrators, find titles with the kids names by searching on the internet, ask what each person is interested in, and spend hours in a variety of bookstores. I have stickers to put on each book so the recipient will remember who it came from.

I've loved getting acquainted with specific hobbies by looking for a special book. Chase, 8, wants a book about the insides of frogs. I looked at several and found the perfect one! Now I have something new to discuss with him. Lucy wants a book about a girl with curly hair. I got it, too. I hope we send a message: there are books that make reading fun for everyone.

Christmas shopping has become one of the great joys of my season. Each book is personal but everyone still gets the same thing. And we don't get a credit card bill that takes all year to pay off.

I've sometimes wished I could give extravagant gifts like season ski passes, or necessary gifts like new winter coats for everyone. I'll have to leave those for Santa Claus. I've discovered, however, that the elves on my Christmas list recognize the love wrapped up in each package and give all that love right back to us. That meets my present goal for true Christmas giving.

Blogging Guide

Ten tips for reading my blog:

1. Don't be afraid. You can't get lost. (Just click on your back button.)
   
2. Articles are called Posts. The most recent post appears first, and they go backwards.
   
3. I have a comment section at the end of a post. I want your comments! Don't be shy. Sometimes your comment will start a conversation, so check back.
4. The underlined phrases in my blog articles are links. Click your mouse on a link and you will automatically go to another site. (Click your back button to get back to the original site.)
5. The section on the side of the main article is called a sidebar. There's a link to find out My Complete Profile. Other links take you to My Areas of Expertise. I've got quotes and illustrations to portray the personality of my blog.
   
6. The sidebar has a list of other blogs called a blogroll. On my blog I have a Family Section (blogs by family members) and Regular Reads, which is a list of my favorite blogs. Click on any of the names, and you'll go directly to that blog. (Just click the back button to come back.)
   
7. In the sidebar you'll see a list of categories. If you like an article about Salzburg, for instance, you can search for that category and click it to see all the articles on that subject.
8. At the bottom of the sidebar is a link to Archives. To read past posts, click the little triangle by the year, and then the month. A list of articles pops up. Clicking on one will take you there.
9. Copyright laws apply to anything posted on a blog. If you aren't using it to make money, most bloggers won't mind being quoted if you give them credit for the idea, and link to their blog, (or give others the name and URL address to their blog.) If you're advertising or selling anything, you must get the author's permission.
10. Explore! Bloggers are creative in how they design their blogs, and want readers to appreciate their efforts!

Mama's Minutes

This is a book I wrote a few years ago, called Mama's Minutes. It's about raising my kids. After rereading my journal one time, I wrote the poem, and then I decided I wanted to tell the whole story.


Mama's Minutes

by Marty

Mama had a diary she kept beside her bed.
I'd see her write by candlelight; she said it cleared her head.
"Whatcha doin', Mama?" I'd ask when bedtime came.
"I'm keeping minutes of my day--sometime you'll do the same."

She jotted thoughts, she noted poems, she told silly little schemes.
She wrote her goals and challenges and all her wildest dreams.
"It seems your life's so simple, Mama,
Yet you have so much to say,
Is it hard to write exciting things in your journal every day?"

"No child, though dull to you it seems, my life is rich and fine,
And when examining each minute I see sparks of rapture shine.
On stormy days, with lightening, thunder, rain and such,
I'm searching so for rainbows that I don't notice much
Of when the sunny moments come into those cloudy days,
Or when a streak of laughter brightens up the haze.

So every eve I light the lamp and with my heart I listen..."
And then she sighed and on her cheek I saw a teardrop glisten.
"I see babies with spaghetti bowls atop their little heads.
I watch boys like playful puppy-dogs
Tumbling on their beds,
Skinned kneed ballerinas, in dungarees and braids,
Suitors bearing dandelions, or luke-warm lemonades.
These are blessed minutes I might not have received
If by shallow daily living I had been deceived.
So I take note of all my blessings, and my gratitude declare.
You see, your Mama's Minutes are often times a prayer."

So here I sit at midnight, my mind with doubts a-tumble.
With plans, hopes, and frustrations,
My thoughts are in a jumble;
And I reach for the diary I keep beside my bed,
And record this Mama's Minutes--
I find it clears my head!

Writing this book took me almost a year. I imagined it on bookshelves around the country and in the homes of young mothers who needed encouragement and a light-hearted look at being a mom. I learned a lot about publishing a book, and as it turned out, it was never on too many shelves.

Then I decided it was worthwhile even just for my kids, since it was all about them. It was my viewpoint on their childhood.

I've now realized that I am the main one to benefit from my work. It helped me see my life in better perspective than I could see it as it happened. I recognized growth in myself and what my challenges and experiences had taught me. Publishers and book signings would not have changed a thing for me, so it doesn't matter that there weren't any. Writing it and later reading it continues to bring me joy. It's my story.

I blog now, and it still helps me see things as they really are, and why they are perfect that way. It helps me count my blessings, and become more aware of the blessings that come in disguise.

How does writing clear your head?

Check Your Papers

If you didn't read yesterday's post, read it before you read this one, so you can take the book quiz.

(I've provided a little blog noise so a new reader can't accidentally glance ahead--hurry and scroll forward past the book stalls picture and don't read the answers before you've read the questions!)

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a;dkja;ldkas;dlfka;sdlfkas;dflkas;dflkjasd;flkasd;flksdf;lakdf;lsf;lsdjkfa;ldfa;sldkfal;sdkfjd
;lfad;lasd;lasdf;lasdf;aslkjdf;saldfas;ldkfas;dfljasl;dfkjas;dlfkjas;dlfkas;dflkasd;lfkasdflkas
a;kdja;ldkja;lsdkfa;lsdfka;sldfkas;dfkljasl;dfka;ldfkaj;dflkajsd;flkasdflkajsd;fkajdf;lkajsdfj
al;kjd;laskdj;laskdf;alsdkfja;sldfkas;ldfkjas;ldfkjas;dflkjas;dlfkasd;flaksdf;lasjdf;laskdf;la
;aldjas;ldkas;dlkasd;lfkasd;laksd;lkasdf;alskdf;lskdl;asdkas;ldasldksld;kalsdkas;ldfksdda;s


Book Quiz Answers:

1. Rebecca by Daphne DuMaurier (if you haven't ever read this, you absolutely must.)
2. Winthrop Woman by Anya Seton (another of my favorites.)
3. Berlin Game by Len Deighton (I love any Cold War spy novel.)
4. Trick Question (This could be a lot of books by Danielle Steele, and others.)
5. The Water is Wide by Pat Conroy (made into the movie Conrack. Both are good.)
6. Christie by Catherine Marshall (very uplifting.)
7. Inspector Lynley books by Elizabeth George (I love these, but they aren't for the squeamish-rated R)
8. Hatchet by Gary Paulsen (a great book for kids, too.)
9. To Kill a Mockingbird (the best.)
10. Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow (don't go back and read what I said about it, just get it and read it. It's also a movie with Harrison Ford. Both rated R.)

Everybody leave a suggestion for a book we should read!

Book Stalls

The only way you can do all you want to do is read.

I've stalled around too long. At 58, I realize that many of the things I've imagined doing probably won't get done. Luckily I can read about them. Here are ten adventures I'll have only by reading a book. Do you recognize the book?

1. Work as a companion to a wealthy woman in Monte and end up owning a fabulous English manor where they have servants, a boathouse and a dog named Jasper.
   
2. Immigrate from England to Boston, married to the son of the governor, live on Long Island and ultimately marry my one true love.
   
3. Be a spy in East Berlin.
4. Travel from Ireland to become a maid in a wealthy New York family, and somehow inherit all their money and start a dynasty. (I think it involves having the illegitimate child of one of the sons, who later dies in a war, and then springing the child on the old grandmother when she's writing her will.)
5. Teach school on an island in the Caribbean to poor, illiterate children.
6. Teach school in the Appalachians Mountains to poor, illiterate children.
7. Solve grisly murders in England with my partner (who is royalty.)
8. Save myself by living alone in the woods when my plane crashes and everyone else is killed.
9. Wear a ham costume and be taught to read by my father during the depression.
   
10. When another lawyer in my office is killed, be suspected as the murderer, and later find out my spouse did it.

Can you guess all 10 books? Post your answers in the comments section, and leave some clues about your own favorites. Don't stall around!

The answers are here.

Holiday Advice

Tea Party

Tea parties are traditional at my house. The little girls get out the kids card table and chairs, the plastic tea set, the Fancy Nancy book, and we prepare little sandwiches and cut them into flower shapes with cookie cutters.

Doilies are placed on the plates, and the ladies dress up with jewelry, hats and purses. A vase with flowers is carried in ceremoniously as the centerpiece. The tea is apple juice, the cream is Sprite (and they always pour their own.) Afterwards, they wash the dishes by hand, with lots of bubbles, and put everything away. We're practicing for bigger things.


Katy (10) and Lauren (8) came to town for Thanksgiving and I decided it was time to go to a real tea shop for our party, and have a sleepover that night. We invited Chloe, who just turned 6 and is an official big girl. (Opa stayed home and had a root beer float party with the boys.)

The tea shop was a funky little place, with an eclectic mix of Chinese lantern light fixtures, Victorian furniture and bookshelves filled with books about weddings. It was perfect. Each girl got her own silver tea set. The teapot was filled with hot chocolate, and topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. Individual creamers with milk, and little plates with tuna sandwiches and sugar cookies came with each serving. (Strangely, we also got broccoli soup.)

"Hold your pinkies up," said Chloe. Katy declared me Duchess Oma, and they became princesses. We discussed being royalty and having servants bring us breakfast in bed every morning, and a carriage lined with fur blankets to take us to all our balls. When we left, the sidewalk was lit by the moon and sparkled with "the diamonds we must have dropped when we came in."

Later we watched Wizard of Oz, and read Fancy Nancy. I thought everyone was asleep when

I heard someone go into the bathroom. After a few minutes I went to check. All three girls were whispering excitedly--Lauren's tooth was loose, and they were examining it in my magnifying mirror.

Chloe and Katy stood in the tub, hiding their eyes behind the shower curtain (so they wouldn't see any blood) while Lauren wiggled and worked. Pretty soon she asked us all to leave.

"I need some privacy," she said.

She emerged a minute later, humming a triumphant song, bearing her tiny tooth on a washcloth like a glass slipper on a pillow.

"Maybe I have a loose tooth, too..."

Can you imagine a more perfect night?

Overload Mode: iPhoto

What did I used to do? I mean, before I discovered technology?

I got a new, fancier camera a month ago and I've been struggling to learn all it's secrets. It has a tiny dial, and a bunch of menu selections. I have to press Mode before I do anything. It's been very frustrating, especially because the instruction manual was printed in very tiny letters and the icons were so small I couldn't even see them. I took the manual to Kinko's and enlarged every one of it's 32 pages, printed them out and spiral bound the lot. Then I spent several days studying and practicing with all my new innovations.

I've been downloading (or uploading, I don't know the difference) regularly to the computer, but I've been wanting to experiment a little more in editing, etc. and tweaking before I created some slide shows.

Today I decided to send the Thanksgiving photos off to the kids, so I sat down for what turned out to be a 12 hour editing session!!! I had experimented with all my new lighting techniques, white balance, sports settings, you name it, and now all 180 pics I've taken in the past two weeks of family get-togethers had to be dealt with. I have sat with my camera, trusty iPhoto for Dummies book, camera manual, and all the help button advice I could click on my mac desktop to master my domain.

Now, after 12 hours of editing, culling, tweaking, redoing it all several times, trying to make my music match the length, and let the photos show to greatest advantage, I have created 3 marvelous slide shows called Thanksgiving, Grand kids, Halloween.

Dee just got up (it's 1:30 am) to view them, and he got teary eyed, (maybe bleary eyes is more accurate) so I knew I'd hit the mark! They're darling, and sentimental and he and I will probably be the only ones to ever see them! I don't know how to download slideshows to send them anyway. But if you're ever kicking out over at my house, I'll sit you in the seat of honor in front of the computer and you'll see Digital Photography at it's slide show height. You'll weep with the beauty and feeling compressed into playback Mode.

My question: Is this what it's like for you when you find a new hobby? Is everybody obsessed with something? Does life just happen around you while you're immersed in your interest? Or is it just me? Do I have an addiction? Do I need counseling?

So, I'd like a philosophical discussion to start in the comment section of this blog. Is this worthwhile? Please share your wisdom. What's the point of all this in the long run?

In the meantime, get out your camera. Life will be different. You'll see it with new eyes.

Sick Turkey Chick

Mr. Cold sat next to me on my plane trip the other day. He was coughing and sneezing, and I watched the crystal droplets light upon my lips, nose and hands, almost like snowflakes.

I've been thinking of him constantly as I replace boxes of Kleenex throughout the house, faster than I can suck a lozenge.

I started coughing. Laryngitis set in, and not a moment too soon for my family. It's Thanksgiving, and I have count- your-blessing type speeches planned right through dinner. I have a story, a poem, and several songs in mind...

Today I was unloading groceries when I started feeling unbalanced. The room was spinning, as I dumped the sacks of potatoes onto the counter. Dee asked how I was feeling, but I couldn't hear him. Moments later I felt dizzy and we sat down to watch the news. Dee had the sound turned down very low for some reason.

Deep inside my head tonight I felt a sharp pain, which returned and settled in my ear. Within an hour it was causing a writhing, moaning sensation in me. I recognized the prelude to a breaking eardrum. I've experienced this trauma several times in my life, so it's become frighteningly familiar.

There's extreme pressure at first, which settles into a pulsing throbbing pain. It increases, with strange, squeaking noises that rumble deep inside, randomly surprising me with loud squeals that nobody else can hear. I was alone tonight in my agony, pressing a hot washcloth against my ear.

Sometimes the pain has been excruciating, taking hours to resolve. This time it was more like a tender torture and then a quick piercing, that only took a half hour of biting my cheeks and pacing the kitchen. The pain slowly subsided, while a feeling of liquid gently sloshed in the ear canal. There must be a new tiny opening deep inside letting out the infection.

Experience has taught me that I'll get better quickly now. Tomorrow I'll feel dizzy, and I know I have a few weeks of feeling lopsided, and turning the TV up a few decibels. There will be unexpected pops and creaks as the eardrum heals itself.

Thanksgiving will be practice for my stroke years: deaf, mute, and off-balance. I'll be in a quiet little world, dancing to my own beat, and laughing at what I thought I heard someone say. It ought to be lots of fun!

Historic Research, Summit County, UT

Grand kid's yard and woods, PA, Nov. '07

Last week I was gazing at this scene as I observed kids roller skating, scootering and biking. It was glorious, it was lush and as colorful as the fun family I was visiting.

I've just returned home from two separate trips. They were very different. The second week was a trip to see kids and grand kids--a chance to Make Memories. Photos, journal jottings, red-letter outings, talks in the car, and late-night chats by the burning fire, (Dancing With the Stars playing in the background)...these days will be collected and recorded, and referred to sentimentally over the years.

I understand why evacuating people rush into their homes and grab their photo albums and scrapbooks as their houses burn. These are visual reminders of precious memories.

Our other trip was into the desert mountain canyons and valleys east of Park City, Utah. We were searching for memories of a thriving town that once had over 500 residents, a school, cemetery, church, and railroad station from 1860, but totally disappeared in about 1965.

There is almost no evidence of the huge dairy and sheep ranches, and the numerous large homes on every property. The local folks made memories here: The kids used to ice skate a couple of miles to the one-room school house, and ride their horses along the train tracks the 1/2 hour it took to reach the wild, booming silver mining town of Park City. There they tied up their horses on Main Street while they visited the movie theater for a matinee. They took in homeless people, giving food, board and often work to get them on their feet. There were romances, feuds, deaths and births. But although they made memories, nobody kept them. They aren't written down anywhere. There are very few photos, no scrapbooks, letters or journals. The history is as blank as the landscape.

Once upon a time there were roads lined with brothels and bars to service the miners, and stills producing moonshine during prohibition. Outlaws had hideouts in the vicinity, and fortunes were discovered and lost on a daily basis. But who? How? The stories are no less interesting just because we haven't heard them. Some historian should go up there and gather some history!

Dee has been commissioned to find evidence of a common use road Indians, trappers, explorers, miners, and farmers used for hundreds of years. An owner has found her vast and valuable land inheritance to be landlocked, with no access to it. Her neighbors have fenced in the old common use road, and tell her it is not a public thoroughfare but part of their land. She must have that piece of road in order to develop it or sell it; otherwise it will be worthless. Dee is looking for memories of the road, the owners of the establishments, and physical evidence that it has traditionally been used as a common road.


It looks like this now. There was nothing written to give directions and no roads to where we needed to go.


It's really a piece of detective work. Dee's found geological maps, from decades long past. They list areas by property owners, and luckily some of their descendants still own pieces of the land, and have stories to tell. The 80-year-old grandson who remembers ice skating to school, (and is anxious to tell his own memories of times gone by,) recalls a girl who worked at a bar on the old road in her teens. She's alive, in a nursing home in Seattle, with a keen memory of those by-gone days. One story leads to another, and soon there are directions for short cuts through the canyons, and listings of roads used for a couple of hundred years that could settle the land owners case.

Since the freeway bought the property from the ranchers, there are highways in place of barns, hostels, hotels, shops, etc. There's no way to see if the old trails actually hook up at the top of the canyons. Dee took a bike ride several weeks ago to explore some of this giant acreage on the ground. Last week's mission was to find evidence of the school, the graveyard, collect the stories of the old-timers, and piece it all together. Several families look to this lost city as the land of their pioneer ancestors, settling the west. They all have an interest in the story of their lost homeland.

It was fun to spot a white column sparkling under the sun, and wonder if it could be a graveyard. Our old Subie climbed the hills like a horse so we gave her her head, and she took us straight up the hill to the marker surrounded by several family graves and a little fence. There were some children ages 2, 4, 6 who had died within days of each other. And a father dead within a few weeks. The mom held things together for many years, but still died at age 45. What stories lie within that little cemetery. The highway builders fenced it off and left it in peace.

There was a foundation left of a school, We could see the steps leading up. Other foundations showed where houses and barns stood. It's fun to find these places and match them up with the stories we've heard by those still living, and the few memories recorded of those already gone, to give life to this town.

I think of gathering history like gathering autumn leaves. We are finding the brightest examples of a former glory that beautified now barren places with life and growth. The people who created something from nothing, who raised huge families filled with hard working, inventive folks, while feeding vast numbers of citizens from the food they produced; these are the unsung heroes who built our country. Did they make any less of a contribution just because we don't know about them?

I love making memories with the people I love. I hope the pictures and jottings, scrapbooks, and stories will be kept handy so they will be part of the family lore that makes us feel united, and connected. Ultimately I think it could give us security that we are part of a group that cares about us. It could give courage to stand for good things, knowing we are supported by people who will lend strength to pull us out of our mires.

Collecting history in the public domain is similar. It makes us all stand a little taller to realize good people in the past have contributed such a positive heritage for us to build on. I love thinking about the people who have been forgotten. They must feel a little like unappreciated parents who have provided sustenance and safety, and made wise decisions we don't know about, but benefit from just the same.

Who in history inspires you? Have you discovered somebody that made a contribution to your life? Are they well-known, or unsung heroes? Will you be remembered? Are you leaving a legacy? You are if you blog!

Grandparents and Grandkids

An email came from my grandson, Chase (age 8) who lives very far away. It made my day!

(In case it's too small for you to read, I made a magnified translation.)

hi, can you come for thanksgiving? ppppppppppppppp llllllllllllllllllllllllll eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa sssssssssssssssssss Love, Chase.

His mom didn't even know he'd sent it. In fact, she said they were surprising their kids with an out-of-town adventure with cousins. We are hosting four of our kids and families here, so a get-together wasn't in the plan for this year. But just knowing he wants us is pure joy.

This sweet and sincere invitation reminds me of the unconditional love between grandkids and grandparents. They love us with no expectation except receiving love back. It's a pure, forgiving, tolerant, patient, accepting kind of love. They aren't trying to improve us, or change us. We're good enough. Who else loves us that way? They aren't embarrassed by us, and actually expect us to be a little eccentric, which in turn gives us confidence to just be ourselves with them. It's worth the hassle of having kids just to get the reward of grandkids.

As I've said before, I write a mission statement for everything. Three lines from the one I've written on being a Grandmother say this:

Being Grand

1. Remind grandkids often that you love them and will always love them, no matter what.
2. Support their parents in strengthening their marriages. The best gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. Give mom a little breathing space by taking the kids every once in a while, so she has some energy left for dad.
3. Find out what your grand kid wants to do, and encourage him to do it. There will be plenty of people to pop his bubble, or point out the problems that will discourage him along the way. Be the eternal optimist who believes in him and his dreams.

Don Gale is a great philosopher and friend. I'm paraphrasing his good advice here:

When you get right down to it, life has a fairly simple formula.
Everyone needs a victory every day.
That's what keeps us going.
Each of us should do what we can to give others opportunities for victories.
And each of us should do what we can to minimize moments of defeat for those people we interact with.

This is applicable to anybody trying to lift the spirits of somebody else, but it's a great grandparenting rule of thumb.
The really fun part is when the grandkids start doing it back to us.

In the bathroom hearing a little tinkle, Jessica says, "Oma, I'm so proud!"

When I don't spill while pouring the milk, Chelsea says, "Good job!"

Lucy whispers the word to help me remember what I was saying, and then says, "That's great!"

This week is the week to count blessings. I'll be hanging out with many of my nearest and dearest, most valuable blessings. The past several days I was literally engulfed by little darlings jumping on my bed to wake me up, cuddling to the point of squishing me through every story, chatting about school, horseback riding lessons, personal design touches made on new furniture...there's nobody I'd rather have for friends than my grandkids. There isn't a generation gap. We're all accepted, and expected to be continually growing and learning, and teaching each other.

If you don't have any little ones of your own, there are plenty of kids that could use an extra grandparent. My own kids have neighbors who have made them doll furniture, brought jars of bubbles and come to play for an hour or so, lent Disney DVD's, invited the kids to sit with them in church, brought little baked goodies, or taught them to rake the leaves. The kids have plenty of love to go around and once you get a little, you'll want some more.

My Uncle Don was widowed in his 80's and lived many more years. He became a volunteer at a nearby elementary school, reading to the kids a few times a week. Other days he went to the children's hospital and rocked the sick babies and toddlers when parents weren't able to be there. He was a stooped, wrinkled old man when he started, but he had a spring in his step and the eyes and countenance of an angel those final years when he was a volunteer grandpa.

With 18 little grands, (the oldest one ten, going down to six months,) I feel that I'm overwhelmed by the sheer goodness of little kids. I want to wallow in it, splash and immerse myself in it as often as possible. It gives perspective to the world we live in. I remember what it's all about. I'm reminded to be less serious, more light-hearted, to laugh more, smile at strangers, and look for the wonder in every-day life.

If you run into a few kids at your Thanksgiving celebrations, make friends with one or two of them if there's an opportunity. Even for just that day you'll find delight in things they say, and the encounter will lift your spirits and make you a kinder person for a little while.

Kids are absolutely Grand!

Kidspeak

Jake giggles hysterically. His mom tells him not to be so silly. More giggling follows. Mom again suggests he settle down.

Jake: Hee-hee-hee...having an evil laugh--that's what life is all about!

Emmie is discussing her book.

Emmie: Do you know why Junie B. thinks she can get what she wants? Because she just always tells people she wants it. That's what I do.

Jake tells me he likes basketball. I say I do, too.

Jake: I don't think so. You're pretty old. The only things for you to do are read stories, take naps and drive.

Emmie finishes off her mom's Diet Coke regularly. When I took her to Wendy's and she wanted another drink, I told her she could have mine.

Emmie, suspiciously: What's in it?

Oma: Coke.

Emmie: Not Diet Coke?

Oma: Just regular coke.

Emmie: I'm not allowed.

Later, she was discussing choosing the right with her mom.

Emmie: When people do evil (they seem to like the word evil) do they have to get baptized again?

Mom: Sometimes.

Emmie, proudly: When Oma wanted me to drink her special drink, I said "No."

Are You Sleeping?

Sam and Luke are three-year-old twins. I was tending during that peaceful time of day known as "naps." They share a bedroom with two cribs, where Sam takes his nap. Luke sleeps in a port-a-crib (where he has created a giant hole in the side netting, for easy escape.) It's in his brother Jake's room, since in the daytime the boys sleep better when separated. They had listened to stories, heard lullabies and were tucked in for the afternoon. I innocently went to lay down myself.

Sam is being potty trained and hadn't had to go earlier when I reminded him. I heard him in the bathroom and rushed in to help. Stripped from the waist down, he climbed on and proceeded to squirt right between the two seats. I hustled him off and cleaned things up. Luke had appeared to watch the action. Soon the floor was clean and they were back in their respective beds.

I heard some singing and talking, and I relaxed, thinking they were lulling themselves to sleep. When it had been quiet for a few minutes, I went to listen at the doors. I didn't have to get too close to Sam's door to realize I had hurried him off the toilet too quick. There was a distinct aroma. It was too gross to salvage the Spiderman underwear. Everything was disposed of, and I put him in the tub. Of course Luke reappeared, and had to get in, too. What the heck. At least baths were now taken care of.

With the room aired out, the boys fresh and sweet, we tried again. They were snuggled in with their blankies and books as I closed the doors.

The happy sounds of puzzles and blocks let me know they weren't sleeping, but it was too late in the afternoon for me to want them to fall asleep, anyway. Bedtime was fast approaching and we didn't want to miss that! So I let them play a few minutes, while I finally got my cat nap.

The crash jolted me upright a minute after I dosed off. Luke and I arrived at Sam's door simultaneously. Sam was looking sheepish as we peeked in and saw that he had removed the whole side of one of the cribs. It was laying on the floor where it had fallen, breaking the nightlight in the process. Luke said, "Did you do that to my bed?" Sam nodded. "Thanks, Sammy!" Luke said admiringly.

"Let's go outside," I said. "I think naps are over."