Once in a while

a missionary comes along whose influence goes beyond the norm. Such is the case with Elder Grow who spent many hours at our house and finished his mission last December. The other day I had the great pleasure of visiting with him again (and giving him a real hug) and meeting his mother and one of his siblings. Elder Grow told me that a blessing he once gave me was the time when the spirit was the most clear about what he was supposed to say and what I was supposed to know. In the blessing were many promises both for me and my family. He also said, "There are more trials ahead..." I have thought about that many times since, especially lately. I hope I'm enduring this trial with grace, faith and courage. I am so supported by the love of others and living at my sister's house feels especially right.

Drum Roll...

Wish I felt as good now as I did last week when these were taken. I'm having so much fun with short hair that when mine falls out and grows back, I may never go back to long hair again. John went with me to get my hair cut. The first place was a no. "Too much BUH (Big Utah Hair) and too rigid. The second place was just right. I felt a connection to Linda, the woman who helped me. She did a great job. When John email's me the photos he took, I'll post them as well. How I love my family!

I read this every day

"I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the Lord. Psalms 27: 13, 14 Thank you, dear cousin, for sending this to me.

Last Night

Marty came over and stayed the night. John had flown out from Utah, then Larry decided to stop by. Suddenly, I was in a room full of people who love me, and people who love each other. When "the boys" get together, there is mighty laughter and lots of story telling and reminiscing. At one point in the evening, I was lying on the couch with my head on Larry's lap, listening to these men--Larry, Mike, Marty and John. Rachel and I contributed some, but the joy was in listening to them and their laughter, the power of oral tradition to strengthen a family, and all of it motivated by love. I thought to myself, "This is a healing experience all by itself."

Drifting into Consciousness

Well, can't tell you how good this feels, to connect with the world again both literally and figuratively. I am doing well. Surgery was major, major but no complications and I'm healing well. The emotional swings are a bit harder, both from all of a sudden finding myself in a new group, but also the immediate moving into menopause. I don't have a problem with that. In fact, when I had a hysterectomy a few years ago, I rejoiced at never having to have periods again! But now with both ovaries gone as well, I don't quite know what to expect regarding loss of hormones. I'm sure there are answers. Nervous about the chemo. (Starts next week). My mom will come out here when I'm ready and I think that will be good because she is a wiz with both food and nutrition. A Kaiser nurse today told me that when I eat, make sure it's something that my body needs and can use. Don't waste calories on junk.

I'm so glad to be at my sister's. She gave me two brand new rooms in the quiet wing--one for my bedroom and one for a living room. They are next to each other and right now, almost everything I own is in one room or the other. I can visit with friends, enjoy my lovely things, and avoid having to put furniture in storage.

Please keep your prayers and emails and cards coming. They mean so much to me.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm just waking up from a long, bad dream. I wonder, "Is this my life?" But it is. I just hope I have enough courage and faith. Friends and family tell me I do, and when I don't, I can lean on theirs. I love you all... so much

Change of Plans

Most of you know by now that I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I apologize if you are finding out for the first time. Everything has happened at top speed, including diagnosis, settling on a treatment plan, and moving out of my condo. Larry managed to squeeze in our long planned trip to Idaho to see mother as well. I adore and revere her and I'm so glad that I got to see her when I did. She will be 91 in September.

Tomorrow I have surgery at Kaiser. I'll be at the hospital for about a week, then I will be staying with my sister Rachel in Concord. Chemo will start in 2 to 3 weeks. My new mailing address is 1777 Kirker Pass Rd, Concord, 94521. My cell phone number is the same, but I will probably not be on the phone much. I have every confidence in my Heavenly Father and the love of so many friends and family members. This will not be fun, but in the end, all will be well. I will post more as I'm able. With love...

Mills Connection

This could have been posted sooner but, alas!! Graduation preparation...This is an email I received from my good friend Gloria, my "Glo-friend." I love the sense of history in this as well as Gloria's beautiful writing style. She gave me permission to post it here. Thanks, Glo.

Dearest Martha,

I graduated in 1944 from Mt, Diablo High School in Concord. It was the middle of World War II. The Principal was Bertha Romaine and the Vice Principal was Irma Bromley. These two women set me on a path of seeking the very best from life. They both loved the humanities -- especially great literature. Miss Bromley was the one who introduced me to Masefield's, "The Dauber", Brownings, "My Last Duchess", and a ton of Shakespeare.

Because I was Vice President of the Girl's League, I was privileged to go with other officers to Mills for a day of classes. One of the classes I chose was to listen to some of the writers of a radio show called, "One Man's Family"! They were women. This show was chosen by my extended family on my mother's side, to be "the" show we would all listen to on Sunday evening, at my Grandma Erickson's house.

Today, it is a genuine thrill, that I even know someone who will graduate from Mills, let alone someone I dearly love.

Martha, I cheer for you, I am in awe of you, and I will always want to follow your career and life. You have brought meaning to words, you use the perfect words to express your thoughts, you have lifted my love for literature immeasurably. I can hardly wait to join you and your family at the "Clubhouse"!

I know that this tribute to you will only be one of so many more! I don't even care that the following is trite. It fits! "You Go Girl!" Love forever, Glo

Graduation Weekend

Rather than try to post more graduation photos, I refer you to my daughter's blog, who took the best pictures anyway. Enjoy!

The Best of Gifts

My daughter, the gift of your presence for graduation weekend means more than I can begin to express. Your love is a priceless treasure--rich, beautiful, immeasurable. And the quilt! The heartfelt and thoughtful symbolism of the laurel wreath, all the love that went into every stitch. I will cherish it always.

Catching Up is Hard to Do

Graduation weekend--fantastic. Rates right up there with Chantel's wedding and Owen's and Soren's births. The day was gorgeous. The energy I felt, (once I stopped crying and before we marched) was amazing. Such an honor to walk with my good friend Sarah. And what a sweet surprise to see Larry and Clayton making their way past the line in search of me--hugs and and a last minute, "We're proud of you," before the campanile began to ring for a solid minute, announcing the approaching graduates. Chantel and Brandon had found the best seats; I got to walk right past my family and even give Soren a kiss on the way. There isn't one part of the ceremony that stands out as the best part--it was all wonderful. But I will always remember waiting for my turn to cross the podium for my diploma, looking out across the audience and seeing my family--Larry, Brandon, Chantel and Soren, Clayton, my brother Marty, Mike and Rachel, and my friend Marilyn, all smiling and cheering me on with such joy in their beaming faces. I felt so much love from them. I'm a Mills woman! A graduate of the class of 2007. Wow. A long time for this dream to come true, but worth every bit and more. Truly, I am a blessed woman.

So Long, Farewell...

Last night the English faculty and students met for the end-of-the-year dinner. I loved hanging out with all of them one more time. The department gave each of the graduating seniors a choice of gifts. I received a new t-shirt with the words, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel" on the front. The food was delicious and I was able to get a few photos of professors.

I think I'm having separation anxiety issues. At the end of the evening, when we said goodbye, I didn't go so far as to hang on to their clothes with my teeth, the way Clayton used to mine in kindergarten, but I felt sad. I dont know how many of them I'll actually get to see and talk to on Saturday, so I was glad for the opportunity to thank them in person.

I had parked around the oval--a humongous piece of lawn in front of Mills Hall and in the center of campus. But instead of getting in my car to go home, I walked past it and onto the lawn. I had this idea to find the very center of the oval. I didn't go as far as to walk it off, but I eye-balled the distances, found the spot and lay down on the grass on my back. The oval is so expansive, that I could see the tops of the surrounding trees on campus only by tipping my head one way or another. Blue sky above. The sun was going down and I noticed the darkest blue was straight up, in the center; the sky was lighter toward the ground. I thought about all the women who had crossed that piece of ground since 1871 when Mills moved from Benicia to Oakland. I thought about my place at Mills. My place within my family. My place in the world. Beneath my body, my legs, my outstretched arms and hands, the lawn felt cool and thick. Better than lying on a carpet. While I lay there, the bell tower rang three different times. Finally the nostalgia left, replaced by gratitude. I hugged the earth goodbye. It hugged me back.

How to Tell if Your Feet Stink

Can't take credit for this. Came in my email and I thought it was too funny to pass up.

Black Magic, Black Dress; My Childhood in Clothes 2

Ach, Mutter,This old, black dress, I have been embroidering French flowers on it. [1]

When my mother was a little girl, my grandmother worked as a tailor at the Sears and Roebuck factory down by the Mississippi River, a job she held during the Great Depression and for many years after. She became an expert seamstress.

Mamaw’s hands, gnarled with purple and blue veins and hard pointed fingernails that she filed regularly, were not rough, but they weren’t soft either. Sometimes she painted her nails a soft pink color, but most of the time her hands were busy—hanging clothes on the line—a continuous supply of socks, shorts, and smocks worn by me and my four brothers and sisters, chopping onions, peeling hard-boiled eggs, making the beds with box corners, rubbing our croupy chests with Vicks Vapor-rub, and always—sewing. Her brown wicker sewing basket was always nearby.

She seemed to be constantly patching pants, replacing buttons, darning socks, or embroidering a new face on an old stuffed animal. Her stitches and her imagination could transform something plain into an item of beauty. She made Barbie doll clothes out of fabric scraps and matching night gowns for my rag doll and me. But the most amazing thing she did was to make her stitches disappear while she sewed.

I sat by her on the couch many times as she wet the tip of a long thread with her tongue, then deftly passed the end through the eye of a needle, pulling the two thread ends even with each other, then wrapping them swiftly around her finger and into a secure knot. Into the fabric the needle went, and out again, up and down, every stitch disappearing as she worked. "Over, Mamaw! Let me see the back!" But the backs were always void of stitches too, and Mamaw always laughed at my perplexion. Many times she tried to show me how to sew, but my stitches glared from the fabric like the cracks on the school playground. I felt special whenever I wore something she had made. Store bought clothing just didn’t have the same feel and I began to wonder if Mamaw was magic. But like all Southern women of her time, Mamaw followed the social rules of etiquette, even when sewing, the same rules that governed how a lady looked, acted and even felt:

1) Never wear white in the winter
2) Black is for funerals or adult formal wear, not for children
3) Always wear gloves to church, or carry a pair if you haven't had time to wash them
4) Never carry a purse that doesn’t match your shoes
5) Always carry a hanky—one with your initials embroidered on it if you’re lucky
6) Always wear clean underwear in case you get in a car accident and have to go to the hospital
7) Before you leave the house, make sure your slip isn’t ‘showing.’


One Easter, Mamaw bought matching dresses of yellow and white dotted swiss for me and my younger sister. I don’t know if she was too busy to sew, or the dresses were on sale, but I knew it was supposed to be a privilege to wear store bought. Our yellow dresses screamed "Springtime!” They were delicate and lacey but the feeling wasn’t there.

When we returned home after Sunday services, the rain had stopped but water was still flowing down the gutter. The air smelled sweet and felt balmy and clean. We were leaving soon for Easter dinner at Mamaw's house, and Mama warned my sister and me not to get dirty, but we just wanted to float boats down the street—curled leaves and some empty walnut shell halves, pretending that fairies were going for a ride down a wild river. Fifteen minutes later, my mother’s face crumpled into disappointment when she saw the mud splatters on our new dresses. She hurried to get a rag and soap, but the stains didn’t come out completely.

When Easter came the next year, I was surprised when my grandmother pulled a piece of black velvet from her sewing closet and began measuring me. By the end of the day, I was wearing a beautiful new jumper over a white blouse, but something wasn't right. I turned slowly for my grandmother while she looked the dress over with a crease in her forehead. She tugged on the hem, pulled the dress at the back to test wiggle room, smoothed the jewel neckline. “It fits, Mamaw, it feels perfect!” But she continued to frown. “Aha!” she said a moment later, and reached for her mysterious sewing basket. I watched my grandmother’s hands while she rummaged through various containers: a miniature Whitman’s chocolate box that still smelled like chocolate even though it was full of snaps; an empty mayonnaise jar filled with buttons of every shape and color; a cigar box fraying at the edges, the mysterious contents of which were always changing. Mamaw's sewing basket not only held needles and thread, but zippers, rolls of ribbon and lace, rosettes, hooks and eyes, iron-on patches, thimbles and various small tools—contents that kept me entertained when I was little, and continued to fascinate me later.

Suddenly as from thin air, she held up two pink rose appliqués, one in each hand. “Ohhh!” I had never seen anything so beautiful. I fingered their soft raised texture. Within minutes, Mamaw had sewn one to each shoulder of the dress, the stitches disappearing with each prick of the needle. I viewed myself in the mirror. The pink roses glowed like the first tulips of spring. I smiled at my grandmother's soft expression and she smiled back. Now I had proof positive. I was going to wear black velvet. In the Spring time. To church. On Easter Sunday. My grandmother was indeed, magic.
[1] Wallace Stevens (1879–1955), U.S. poet. “Explanation.”

My Last Class

at Mills was on Wednesday, May 2, 2007. I was not excited. It felt surreal, especially after class when Sarah and I stood outside, unmoving, without speaking, not sure what to do next...I felt sadness that it was over, and gratitude for the experience. Maybe someday I'll be able to articulate what it meant to attend Mills. I'm sure I can't see, at this point, how far the influence will go of the women (and a few men) who were my professors. Graduation is going to be an emotional day. I can feel it already...

Sarah, Kate, and our professor, Justin.

Put a Fork in it. We're Done.

The title of our senior thesis reading event at Mills on April 30. Everything I've written so far about that night sounds cheesy or dull, and then...and then...and then... The experience was too big for words. So this is my last attempt. I can't do justice to it, I know, but to say nothing doesn't feel right either.

The words flowed: I knew how to modulate, when to pause, what tone of voice to use.
The room was mine: When I looked out, which I did, often, every eye was on me, with interest.
My family looked expectant; they also looked proud of me. Even before I read.
The applause was great, and the cheering. Zen.
Even my professor was crying.
At the end of the night, strangers were shaking my hand.
Someone said, "Book tour..."

Thank you, dear family, for coming to support me, and for classmates who encouraged me to keep going, especially Sarah Tannehill who is an amazing writer and now, a dear friend. To Gloria who believed in me and believes in me, still. To Brandon who listened to me read aloud and didn't mind his story being told. And to my Telly who has been a constant source of love and support, and who didn't seem to mind doing a long-distance critique at the last minute. Hugs, everyone.

Zen

Last night was a public reading of the senior creative writers' theses. Preparation was intense. This was no ordinary final. This was a presentaion of the culmination of all our work at Mills College. We were fortunate to have use of the historic Bender room, with its high ceilings and beautiful arched windows. I'm told that the Bender room was the original Mills College library, and it appeared so with its dark wood glass-faced cabinets lining the walls.

Brandon came with me and we went early to help with set-up. It was a party, complete with beautiful food and drinks and fresh flowers. talk about brandon and what he did to help.

I wanted my family to be there so much and they came: Larry, Brandon, Clayton and Michelle. I felt varying degrees of nervousness all evening. Everyone sat with their friends and family. We came up from the audience as Elmaz, our incredible professor, introduced us.

My best friend, Sarah, read first and set the standard. Each woman as she was called, walked up to the podium with confidence and read with clarity and pride. Hearing these final presentations, I was so proud of them. Every one! At the beginning of the semester we workshopped together--everyone read everyone else's work. Then we broke off into small groups for the majority of the semester. I didn't hear the completed versions until last night, and what a transformation.

When it came my turn, the clapping and cheering sounded extra loud, but it made me smile and I was still smiling when I turned around to face the audience. I looked out and saw my family all smiling at me, and others. The room was dead quiet. It was my turn. I opened my mouth to read and a strong settling energy came over me. Any nervousness vanished. I was in my element, in my space, doing what I do; I knew how to pace the reading. Where to pause; where to slow down; when to speed up. Elmaz had told us that readings are really telling stories, that our paper copies are just for reference. I felt myself doing that, being connected to my audience. Every eye was on me. When I finished, the applause felt GREAT! Elmaz was crying. I knew that I couldn't have done any better.

Someone Special

called late last night (woke me up) to tell me about a difficult but positive decision he'd made. The best part was his realizing that he'd done the right thing for the right reason. Listening to that little voice. Doing the healthy thing. Following his own path, whatever. The main thing: He was happy. And relieved. And did I say happy?

Why is it that sometimes the best things for us are the very hardest things to do?? But once we do it---bliss! There's no path like the right path and with that comes strength!! Reminds me of the saying, "Right makes Might" His phone call was better than a good long dream. I'm sure I fell back to sleep with a very big smile on my face...

Perspective

I have a lonely friend. Beautiful. Smart. Divorced. Built her life around a man. The problem is, it's been several years since her breakup and she still feels incomplete. I know the feeling, like a leg is missing or an arm, or part of one's heart. In her case though, she wants to be connected to someone in the worst way, but she hasn't done her work yet, at least, I don't think so because she's attracting all the wrong kinds. She looks at every male as a possible husband. Yikes!! I've tried to tell her that when she feels whole and beautiful and valuable--all by herself--then she'll attract a man who feels the same way about himself instead of every Mr. Needy out there. That, in fact, she'll find joy in getting to know herself as a unique, talented individual. There's amazing strength in that and in being alone. Sigh...words...I guess we're each here to learn on our own...but it helps to have friends to give us encouragement along the way. I'm so glad I didn't "hook up" with someone right out of the gate...who knows what kind of new problems I would have created for myself.

Academic Awards

Sorry for the blurry but my batteries were running out.

Yesterday I went to the academic awards ceremony at Mills with my friends Sarah and Noel. I'm so proud of my friend Sarah, whose recognition included a cash award. She is gracious and funny and unassuming and she had no idea she was going to be honored until a professor emailed her and encouraged her to attend. I'm glad I got to be part of her celebration. Noel and I had three out of four classes together our first semester at Mills. Noel is a wonderful poet; we had a great time in a poetry workshop together. I was surprised to hear so much clapping and cheering when I walked up on stage. Turns out that most of my senior thesis class attendees were also there. I don't know why it meant so much to me to hear my friends cheering and to have a certificate in my hand, but when I sat down after receiving my award, I felt a few tears.

I was always the best in my classes at DVC, but when I started at Mills, I discovered that I was surrounded by intelligent, talented, motivated women. At first I wasn't sure where I fit in. And the personal challenges (Brandon's awful situation, Andrew's leukemia, Clayton's accident at work) of that first semester were horrendous. I wonder now how I made it through. But I did. My daughter was a rock, (I love you, Telly), my friends stood by me, and my professors were very supportive.

Yesterday my all time favorite professor, Brinda Mehta, was at the awards ceremony. She hugged me and said, "See? All those self-doubts---gone." Some time I will have to write about her, if I can do her justice.

I'm excited to move to Baltimore and go to grad school. I know I will have challenges there, and sometimes I feel nervous about the unknown. But my time at Mills is fast coming to a close and I'm beginning to feel sad about that. I think I need to stop and pay attention to each day. I'm thinking about what Rachel told me once, that if we look at the future with too much focus, we miss what's right in front of us. How true.

Easter Family 2007

Three generations. I love being an aunt!

Estee, Me and Sabine
Rachel and Dennis
Kissin' Cousins! Aren't they beautiful??

Clayton and Michelle
Brandon doing well after surgery
Morgan and her little Afghani friends (all sisters!)

Anthony and Jasmine

Also there but not in pictures: Uncle Mike, Estee's Mike, Nick, and family friend Zahad (the little girls' father). Missing and missed: Chantel, Austin, Owen, Soren, Larry. I love my family so much!!!!

Easter Dinner 2007

Rachel made a "nest" for each guest, with some to spare, carrying on the tradition our Mamaw had of making individual bread bunnies for each person.

The only thing bigger than the meals Rachel prepares is the love she has for all of us. I love you, Sister... Easter at Rachel's house was a sit-down affair, complete with white table clothes, hors d'oeuvre, coffee, tea, hand-squeezed lemonade, hand-dipped truffles, chocolate covered marshmallows, homemade rolls, roasted tri-tip with peppercorn mustard gravy, roasted rosemary chicken with fig sauce, zuchinni spears, corn, scalloped potatoes, sweet potatoes, pickles, olives, relish, artichoke hearts...Let's see, am I forgetting anything? Oh yeah! Cinnamon rolls for dessert! Delicious!!

Please Come

To Mills College on Monday, April 30, 2007 from 7 - 9 pm to hear Mill's Creative Writing Seniors (me and my crazy friends) read from our senior theses. Free. Wine and juice, cheese, crackers, strawberries, cookies, chocolate, pumpkin bread... Held in Carnegie Hall, 2nd floor, in the beautiful Bender Room.

How Do I Love Thee?

Early dawn stillness, waking up softly to the sound of birdsong. Peace filling my periwinkle room with gentleness and light. My favorite time of day. My hope for heaven--perpetual morning.

Happy Birthday Austin!

I've loved you completely from the minute you stuck your fork in that bite of spinach on my plate...

Beautiful Baby Boys

My grandson, Soren, 14 months April 2007
My son, Clayton, 14 months August 1984

Three or Two in Aqua Blue; My Childhood in Clothes, 1.

It was a store-bought dress. I don’t know how I knew that at such a young age.

The little dark-eyed girl's favorite Sunday dress was a pale aqua dotted swiss with a smocked bodice and short ruffled sleeves, like fairy wings with white lace on the edges. She felt like a butterfly when she wore it, and every week in the old Presbyterian Church in downtown Memphis, someone always stopped her mother or father to comment on how beautiful she looked. Her mother would smile down at her, sometimes placing her white gloved hand on the top of her head gently, or reaching out to touch her if her father was holding her in his arms. The little girl thought she had the most beautiful mother anywhere.

The chapel was large with three sections and it sloped down toward the front. The little girl, her parents, and her older brother and sister always sat in the same place, the right side section, fifth row from the front. The little girl liked this spot because whether she was sitting or standing, she could see all the beautiful stained glass windows--the tall elegant ones in the front above the altar, and the more simple but still pretty ones on each side of the big room. She never got tired of looking at the blues and reds and yellows, the intricate designs and the way light through the glass made patterns on the opposite walls. She especially liked the stained glass window of Jesus with a kind look on his face, holding a little lamb, and when the sun was in the right place in the sky, it shined through the stained glass, lighting up Jesus in a way that made people stop and stare.

The little girl thought that the tall, dark benches they sat on every week always smelled like lemons and the same smell that came from the crack between the cushions of her grandmother's couch. She had to stand up to see over the backs of the benches, and her mother let her do this because she was a quiet child, obedient and sweet. The big round woman sitting on the row behind the little girl's family always raised her eyebrows and held out her large wiggling fingers to invite the little girl to sit on her ample lap. The little girl was rather shy and she'd smile and look away, but she was fascinated with the strings of shiny round beads hanging around the woman’s neck and down the front of her clothes, so she'd look at her again when she thought the woman wasn't looking at her.

There were many colorful hats in the congregation too, soft pink or green ones with little nets that hung down over the women's foreheads, or hats with beautiful flowers on the front or back. The little girl thought the hats were very pretty and she’d spend time looking, comparing one hat to the next. She thought some hats looked funny, especially the ones with feathers sticking up, but she always loved the tight simple little hats her mother wore that matched her dresses perfectly.

About the time that the little girl began to grow bored, the little girl's mother would say, "Look! There's your daddy!" while one by one, the choir members came through a special door in the corner behind the pulpit. It was a small round door like the one in a fairy tale. It opened in the wall, and many of the men had to duck to walk through it. The little girl's father was rather tall and she thought he looked so handsome standing in the back row of the choir in his long blue robe. One time she waved and said, "Hi Daddy!" real loud. Her father laughed, but her mother whispered in her ear that she had to be quiet in church. The little girl noticed that her father would always smile at her, but once the music began, he put on his serious face and watched the choir director. He sang with his mouth open wide like an egg and little lines in his forehead. Then the choir members would go back through the little door and after a few minutes, the little girl's father would appear next to her in his dark suit. Then the minister would stand up, walk to the pulpit and hold on to it with both hands. When he began speaking, the little girl’s mother and father would sit up straight and encourage her to listen. But the little girl didn't understand all of the minister’s big words and she would soon lose interest.

Sometime later, another man would walk down the aisle with a large silver plate in his hands. The little girl knew that people put money in the plate and sometimes the little girl would watch her father reach in his pocket and give a few coins to her older brother or sister, who put them in the plate just like a grown-up. When her father passed the plate across her to her mother, the little girl would look quickly to see the shiny nickels and dimes. She always wanted to play with the tray and its contents, but this was not allowed. So she would stand up again and watch the plate going from hand to hand, down the rows, around the room, and listen to the little plinking sounds as the coins were dropped.

After awhile, the little girl would fall asleep leaning against one of her parents with the sound of her father's warm, rich voice and her mother's sweet clear soprano singing: "All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing, Alleluia! Alleluia..." Later, the little girl would wake up for just a moment, long enough to know that someone, usually her dad, was carrying her out to the car to go home where a delicious Sunday dinner was waiting.

Honorable Mention

This year I won an honorable mention for poetry from the Mills English Dept writing contest. That, was cool. Here's one of the poems I entered:

Cruella Deville
always lurched her long gray car, parking sideways on the un-mown scorch in her yard, until the night she ran over my bicycle, the long wrinkled car a menacing finger pointing, the headlights two crazed eyes staring through the walls, pounding her drunken fists and scream-crying, ‘Let me in my house!’ We huddled in our pajamas against our pure cotton mother who always smelled of lilacs and yellow, and when my father opened the door, a shaft of light tumbled out and broke into a hundred tiny pieces on the porch.

I saw her cracked, ochre teeth, the red mercurochrome eyes like the time I skinned both knees, smelled grape vinegar leaking from the ends of her wild, sizzling hair. My dad stepped easily over the broken shards into the darkness, his voice warm music just like Pastor Shane’s on Sundays, to gentle Mrs.Deville across the imaginary line between our yards, the one my brothers dared to cross, press their virgin freckles against the dirty plate glass window, see if Satan owned a color television.

Morning and I slide onto the banana seat, ‘good as new’ my dad says, close my hands around the rubber grips and push off, picking up speed, the pink and white plastic tassels and long flying hair, but it never rode straight after that.

The front tire always wobbled
just a little.

I learned the signs for chicken and pork...

Last night Larry took me and Brandon and Traci to dinner at (where else?) The Mecca! We had a great time. Traci is so sharp. Brandon and I are both picking up sign language. He's taking a signing class at LMC also. Brandon spends more time with Traci than I do and he seems to understand everything she says, even though he can't sign as fast as she can yet, of course. It's really amazing to watch them together. Being with Traci has improved Brandon's speech also. He's been forced to enunciate and speak more slowly (Traci does some lip reading) and that has improved our communication tremendously. There was a time when I said "What?" to EVERYTHING Brandon said. Now, I almost never have to ask him to repeat himself. Larry learned some signing last night too, and the four of us did a lot of laughing together.

At the Hop

I think it's happening to me. And I'm going to fight it--this all too natural inclination to censor my own writing. The more my blogger "audience" grows, the more I self-edit. Not my intention when I began blogging. I do enough of that in my other life. So...random thoughts--reveal thyselves!

Brandon is doing GREAT--physically and spiritually. He said the other day, "Mom, I think I was the last one of your children to grow up." Hmmmmmm, ya think?

I sent an Easter package to my grandsons this week. While I packed the box, I remembered that Mamaw, for packing materials, used bags of marshmallows, boxes of instant pudding and jello, and cereal boxes (full, unopened) whenever she shipped to us. And that reminds me that starting when I was 10, we moved 14 times in a 4-year period. Now that's a memoir in itself. In fact, that time period has the most stories in it, and it's the least known to my children and those I love. After I got married, I decided that my childhood wasn't important. Oh, the things we believe when we're young!

I'm moving to Baltimore and going to grad school there. Can't wait!! The program is the only one like it in the country. But sometimes I think that school will just be an added bonus, and being with Chantel, Austin, Owen and Soren is more important (for them and for me) than any "education" I might receive. Changes...plans...decisions...right now I think the move will be a road trip, because I have to have my car. If I don't drive it, then I have to ship it, and the cost, either way, will probably be about the same.

Alessandra's Story

When Alessandra was 5, she visited Morocco with Claude, her French-Canadian come-what-may father, and Danielle, her American feminist mother. Danielle agreed to wear traditional dress out of respect for their hosts, but the family found their vacation to another country not exactly what they had in mind.

Alessandra and her parents shopped at an outdoor market for figs and vodka. The local men and women were fascinated with Alessandra's golden curls and large blue eyes, but Dani resented their unfamiliar hands and constant reaching out to touch her daughter's hair and face. (Chantel gets this). When Alessandra and her parents returned to the home of their hosts, Dani was even more resentful when she realized that she was expected to spend the rest of the day helping to prepare dinner-- tending a fire and turning the spit that held a whole lamb.

Dinner was a process in which everyone ate from the same bowl with their fingers: Take two fingers, dip, suck, dip again, suck, and pass. The bowl went to all the men first, boys second, women third, and little girls last. By the time the food reached Alessandra, it had passed through 30 hands, (or 150 fingers and 30 types of saliva.)

After dinner Danielle was dancing with the other women when Alessandra pulled on her skirt. She looked down at her daughter's green face, scooped her up, and ran out into the courtyard where Alessandra "evacuated her dinner at both ends."

A local doctor came to the house. As soon as he arrived, the doctor turned Alessandra over and much to her surprise and her mother's horror, gave her a suppository. Danielle had had it.

"Claude, call a cab! We are leaving!"

Danielle wrapped Alessandra in a blanket, changed back into her jeans and t-shirt, and the family went to a hotel in Marakesh.

This was the gist of a story we critqued the other day in my non-fiction workshop. Our purpose was to discuss what worked, what didn't. We made comments and suggestions, and we asked the writer questions. Our chatter was full of astute observations--invaluable to any serious writer. But typical of the feminine ability to multi-task, our critique went from the meaning of the word "evacuating" into multiple directions like exploding fireworks--or maybe like projectile vomiting.

"What's a suppository?"
"Have you ever heard of those intestine cleaning things?"
"I know a woman who gives herself a wheat grass enema every day."
"Some people use coffee--"
"Yeah, or cocaine--"
"Its like a giant horse-pill in some kind of medium that dissolves quickly."
"Using suppositories is the absolute fastest way of absorbing medicine, much faster than swallowing a pill."
"Did you say a cocaine enema?"
"Those are called colonics."
"Have you ever seen pictures of what's inside your intestines?"
"If you eat a lot of cheese and stuff, you can have a build-up."
"I guess that would help if you can't hold anything down."
"What's a colonic?"
"People get carried away with the whole cleansing thing."
"It's supposed to be really relaxing."
"Yeah, right!"
"The pictures on the internet are amazing."
"Yeah, but you have to be careful what you eat for awhile after that."
"Well, what's the purpose of cleansing if you're just going to eat more crap?"
"Like this two-foot long piece that looked like tar."
"How does it work?"
"That sounds gross."
"Is there a drip pan, or what?
"Well, some people want to see what's in their bodies--sort of motivating you know?
"Some things are better left to the imagination."

Clearly, this critique had gone sideways. Alessandra sat at the end of the table to my left. "See what your story started?" I said. She laughed.

I had been watching the faces of my classmates, but especially my professor, a small Chinese man with a dry sense of humor and quick, anxious mannerisms. He had been listening the whole time, laughing occasionally, but remaining quiet. Finally when there was a break in the chatter, he said, "Ok then...uh...'evacuate at both ends'---that means puke and poo, right?" The whole table erupted in laughter. We had come full circle.

Cyberfriend

I checked out a link on Tel's blog and ended up beginning a correspondence with a woman I've never met. But I feel like I know her from the way she writes. This is unusual. I mean, I don't have a presence on "My Space" and I don't chat on-line with anyone. I've never written to some random person, but thanks to blogging, the opportunity to see into people's lives is out there, all around us, and in my case, this cyber-friendship happened naturally. What an amazing time we live in!

Repairs...

Larry picked Brandon up at 5 am and drove him to Pleasanton Kaiser for his shoulder surgery. I got off work an hour early, thanks to another care-giver, and went on over around 10 am. Brandon was still being operated on. The receptionists kept checking his progress for me, then I got to go back to recovery. As soon as I walked through the door across the white tiles, the smell hit me. It was so familiar but I couldn't place it. Then I remembered, oh yeah, that place...almost nine years ago...

Brandon was sitting up in a chair flirting with a nurse. He was HUNGRY, which was a good sign. And he was SMILING which was another good sign. He is supposed to keep his shoulder immobile for three weeks. No showering til Tuesday. He's on Spring break this coming week so the timing is good. The best part is Dr. Wyatt was able to do the surgery orthoscopically instead of with a traditional incision. The healing time will be much quicker. Brandon had a priesthood blessing last night and that's what we prayed for.

Brandon's life is coming together in so many ways...I'm thankful for that. He's been through a lot, some of it his own doing, but he keeps learning from his mistakes and he keeps setting goals and moving forward. I love you, Son, and I'm very proud of you.

Sitting Witty

I'm sitting at a counter at Peet's Coffee in Pleasant Hill with my laptop open in front of me. There's a large glass window in front of me facing the street. Peet's is on the corner of an intersection; foot traffic is fairly consistent. Right now there's a young man sitting right in front of me--outside on a bench. If the window weren't here, I could reach out and rub his buzzed head. Some guys don't look good in buzzed heads. This one does. But I have still never seen anyone with a more beautifully shaped head than Clayton! He keeps his head buzzed and still lets me rub it once in awhile. (Thanks Budster!)

This guy looks like he's in his twenties. Has a couple of days of stubble, wearing a navy blue t-shirt and jeans. Acts like he's waiting for someone...oh, here she is. Curly blondish brown hair in a pony-tail. Sun-glasses on top of her head. Tiny silver hoops and even tinier stud earrings. Black t-shirt. Beige cargo pants. She sits down right next to him, close. He pulls his arm from the back of the bench and puts it around her instead. Now there are two heads within touching distance. She just turned and she's looking into his face. Her eyes are blue. I'm trying not to stare. She kisses his cheek. She's in love with him, obviously. He's rubbing her back now while she talks to him. The glass must be tinted from the outside because they're oblivious to my presence. I can read her lips if I try, but I won't. What a way to eavesdrop on someone's life! Ok, she just stood up and ran across the street to her car. Now she's walking down the street, out of sight. Maybe she's going to run into a store. There are so many wonderful shops down here.

I remember when this area was a few scummy businesses, including a decrepit bowling alley and some empty littered fields. There was one fabulous gourmet cheese shop though. I used to go there once in a great while. One time the owner noticed the car I was driving--a 1972 Renault. I told him it was my 'Flintstone car' and he said in his strong French accent, "What? No bottom?" We laughed. Now this area is modern and beautiful with banks, restaurants, Bed Bath and Beyond, Michael's, a Hallmark store...It's the new mecca for yuppies young and old.

Ok, now the young man is taping his fingers on the bench. Waiting. She probably won't be long. Oh, here she is again. Aha! I was right...she's carrying a bag...sandwiches. That was fast. She must have called ahead. They unwrap their food and they're both eating now with gusto. My guess is that he works near-by and she's met him on his lunch break. A big red-headed guy on a bicycle has just stopped to talk to them.One foot on the ground and one resting on a bike pedal. He reminds me of a combination of Shane and a young Danny Bonaducci (Partridge family brat for those too young to remember). They seem to all know each other. He looks through the glass right at me. I look back at my computer screen. The young man sitting on the bench turns and glances at me briefly but I keep typing, pretending to ignore them. Not quite as fun now that they know I'm here. A shirtless man with a six-pack runs by with a black lab and a golden setter in tow. Wow...Come back!....

They're fast eaters. He finishes first. She probably takes smaller bites like I do. She keeps sucking the tips of her fingers. Now she's leaning against him. It's 12:25. Does he get a thirty minute lunch or an hour? My guess is 1/2 hour, or they would have probably met at the Greek place down the street, or Sweet Tomatoes. What a beautiful day. The sun is out, but they're in the shade of the awning. They stand up to leave. She shoulders her leather bag and they walk away holding hands. They disappear around the corner, out of my sight.

A gray haired man sits down now. Plaid flannet shirt jacket, baby heinz on a leash, newspaper in hand...oh, never mind. At this rate I'll never get anything done. Time to get to work on my thesis.

What Do All These Have in Common?

Dolphin

(The blue of this water is real)

St Stephen's Cathedral, Mainz, Germany

Sydney Opera House

Heidelberg Castle, Heidelberg, Germany

Kauri tree

Baby Joey

Ok, I'll give you a hint....

Tree Hugger?
My Best Girl!! All these photos (and more) are from Marilyn's recent trip to Australia, New Zealand, Europe and New York City, and anyone who's been to NY will tell you that it's like another country! She went with her sisters and her nieces for 3 1/2 weeks. Mar and I have been friends for 24 years, since I was pregnant with Clayton and she was pregnant with Christine. We even used the same doctor when we had previous home births, but didn't know each other at the time. She has been with me through thick and thin. My children love her as one of the family as well.

1985

Women and Money

I watched a show on public television the other night about women and money. Suzy Ormond was the lecturer. She doesn't mince words! Although I enjoyed the entire show, a few ideas have stayed in my head since then:

Women, in general, take care of everyone but themselves, and our behavior usually shows an unhealthy relationship with money: We co-sign for our children, borrow on credit so we can loan the money to others, undervalue our services and therefore charge less than we should (Suzy calls it putting ourselves on sale) fail to save adequately, are under-insured, don't ask for raises and have a difficult time saying "NO" when others want to borrow money. She outlined 8 rules for financial success, but I think these apply to life in general:

Harmony: When everything we think, say, feel and do is the SAME.
Balance: Which gives us the equilibrium to make good decisions.
Courage: Overcoming fears by taking action.
Generosity: Giving to ourselves and others in ways that are healthy.
Happiness: Happy people attract other happy people.
Cleanliness. "Wealth can't dwell in filth!" Think about that one.
Beauty: When we know our own worth as individuals.
Wisdom: Making the right choices for the right reasons.

Should I or Shouldn't I?

I arrived home after 10:30 pm. I had worked all day at my care-giver job and I was tired. Brandon was still up. Two boxes from the distribution center had arrived (I had ordered some ASL materials for Brandon and his friend who recently joined the church). On top of the boxes was a stack of mail. A check from Guideposts! Cool! They paid me for a story that's coming out in the May/June issue. They had changed the title of the story from "A Friend in Deed" to "Wilma to the Rescue." I laughed out loud. That was Wilma alright. I shuffled through the mail. Yet another offer for a credit card. A flyer from a real estate agent. A bill from my auto insurance company. A letter from the University of Montana. Two of them, in fact! My mind raced. Two letters? Duplicates? One saying, "We don't want you" The other saying, "We REALLY don't want you"? Or one letter for the "N" and one for the "O"? Brandon urged me to open them.
"No. I'm not ready."
"But Mom, whatever is in the letters will be the same no matter when you open them."
"I know, and that's why I'm not opening them now."

I thought about my daughter--the person I would tell first. It was almost 2 am in Maryland. I thought about my friend Glo. She'd be up. But, still, I wanted to share this with my girl. If "no" I'd need her support. If "yes" I wanted to share the joy. I opened everything else, including the boxes, threw the trash away, brushed my teeth, got ready for bed, said my prayers, and left the letters on my vanity. My heart wouldn't slow down. I had to get some sleep. This was ridiculous. I reached for the letters and, lying back on my pillows, held them up to the light. Maybe just a few words to give me a hint. Sort of the way I get into a swimming pool--one toe at a time instead of doing a cannonball off the diving board. I couldn't make out anything significant. I put the letters aside, turned off the light and went to sleep.

Last night I dreamed happy dreams. I don't remember what I dreamed exactly, but I felt peaceful and happy when I woke up. I called Chantel and got her voice mail. She called me back a short time later. The moment had arrived! With her on the other end of the phone, it was easy to open the letters.

Dear Martha:

According to information...could not be processed...information is incomplete...if you have any questions...blah, blah, blah!

All that anxiety over a letter from financial aid? Basically, the letters said what I already know: my application is being processed. They need more information. (They're waiting on my completed tax return).

Next time I'll just rip the envelope open right on the spot...But what if it's a no? What if it's a yes? What if it's late, and Telly is asleep across the country? Oh----------raspberry!!!

Dancer Dreams in Montana

Muscle memory. It's a fact. Having it is what makes it easy to ride a bicycle, or ice skate, or dance, after years of not doing so. Muscle memory doesn't fade--at least, not like regular memory. At least, mine hasn't seemed to. I've been taking a ballet class at Mills and I'm amazed at the moves my body remembers--from 30 years ago! I never want to stop doing this. I'm getting strong and discovering movement that I haven't done in years. I even see myself as a dancer--ok--visually maybe a stretch for now, but my dancer's body is still in there--somewhere. Dancing is in my future because it brings me such joy and such a connection with myself that I get in no other way.

Most people are aware that art and music are the first programs to be cut when schools are under budget. Well, now I hear some schools are also cutting PE--ok if you have active children. But what about the families whose children spend their free time in front of the television?? Scary.

I envision a piece of land--Montana maybe, or Idaho. Lots of sky and space, clean air and stars at night. A big, old house with high ceilings and a wrap around porch. A large flower and vegetable garden bursting with zinnias and marigolds and cosmos. A giant old barn, weathered but strong, and inside the barn (this is where it gets fun) daylight and an art studio with tables and easles and sinks and supplies; a dance studio with a wood floor and ballet barres and mirrors and a nice little bathroom, maybe even a remodeled loft for guests. And the best part: children and women of all ages (ok, men can come too if they want), everyone either contributing (talents or resources) or creating, and everyone growing.

This will not be a career move--I still plan to teach--but a way in which to contribute to my community and my family (read between the lines: Grammy wants to live near her family) and do the things I love at the same time. I already have an art teacher who will move to the area as soon as I give the word, and living near each other has long been a dream of my siblings and mine. The place is waiting. Can't wait to find it.

Anxiety

Counting down...chewed off my nails!! Darn it! First time in 3 years. Withdrew my application from Emerson. Got two no's this week--Pittsburgh and Iowa. That leaves Montana, North Carolina, Baltimore or West Virginia. With only four choices left out of seven, I should be feeling better, but I actually feel worse. I'm trying to look down the road and my future isn't neatly packaged, dated and bar coded for efficiency. It's a big question mark; HOWEVER--I'd rather have anxiety and excitement than dull and routine. Lack of conflict doesn't necessarily mean happy. And I still have a thesis to complete and a graduation party to plan. I'll keep y'all posted.

Friends

This is a picture from my housewarming party two years ago. I'm posting this because I got to see Britney (middle) and Michon (right) this weekend at Britney's new house. Britney is one heck of a massage therapist, postitive, passionate, funny...I met her at a birthday party for Michon when we were students together at DVC. Michon moved to Reno some time ago and I've kept up with her through Britney; It was so wonderful to see them both. They are beautiful inside and out.

Stolen Treasure

About 6 weeks ago, I left my clothes on a bench in the locker room while I went upstairs to the athletics department to get a locker assignment. I took my backpack with me (wallet, etc) but when I came back, I realized I'd left my blue topaz earrings in my jeans. They were gone. I was so disappointed. It's one thing if some random person steals when you're out in public. But this felt worse because one of my own did it--another Mill's student. How crappy is that?

I posted an announcement on Mill's Student News. It goes automatically to every Mills student and cannot be relegated to "spam." I didn't accuse anyone of stealing, (even though they had) I simply said that I felt terrible, I'd lost my earrings, if anyone found them, please turn them in, etc. No response. Two weeks passed and I posted again..."I'm hoping someone has my earrings but has been too busy to turn them in...they mean a lot to me...please...etc." No response. Several weeks later I was mad. I decided that if someone was going to steal from me, she was going to feel guilty for keeping my earrings. I went to the computer lab and printed flyers. Then I took them to the gym and posted them all over: on the lockers, on the bathroom mirrors, in the bathroom stalls, on the doors leading into and out of the locker room: "Do you have my earrings?? Blah, blah, blah....Please do a kind thing and turn them in..." I was prepared to keep posting flyers every week until graduation. But Wah-lah!! Someone turned them in to lost and found. Maybe the guilt got to be too much. Whatever the reason, I got them back. So thank you, whoever you are, for doing the right thing. And please think twice before stealing again. It wasn't really worth it, was it??

That Sweet Little Voice

Ok, two more phone messages. Can't resist transcribing them. In the first one, Chantel's voice is in the background. Then last week, Owen left a message all by himself. He was a little confused about getting voice mail at first, but oh, I could live on his little voice and all that love!!

Jan 28:
Hi Grammy! I, I love you. I'm so 'cited about you visiting me in the summer, hum, um, we have a little froggy, uh, hum, uuuuh, fabric, right here (Chantel laughing 'say goodbye') And I have a shooter pen (ok, say goodbye) and bye, bye. I love you, Grammy, love, the Calders--Owen."

Feb 23
"Um, I love you. I'm happy about you coming again in the summer. 'Member when we went the George Washington? It was kinda fun but we was really tired, um, I love you Grammy, I love you Grammy, Mommy loves you too. I gotta new starfish from Michael's that Mama bought me from savings four dollars, four, I can do math too. I love you Grammy, Bye bye!"

To Gloria, because she gets it; she gets me.

Every woman should have a special Glo in her life. I do, and she's one of my great blessings. I have a special love for older people and I think it's because I've always had an older woman as a mentor and friend. When I was younger, it was Theresa McFarland. She was 70 and I was 18 when we met. We went visiting teaching together and oh, the things I learned from her about faith, and perserverance, and dealing with adversity. She died some years ago and I look forward to seeing her again someday.

Now I'm not as young as I once was, but I'm still blessed to have a wonderful friend, older, wise, funny, compassionate. We can talk about ANYTHING and EVERYTHING and we do. There isn't a subject I bring up that she doesn't understand or have an interest in. Sometimes we don't even need words! Just a look between us and we're both laughing! She is a comfort and a source of encouragement and hope. Sometimes I feel like she's my sister. Other times my mother. But always, my good friend. And I know that I add to her life as well. We had a role reversal not long ago where I spouted some wisdom (born of experience--the best kind) and she listened and acted. Her problem resolved shortly thereafter. Isn't it amazing sometimes, the way people's paths cross and the things we learn from one another? I bless the day we met and I appreciate her influence in my life. I love you my Glo-friend!

How do you explain Coincidence?

Can't stand that I haven't posted for so long, at least, it feels long to me. Maybe part of that is because I've been working long shifts in Rossmoor with Evelyn, up to 84 hours at a stretch, and I don't have internet access there. For those of you who don't know, I do elder care on a part-time basis and my current job is with an 88-year-old. Tonight I thought I'd tell you that, although I 'm especially enjoying an anthropology class at Mills, I do not agree with the professor's personal opinions regarding the effectiveness of direct prayer, and indirect prayer (where others pray for someone who doesn't know he's being prayed for). But in relation to this current job, here's what happened:

I took a look at my finances one day, Whoa!! Too much debt. I made a decision to get out of debt. I prayed about it. I said, "Please help me to increase my income..." THE NEXT DAY my friend called and offered me this job. Coincidence? Maybe, but there's more. Because later I went on a wonderful trip to Baltimore, I didn't work for three weeks. No work, no money. When I came home I took a look at my finances again. Whoa! Some progress, but not a lot. I prayed again, "Please help me to earn EXTRA money, so I can get out of debt before I leave for grad school..." THE NEXT DAY my friend called and offered me more hours. Recently, I took another look. Some progress, good, but will I achieve my goal by summer's end? I prayed about it some more. "Thank you for blessing me with this good job and for helping me do well in school. I think I could work some more without jeopardizing my studies. Please help me find more work." THE NEXT DAY my friend called again. She's burning out. Would I like to pick up an extra day? Yes, but the only day I have available is Monday. Great. That's the day she's looking to give up....So...what do you think? Coincidence? or Not?

Revelation

The whole encounter lasted less than a minute. I had just dropped off some medical forms when I saw a young woman with long blond hair and nondescript clothings softly crying, sitting across the room, waiting for her appointment with a psychologist. Her face was entirely wet from tears. She clutched a soggy tissue in one hand and made no attempt to hide her sorrow; couldn’t actually, I’m sure. I felt a little tug at my heart, but what could I do? I left the waiting room and walked to the elevator. I reached for the down arrow, but stopped just short of pushing it. I couldn't just leave, pretend I hadn't seen her, forget who I am now. I turned and walked back in. The woman looked up when she saw me and began sobbing harder. I walked over and touched her knee. She cried harder. I waited. “It will be ok, whatever it is, I promise,” I said quietly, so as not to draw attention to her from the other patients. She looked up at me with intense green eyes and a face full of pain, as though her very life depended upon my every word. “Don’t give up” I said. She nodded and sobbed out a “Thankyou.”

As I took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked across the parking lot, my own eyes filled with tears. It had rained all night and the morning sky was still gray and overcast. So much sorrow in this world! In the car, I thought about the woman all the way to Mills. I don’t know why she was so grief stricken and I wondered: A broken heart? Betrayal? A dead or dying child? Divorce? But does it really matter what the source of our pain is?

These past months, knowing I’d be writing memoir for my senior project, I’ve been agonizing over the purpose of writing such a difficult story as ours has been. Other than my own obvious need to find a place for those experiences, I've been thinking: Who will read them? And why will they care? My professor has been pushing me to find a thesis and determine who my audience will be.

“Don’t give up” I had said to the woman. There were times when I wanted to, no doubt, but I didn’t, and that is probably the single most important decision I've made which gave me back my life. I think I just found my thesis.

Squinchy Face Genes?

The idea for this post came from Brandon who thinks Soren's picture (below) looks like one of his, or reminded him of it anyway. Definitely something similar in the squinchy face expressions:

Soren 2007

Brandon 1977

Brandon 1979

Chantel 1981

Happy Birthday Soren

Darling Chunky Monkey,
How I wish I could be with you on your very first birthday. I miss holding you and feeling those sweet kisses. Happy birthday, Sweetheart. You are precious and Grammy loves you more than words can say.

I wrote this Feb 3, 2006, 11:30 pm

Oh, sleep celestial state divine
tranquil rest refreshing
refrain from lingering this one time
Please grant this dear sought blessing

When daylight gently cracks the night
paints morning dawn with wonder
the baby born, the world so right--
Oh sun! Oh clouds! Oh thunder!

Then hear my gratitude, delight--
familial love expanded
The newborn soon within my sight
I pray this wish be granted

Cotton shades of tender blue
will swaddle sweetest joy
Owen's happy declaration:
Grammy, he's a boy!