the gift

It was Christmas morning, 1962, I was 7 years old, and I was in heaven. After all, I had just received the number one item on my Christmas list- a replica of Fireball XL5, the interplanetary rocket from which Steve Zodiac, the puppet hero, protected Sector 25 of the Solar System. A strange toy for a girl, I know, and to this day I'm not sure why I wanted that rocket ship so badly. However, I'll never forget the utter joy of receiving something I had wished for. Having daughters of my own, I can only imagine what my mother was thinking as she bought if for me that Christmas, but I'm so glad she did. That quirky rocket ship said to me that I was loved.

Over the years, John and I have given many gifts to our girls. Some were practical, some were educational, and some were, like my Fireball XL5, just for fun. We've always tried to find what would best suit each child, asking ourselves what would benefit her, enrich her life, or bring her special delight. As parents, we all want to give good gifts to our children, gifts that speak of our love and care for them. "Your favorite color is green." "You like to collect hats." "Reading is your favorite pasttime." Our gifts reflect our intimate knowledge of and appreciation for each individual personality.

Now imagine how much our Heavenly Father loves giving good gifts to His children. His gifts are tangible reminders that He knows us individually. He delights in giving us things that will benefit and enrich our lives, gifts that are tailor-made for us, because He is a personal, caring Father. Surely the gift we celebrate this month, surely Jesus is proof of that!

As we celebrate this season of "good gifts," let's bask in the knowledge that each one of us is loved by the greatest Gift-Giver of all!

the butterfly effect

It's been said that TIME is what prevents everything from happening all at once. If so, I think I just saw time jump into his car and two-wheel it around the corner and out of our life.

For eight years we've anticipated, contemplated, talked about and poked at remodeling our house. Eight years to plan, eight years to decide, eight years to prepare. Suddenly it's here, and are we ready? Heck no. But we will be; we have to be. Because come the first week of January they'll be scraping and chipping and jack-hammering the daylights out of a good portion of our house, and whatever isn't in a box and somewhere else by then will be covered in bits of ceiling and pieces of flooring and powder-coated in white- which is a nice touch for a Christmas tree, but not for the entire rest of your earthly possessions.

We bought a load of boxes to pack things in, but it's pretty clear we'll need more. Like I said in an earlier blog, you can collect a chunk of stuff in 29 years. I've been working my way through the "office" this week. The quotation marks around "office" are code for a room full of crap, if you'll pardon the scatological reference. This week in the office it's been adios old Southern Livings, with your tired styles from the late 20th century; adieu Taste of Homes, I don't have room to store you, time to look at you, or energy to cook you; and arrivederci old dried-up magic markers and faded construction paper, it's time you go to craft supply heaven.

How convenient if all I had to do between now and the New Year was to calmly go through each room at a casual pace, with time enough to linger over every little nostalgic nugget from the past. But time- you know, the one whose job it was to keep life manageable- just headed south to visit his relativities, and it doesn't take an Einstein to observe that in the DeLany universe everything can indeed happen at once. For even as we made plans for our house, the economy was quietly spiraling downward, causing the university where I work to change insurance companies in order to save money, thus obliging us to reconsider the timing of a certain someone's janky knee's replacement. Translation? In the next few weeks we will travel out of state for Thanksgiving, box all our earthly possissions, complete a number of pre-remodeling projects, replace John's 3rd body part in two years, and shop for and celebrate Christmas before relocating to our daughter's house for a yet to be determined amount of time. I have to admit I'm a little nervous. Alright, I'm a lot nervous.

Back home we'd say it's like trying to put 10 lbs. of sausage in a 5 lb. bag. However, a physicist might refer to it as the "butterfly effect." Butterfly effect- that has a nice, peaceful ring to it, now doesn't it?

Actually, the term "butterfly effect" came from a paper given by Edward Lorenz in 1972 to the American Association for the Advancement of Science entitled Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly's wings in Brazil set off a Tornado in Texas? In other words, can a small, inconsequential event in one place start a chain of events that lead to a full-scale catastrophe somewhere else? From the looks of things at my house, I'd say yes. Evidently my failure to choose a "putting place" for one or two inconsequential household items like a flashlight battery or a can of Deep Woods OFF! when we moved in nine years ago began a chain reaction of untidiness culminating in the mess which I am now maniacally attempting to pack into cardboard boxes. Theorists might call it the "butterfly effect," but back home we'd call it all my chickens coming home to roost.

As the good Lord was fond of saying, "Let he who has ears hear."

life

For anyone who doesn't believe life is a meaty-finger-jabbing smirky guy who loves perpetrating twisted acts of irony on innocent people, "getaloadadis."

"Whatdaya! Whatdaya! Do I look lika villain to youse?" life protests, lighting a fat cigar. "Is it my fault she sets herself up fordese tings? Take dat night last week- how could I resist? I mean, you gotta do what you gotta do."

So last Thursday night I'm in the laundry room with my mountain of reeking sheets, pillowcases, blankets, mattress pads, and other "kitty litter." "Just how much will this large capacity washing machine hold?" I wonder, adding another large scoop of detergent to a tub brimming with cat-soaked sheets and blankets.

Minutes pass, then I lift the lid to make sure all is well. "Why does this blanket keep twisting around the sheets like that? They'll never get clean this way," I mutter.

Turning the machine off, I wrestle with the queen-size blanket and queen-size sheets which have become hopelessly tangled together and have, in the heat of battle, wrapped themselves tightly around the agitator. Clinging on for dear life, they fight me tooth and toenail as I struggle, head inside the washer and arms wet to the shoulders, to pry them loose. So tight is the blanket's death grip on the sheet that big, bulbous, air-filled sheet bubbles protrude from it in various places like blue cotton goiters. Panting, I struggle on.

"Yes!" I exclaim triumphantly, finally holding aloft a soapy, saturated blanket which by now weighs a good 10 pounds. However, my triumph quickly turns to panic as I realize I have nowhere to put this slimy, dripping mess. On the floor? No, it's already morphed into a giant puddle from the enormous amount of water now running down my arms and legs. Into the dryer? Drat! Still full of yesterday's clean socks and underwear. I knew I should have folded them last night! The laundry basket? I hurl it in that direction. Even though the basket is virtually a collection of holes held together by a little plastic, it's all I've got.

Slip-sliding back to the Maytag, I prepare to finish washing the soapy sheets. The blanket will have to wait its turn.

"Thunk." I push in the knob to restart the wash cycle.

Silence.

"Thunk, thunk." I pull the knob out and push it in again.

Silence.

"Splosh." I attempt to rearrange the wet sheets in hopes that this is the problem.

"Thunk." Me trying the knob again.

"Thunk, thunk."

"Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk!"

As I drive to the Luxury Wash laundromat late that night, a 33-gallon trash bag full of soggy bedding in my trunk, two questions keep running through my mind: why does life sound like a Bronx thug and why has he got it in for me?

the queen

"Waaaaaaaah!" That was me three weeks ago crying over my missing cat.

"Aaaaaaaargh!" That was me three hours ago cursing the same cat.

Life has a twisted little ironic sense of humor, don't you think? "Remember that lost cat she was all verklept over last week?" it says, jabbing its meaty finger in my directon. "Watch this."

The this life was talking about was me coming home from work two days ago and opening the door to an unused bedroom, currently serving as my closet while ours is under construction. This would also be Suzie bolting past me, happy to escape the bedroom prison she'd been trapped in since I closed the door early that morning without knowing she was lurking in the shadows. This would be me again, sniffing the corners, knowing full well that a cat can't stay in a room for 10 1/2 hours without doing something somewhere; and me smiling in dubious but heartfelt relief when I found no smell, no stain, no nothing. This would also be me this morning, opening the door to a pungent aroma wafting from the vicinity of the bed which, upon closer inspection, revealed that Suzie had chosen a cat box during her captivity after all. Not the old, soon-to-be-replaced carpet. How common, how...plebeian. Instead, the tufted, satiny plushness of a comforter atop a downy duvet, the duvet resting upon cozy blankets and sheets which, in turn, nestled on a billowy pillow-top mattress. Now there's a toilet fit for a queen.

Queen Suzie. Exactly what shall we do with Your Majesty? Charge you $55 for the dry cleaning? Silly me, you have no income, do you? Make you write "I will not soil the bed" 500 times? Oops, no opposable thumbs. Put a bell around your neck so that we'll know your whereabouts at all times? No, I think that, together with Buster's propensity for nocturnal collar shaking, would be much too annoying. I know! Let's locate that shed, garage, or whatever it was you managed to get out of awhile back, and put your royal pain in the butt back in it, shall we?

"See. Whatd'Itellya?" life says, smirking as it begins plotting my next surprise.

change

We sure have been hearing a lot about change these days. We need to change this! We've got to change that! Vote for change! You can't swing a dead cat without hitting somebody going on about change. Frankly, I think there's been plenty of change already. In fact, I haven't even caught up with the change that happened last month, last year, or even 10 years ago; and now it's looking like we could all be in for a whole lot more of it.

"Embrace change." "Change is good." These were the catchphrases the brass at Levi Strauss & Co. used to tell their sales reps. Which in translation meant grab your butts because something you're not going to like is about to happen. And sure enough it always did. Proving to me that change is not always good, even though it does make a catchy slogan.

Sometimes change announces itself and gives people a chance to prepare for its arrival, whether they want to or not. But in my experience, change mostly likes to sneak up on you when you're not looking. I think it likes to watch your reaction when you finally notice it. For instance, the other week I needed to move one of the girls' car from the driveway. And there it was, right there on the dashboard- change. Can someone tell me what happened to the regular old turning knobs and dials on car radios? On hers there were only bunches of microscopic buttons and little hieroglyphics meant to get across what it was the buttons were supposed to do, none of which showed me how to turn the volume down before my head exploded. I had to turn the car off, leap out, and slam the door just to make it stop, and I swear I could hear the muffled sound of change laughing.

And that spiteful change has crept inside the house as well. "In my home! In my bedroom! Where my husband sleeps...and my children play with their toys!" That's what Michael Corleone once said, although I think he was referring to gunfire and not change.

Suddenly I can't watch a movie by myself anymore because I don't know what buttons to push on which remote. More often than not lately, by the time I figure out how to answer the new digital phone, the caller has hung up. The fact that we even have a land phone marks us for ridicule with some change-happy people. Not that we don't keep up with any of the trends. It's a fact that John owned a big honking cell phone with a 5 pound battery and its very own carrying case long before Zack Morris ever thought about using one on Saved by the Bell! Nowdays people go around taking pictures with their cell phones. Pictures! I already have a year's worth of pictures on a digital camera that I can't look at because I don't know how to fix the device that connects the computer that opens the apparatus that runs the program that shares the file that lives in the house that Jack built. Change has made everything digital, wireless, remote, and hands-free. Not to mention miniscule, complicated, counterintuitive, and on my last good nerve.

Maybe I'm just getting old and crotchety, like Andy Rooney but without the gnarly eyebrows and the bit on 60 Minutes. After all, change is progress and all progress is good, isn't it? Maybe not all. I think sometimes change is just change, although I can think of a couple of good changes. Like putting wheels on luggage- where was that back in high school when I lugged my green, 100 lb. hard sided suitcases all over Europe? And who doesn't like built-in cup holders in their cars? It really frees up the hands for those who like to multi-task while driving. But as for most of the other stuff... you can keep the change. I do have one good idea for plugging into this whole change thing, though. I'm thinking of making matching t-shirts for John and me- kind of like those "Stupid" and "I'm with Stupid" t-shirts you sometimes see couples wear at the state fair. His will say "CHANGE". Mine will say, "I EMBRACE CHANGE." What do you think?

suzie

I am so sad. I've lost my friend of 10 years. She has disappeared and I don't know where else to look for her. I've walked our neighborhod calling her name. "Soooo-zie! Suzie kitty, where are you? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

She's always been an indoor/outdoor kind of girl, but she never goes far and she never goes for long. Until now. I don't know where she is, and I hate not knowing. Something's wrong; she always sits on her brick pillar perch just ouside the front door waiting to catch my eye through the window. Or lounges on her diving board throne waiting for me to call her royal highness in for the night, while making up her mind whether or not she'll come. Until yesterday, when she wasn't there...not when I came home, not at dusk, not after dark, not at bedtime, not past bedtime, not during the night, not early this morning, not at lunch, not when I returned from work, not now. I don't know where she is, or how she is, and not knowing is killing me.

"Cut!"

Dry those tears and fast-forward to today, Sunday. This morning, just as the moon and sun were changing shifts, she reappeared- dirty, pitifully skinny, and exhausted. Too tired to meow as she hobbled through the door, she hasn't yet told me where she'd been since Thursday, and I feel sure that's a mystery I'll never uncover. But now, a bucket of tears later, she's back, and the not knowing is immaterial.

Let me introduce you to our recent MIA, Suzie. Before Buster, back when the girls were begging, pleading, cajoling, wheedling, promising anything for a dog- doing their chores for a year without being told, doing each other's chores, doing our chores- my sweet husband developed the misguided notion that a cat would

1. be an acceptable substitute for a dog and
2. I don't know...what? be less trouble than a dog?

Wrong on both counts, Johnny-boy, but daddy points for trying. Anyway, quicker than you can say, "Oh my gosh, is that a fur ball or a lung she just hacked up?" we found ourselves the dubious owners of one very large, very big-eyed, very jumpy tomcat named Suzie. At least someone thought it was a tomcat. Turns out, he was a she. (Maybe the name should have been a clue when someone got her from a woman who got her from some guy who, before moving away and abandoning her, named her Suzie, which in my opinion is a sucky name for a cat, but anyway...) Suzie was a big, beautiful, full-figured woman. And like any woman, she wanted only to be admired continuously, handled infrequently, and fed repeatedly. As far as the girls were concerned she had just one flaw, as it turns out a major one...she was not a dog. Inevitably, Suzie, the cat, became mine.

I'm not really a cat person, but have gained a grudging appreciation for certain aspects of "catness" over these years. I often find myself mesmerized with her endless variety of poses which, while totally unaffected, look as if they were practiced for weeks to convey maximum charm. I love the fact that she appears so cooly detached, but does so while remaining within eye and earshot of her humans. I like the way she keeps me company when I pull weeds or clean the pool, which is something my own offspring never did. I admire her spunk. Suzie suffers no fools, and has been observed bitch slapping many a hapless cat that wandered into her yard, this despite being declawed before we got her. She even manhandles Buster when he gets cocky, but that's not saying much...how intimidating is a dog that wears a "Stud Muffin" sweater when he goes for a walk on "coolish" days, and has to be physically forced outside to do his business in a light sprinkle. Suzie, on the other hand, has braved some of the nastiest weather Oklahoma can produce, and Oklahoma produces a good deal of it.

In fact, apart from the fact that she's hairy, adores rolling in red dirt (something else Oklahoma produces a lot of,) prefers sleeping on duvets (upon which she deposits a hefty sampling of both the aforementioned,) purposely bypasses tile in order to barf on carpet, has that annoying little UTI requiring "special" high dollar cat food, and disappears for 3 days causing me to cry so much imagining her locked in some dark, airtight hellhole wondering why I wasn't coming to her rescue that my eyelids swelled so much I looked like Ron Perlman in that "Beauty and the Beast" TV show from the 80's and couldn't go to church and sing in the choir, she's really a terrific cat as far as cats go, which for some people with allergies is not near far enough.

Anyway, she's back. Back in the dirt, back on the bed, back in the house, back from the dead!

Back.

stuff

Two men arrived early yesterday morning to begin phase one of our home renovation. This is the start of something big, guys. Big and dirty. Big, dirty and expensive. People are going to tear into our house, make a lung-choking mess doing it, and try their best to force us to pack up and move in with our kids in the process. And we're going to pay them for it- a lot.

It wasn't like we didn't see this coming. We've been talking about it since that autumn day in 1999 when we first looked at the house. That would be the day I naively shook my head yes, let's buy the darn thing- dark-stained wood, outdated carpet, ugly wallpaper and all. Yes, I can repaint all 3,600 feet of it by myself, where's my brush? Yes, I can turn this 1970's behemoth into House Beautiful. Yes, I can do it!

As I said earlier, two men arrived yesterday morning to begin our remodeling project. As I was schlepping clothes, shoes, jewelry, luggage and other various and sundry objects from my closet to a semi-empty closet across the landing the night before, it dawned on me that this was the first of many such redistributions of 29 years' worth of accumulated "memories". And let me tell you this, some memories are just plain best forgotten. Forgotten as in flushed. Jettisoned. Filed in that big, mobile file cabinet that comes around every Monday morning except the ones that fall on Christmas. We are up to our ears in those kinds of memories... memories that no longer fit, memories that are missing vital parts, memories that used to go to something but I can't remember what. Memories that I thought for sure I'd have used by now but never have. Memories that I just can't seem to part with because they milk that last, infinitesimal drop of sentimentality out of me just as my hand is poised over the trash can. The Barbie doll with the cracked neck wants to be kept. And of course she will still need her pink Cadillac. And what about the perfectly good safari hat left over from the zoo birthday party 15 years ago? Someone might use it. And the puzzles, stuffed animals, discarded backpacks, old dance costumes, VHS tapes, previous bedspreads- what of them? That old lamp without a shade, my grandmother's aprons, a single mitten, the empty picture frame, my husband's lederhosen, lederhosen?- don't they have a say in their futures?

Stuff, my friends, can make a mell of a hess if allowed to hang around too long. Would I let someone live in my house for 5, 10, 15, or 20 years while contributing absolutely nothing and taking up all the room in my closets, bathrooms and cabinets just because I thought they were cute at one time (and no, girls, that is not about you)? I should hope I wouldn't! So why this irrational connection to an accumulation of things that no longer serve a purpose? It defies logic. But that sentimental nymph that sits on my shoulder whispering "keep it, keep it" in my ear has almost always had her way over Mr. Business on the other side. Until now. For there's a great cleaning out a comin' the likes of which has never been seen, at least not at this house. I shall smite this clutter with my mighty arm, and it shall be smote, and it shall remain smit. The smiting began last night as I threw away 27 old hangers, a ripped garment bag, and some outrageously tight capris that hung in my closet since 1998 when they actually fit.

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

buster

Did you say something? Sorry, I couldn't hear you. Maybe because I recently spent three hours in a car with a dog panting in my ear. Three solid hours of panting. And that was just the return trip; ditto for going. It could have been worse. I could have been the one in the back seat with him. Him is Buster. His close friends (all five of us) call him by an assortment of silly names like Bussie, Babeesh, Lil Brudder, or B-a-a-a-a-be. Our neighbors probably have a few select names for him as well, most likely related to his early morning fondness for pooping in any yard other than his own. My guess is you could call him anything that begins with the letter B and he'd probably come, or at least roll his round eyes in your direction, because I'm pretty sure he only recognizes the "buh" sound at the beginning of his name. But then Buster is better known in these parts for his devil-may-care charm and rakish good looks than for his keen intellect. That and his remarkable new-found ability for elite level cross-country panting.

Mr. Buster- America's gentleman, the Boston Terrier. Not one for putting on airs, when nature handed out the clothes to his mother's little pack of bitches and beaus, he opted for an unassuming tuxedo t-shirt rather than the formal black tie attire favored by the Westminster set. But phooey on those dog show snobs, with their "ideal" muzzle lengths, "preferred" toplines, and "required" markings. So what if a fellow is a little spotty, sway backed and flop-eared, or prefers to stand with his head down and feet "splayed." I've always liked my men with a few flaws. If I'd been looking for perfect, I might have questioned why his daddy and momma had conveniently gone for a little ride in the car with someone the very afternoon we drove out to the middle of nowhere to buy him. As it was, he had me from the minute he started chewing on my shoelaces and eating my brand new edition of Martha Stewart Living. And it's been nothing but love ever since. Mostly.

What' not to love about Buster? He does all the things we trained him to do, whether we meant to or not. He comes when he's called if he feels like it. He sits on the third or fourth command. He barks at joggers (who, let's face it, are basically asking for it; sometimes I even feel like barking at joggers.) He returns to his own yard every morning without fail after celebrating another day's successful constitutional on the next door neighbor's lawn with a lively performance of the "poopy dance." He positions himself exactly 3 ft. 8 in. away from the dining table, technically still within the beg zone but not so close as to be in the yell zone. And he can do things he wasn't taught- like gazing poignantly into your eyes for 10 or 15 minutes or however long it takes for you to realize he hasn't been fed yet, or twisting and rolling playfully on his back on the carpet until he gets all that loose hair and pet dander rubbed off. Clever boy. All this in addition to the fact that he can pant like a Big Dog.

Seriously though, but for the fact that he's only a foot tall and, well, a dog, Buster is the ideal man. He'll eat whatever you drop in front of him. Or behind him. You can yell at him and he won't remember it five minutes later. He doesn't know the difference between HGTV and NASCAR. He's always ready for fun, but will stop when you say no. If he hurts you it won't be on purpose, and if you'll let him he'll even lick the wound. Okay, forget that one, but it's true he is a special guy. Just ask the girls who love him.

Speaking of the girls who love him, ever since they've moved out of the house he's been sporting a long face; despite the fact that the AKC says his muzzle should be short and square. His wheezing road trip to the big city to deposit sister #2 in her new digs spelled the end of his good times. No more "pull sock" or long walks with the girls carrying those plastic bags while pretending not to see what he was doing in those swanky Brookhaven yards. No more kisses, Sun Chips, peanut butter, or stolen moments up on the bed. Too much silence, too many empty rooms, too much waiting for the sound of the key in the lock and the slam of the front door that says they're home. I know just how he feels. My face is long these days, too.

Come on, Buster, I think we could both use a walk.

finishing

In 1984 the summer Olympics were held in Los Angeles. I'm sure records were broken, careers were launched, and history was made. I don't remember any of that. What I do remember was the women's marathon that year, and the unusual sight of a woman marathoner staggering into the Olympic stadium far behind the other runners. I recall how the crowd went silent while for several long minutes she painfully, pathetically lurched and stumbled her way through the final lap of the race. Mesmerized, I watched her struggle, marveling at her ability to push her body so far past its human limit, and unable to understand why she did it. If I ever knew it, I have long forgotten her name and where she was from, but I have never forgotten this- she finished the race.

One thing about me you should probably know is that I am not great at finishing things. Ideas constantly ferment in my head; plans form and float in the air above and around me, sometimes even making their way into quasi-reality where they take on the nebulous title of "projects," but these ideas and plans rarely progress to the point of completion. I'm not a good finisher, and this inability to complete things is the bane of my life. For instance? For instance...

• My baby's birth announcement cross-stitch project. Start date: 1983. Estimated time of completion: Well, considering that she's 25 now, I'd say I'll probably finish it somewhere around the 12th... of never.
• Re-covering the breakfast room chairs. We sold the house 9 years ago; the chairs went a few years later. Want to buy some nice plaid fabric? Never been used.
• Throw pillows for the new sofa. The "new" sofa recently celebrated its 8th anniversary and, although we've been a pillow short since the night I imprudently leaned back onto the candle and caught one on fire, it's not looking too promising. How about a handsome paisley print? I'll throw in the braid trim for free.
• Months of Franklin Covey pages. All as clean as the day they were clipped into the binder; some in their original packaging. Sorry, already pitched 'em.
• Wedding gifts undelivered. Is there any kind of statute of limitations on giving presents?
• Miscellaneous failures. Pictures undated, recipes unfiled, magazines unread, rooms undecorated, silver unpolished, mulch unspread, shall I go on?

Bless me, Martha, for I have sinned. I have not deheaded my flowers. My windows are not impeccably clean. I don't keep my gardening tools well-oiled after each use. Some of the dirt in my entry is original to the house. I don't vacuum my carpet in multiple directions to raise the nap. Some weeks I don't vacuum it at all.

But my heart is good, my intentions honorable, and I really want to learn to finish. It's just that the spirit is willing but the flesh, oh the flesh is so weak! What I want to say to you all, though, is please don't head for the parking lot just yet on this one. See that dot on the horizon? It's me, and I'm still running. Well, it's more of a slow shuffle; kind of a walk actually, but I'm still in the race. Cheer for me?

Speaking of finishing, I'm not sure how to end this odd confessional except to say that if you're a champion finisher, good for you! I admire you and probably watch you closely for tips. If you're in the middle of the pack, more power to you and keep on going. If you, like me, are a lagger, jog on over here next to me and let's commiserate. We'll get there one of these days. If not, then those who knew us best will stand by our graves some day and say, "Well, at least they finished something!"

lists

I've never been big on list making. Not that I have anything against lists, I just never really needed them. As a child of the 50's growing up in small-town Texas, life was pretty simple. Ok, it was real simple. We had a party line; our ring was long, short short. We got our mail down at the stamp-sized post office from a box with a little window and a brass knob that had to be turned just so to open. Ours was box 63. I went to piano lessons, to school, and to church, and those were about all the places there were to go. I 'm not complaining, because Salado, Texas, with its rolling hills and flowing creek, was this child's idea of heaven. But that's another story. The point is, our life was simple and my days uncomplicated, and my childhood list would have looked like this:

1. Wake up.
2. Play.
3. Swim in the creek.
4. Watch Popeye.

It's hard to lose your way in a day shaped like that.

Even as a teenager I didn't feel the need to keep lists. Life's rhythm was a slow undulation, day following day in a lazy loop of school and weekend, summer and not summer. No frenetic activity-packed schedule of enrichment opportunities kept me watching the clock or checking a well worn day planner. If I had been into lists, mine probably would have been short ones- a list of books to read, or cute names for the babies I would have in some hazy, indeterminate future. As it was, I managed to muddle through my teens pretty well sans list.

Becoming a young wife brought with it no pressing need for lists, apart from the occasional grocery list scrawled on the back of an old envelope. No siree, married life was one long, lazy picnic, and I was drowsing in the shade with a good book and a nice glass of chardonnay. Until the day I looked up and realized three of those hazy babies were real and had their unwashed hands in my picnic basket. Suddenly I was the lady of a house containing one husband, three children, a cat and a dog. They had needs; they had wants; they had lives with schedules. I began to feel like a one-armed woman in a plate spinning contest. How could I possibly manage this chaos which had furtively appropriated my amiable life?

It was then that I discovered the secret of the list. More accurately, I discovered my friend Jeanne who had discovered the secret of the list. She didn't just keep a list; she had a list system with lists, sub lists, and a Master List of lists. I was amazed! I was inspired! She had devised the perfect organizational regimen. In theory. For one Thursday as I was admiring her snappy little list for the day, I noticed that it was the same length as Wednesday's list. In fact it was Wednesday's list, but with a couple of things added to it. Flipping back, I observed that Tuesday's list had slinked forward onto Wednesday's page, just as Monday's had inched its way onto Tuesday's, until the whole thing had become a big To Do List caterpillar with no discernible beginning and no foreseeable end. Apparently nothing ever got accomplished, it just got promoted!

With that in mind, Jeanne and I developed a philosophy of The List: creating the list is at least as important, if not more important, than the list itself. There is a certain therapeutic benefit to the writing of lists. Lists are just words on paper, but making lists helps one prioritize life and distinguish the difference between what is vital, what is desirable, and what's just not worth worrying about. I've been thinking about those lists lately, and about what's really important in my life. Chaos, which I thought had only come for a visit years ago, apparently felt so comfortable it took up permanent residence in our house. I still have the husband, the cat, and the dog. But my hazy babies are grown. One celebrated her second wedding anniversy just this week. Another will begin her first "grownup" job next month in another city. In a few days the youngest leaves us for college. My days of having these women I love so very much in my house and in my life each day are numbered. So for now I have one very brief list:

1. Cherish the moment.

graphite & wood

I've always had enormous affection for pencils. Even as a grade schooler I enjoyed opening a box of pencils and seeing those smooth, golden sticks of wood-encased graphite patiently waiting their turn to be pulled from the box. Pencils are wonderful really, so utilitarian yet so full of possibility. The original user-friendly instrument, you can chew on them, sharpen them to nubs, play a drum solo with them, use them for back scratchers- they won't care. They live to serve. They will perform the mundane, adding 1 + 1 as many times as you ask with nary a complaint. Yet they will copy Einstein's theory of relativity with equal cheerfulness, and not the least sign of conceit. Pencils are inherently forgiving, offering a helpful eraser for your convenience, and at such personal sacrifice! How willingly the humble pencil stands on its head to serve the hand that holds it. With no will of its own, no possibility of original thought or imagination, it is as limited as the wood and graphite from which it's made. Yet in the hand, its possibilities are limitless. I always see the endless potential in a box of pencils and wonder what story, what poem, what play, song, theorem, cure, enlightenment, inspiration, salvation lies waiting in that paper carton of graphite and wood?