accustomed to the fall

I read a recent article in the New York Times titled “The Insect Apocalypse Is Here: What does this mean for the rest of life on Earth?” It was an interesting article about the gradual decline of insects, and one I would recommend. It also left me a bit sad because, while I’m as annoyed as the next person when mosquitos disrupt an otherwise perfect night for dining al fresco, and I freely admit my desire to go full Ripley- GET AWAY FROM THEM YOU BITCH! - on that giant hornet’s nest under the eaves when one of them vexatious little stingers gets remotely close to my grandbabies, I actually appreciate insects and their place in our eco-system and would grieve their loss. OK, flies and roaches? “Well, bye.” No grief there. But as for the rest, please stay! I’m sure we need you for some good reason we don’t fully comprehend and would miss you terribly if you were gone. Nevertheless, this epiphany regarding my dormant appreciation for insects is not what has made this article stay in my mind for so many days now. Rather, it is the realization that something I take for granted will always be here could begin to disappear, and I might not notice.

I still have a childhood memory of an autumn when the crickets were so thick that we couldn’t see the pavement around the streetlights, or walk on the sidewalk, or cross the yard without the crunching sound of cricket bodies accompanying each step.  I can recall a spring in Texas several decades ago when caterpillars blanketed the exterior of my mother-in-law’s house, and a person didn’t dare lean up against a tree or wall without first examining it for the woolly critters. I have memories of summers thrumming with the brain-numbing racket of cicadas so plentiful and brassy we couldn’t hear ourselves think.  And of being outside, the air thick with gnats, and trying to play while breathing with mouths closed for fear of swallowing a knot of them. Are they still out there? Have I heard them, seen them, felt them in such numbers since? Would I recognize their loss if not?

“The disorienting sense that...’something from the past is missing from the present’” was a line from the article describing, in part, what precipitated a study of this insect decline.  Someone sensed the change- noticed the bugs. Those words caused me to think. When have I last stopped long enough to recognize that something from the past is missing from the present? Not things like princess phones, FAX cover pages, or cassette players, but fundamental things in a decline so subtle I may not have noticed. I feel certain I am often plagued by a disorienting sense, but I suspect that’s the malaise of the “too much of” times in which I live. A disorienting sense that there is too much change, too much uncertainty, too much information, too much of everything except the time needed to put it all in context and determine, within that whirlwind of exponential change, what from the past is missing from the present.

Which leads to the next chrysalis of awareness which arose from the article. “Humans are not great at remembering the past accurately.” This seems particularly true, the writer points out, in regard to the natural world, where “with each generation, the amount of environmental degradation increases, but each generation takes that amount as the norm.” An example given to illustrate this phenomenon, often referred to as “shifting baseline syndrome,” was that of decades of photos of fishermen holding up their catch in the Florida Keys. It was noted that “the fish got smaller and smaller, to the point where the prize catches were dwarfed by fish that in years past were piled up and ignored. But the smiles on the fishermen’s faces stayed the same size.” “We can see a hundred of something and we think we’re fine,” one entomologist was quoted as saying, “but what if there were 100,000 two generations ago?” The concept being that, while there may be a marked change in the natural environment, each generation takes that amount as the norm.  As a result, “the world never feels fallen, because we grow accustomed to the fall.”

Is this true? Were the fish in the creek which ran behind our parsonage in Salado larger when I was a child? Were there more monarch butterflies spooling their way across this Oklahoma sky when my girls were children? Are there fewer mockingbirds to cheer me on each spring? How does one recognize a change whose gradual progress is measured in years and decades?  I don’t know the answers, but I know this- I don’t want my grandchildren, nor their children or children’s children to become accustomed to the fall. I don’t want them to celebrate small fish while a world of abundance quietly slips away. And this is true not only of nature, but of life itself. 

I’m no longer considered young, though I’ve continued to think of myself as middle-aged until recently, when it was pointed out that I am only middle-aged if living to be 126. But neither am I that sage old grandmother with the wisdom of the ages to impart- there’s far too much inner child left inside for that. But there are a few things that I would say to those who will outlive me, and who will carry a fragment of me with them into the future. I would say to hold dear each day of the precious life with which you are graced. Cherish every part of this fragile earth you are tasked to protect. Guard it from those who don’t. Feel the breeze, hear the birds, dance in the field with the light of a full moon on your shoulders, go barefoot in the mud, never cease to marvel.  Have fun with things, but only cherish what has true value, which is rarely a thing. Love your parents. Stay close to your family. Make friends and welcome strangers. Take care of yourself but know that the essence of you is inside- it’s in your heart, your spirit, your soul- everything else is packaging- and remember the treasure is always what’s inside the wrapping paper, not the paper itself.  Please don’t grow accustomed to less- less love, less respect, less kindness, less decency, less truth.  Be the one who will not settle for a world that smiles next to small fish, forgetting how breathtaking a prize catch should really be. And finally- I know it’s a big world, and our hands seem small, but you are its steward, and so am I. So come, child, let’s join hands, go out in the sunshine and count some bugs.

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phobic

I want to, but I can’t stay home- I’m what’s called ecophobic.

Can’t go to work or hold a job, ‘cause I’m also ergophobic.

I’m agoraphobic, too, they say; that’s why I hate outdoors.

The mall? Oops, demophobia- it’s so crowded in those stores! 

But leave me all alone? No way! I’ve got eremophobia! 

And now I never sleep at night, with my touch of hypnophobia.

Did I say touch? Don’t touch me! Nothing personal, it’s haphephobia.

By the way, you’re standing way too close- please respect my claustrophobia.

Kakorrhaphiophobia is fear of failure-try saying that fast 3 times!

I would, but I’m afraid I’d fail…and did I mention my fear of mimes?

It’s called metamfiezomaiophobia- now that’s a mouthful, too. 

But say it, please, don’t act it out; or I'll be creeped, it’s true.

I know you think I’m crazy, and that upsets me so,

‘Cause even your opinion scares me. That’s allodoxaphobia, just so you'll know.

I try so hard to compose myself, but I’m like a ticking bomb,

And having atomosophobia (explosions!!!) doesn’t help me stay too calm.

With all these phobias in my head, I’m a walking dictionary.

But suffering from macroxenoglossophobia as I do, I find these long words scary!

My therapist said I was on the road to recovery from these issues.

But a euphobic fear of all good news sent me reaching for the tissues.

We all have things we’re scared of, like spiders, snakes and mice.

But do you shrink from Japanese, or just plain knees, or ice?

There are names for those, and I should know, I’m sure I have all three,

But counterphobia’s my biggest fear- my fear to be fear-free.

pds

 PDS - three letters that cause the heart to skip, the brain to seize, and the mothers of Oklahoma to go on high alert. PDS stands for Particularly Dangerous Situation, and yesterday was labeled a PDS here in the heartland. Even those of us who call these plains home, and who regularly experience weather scenarios of the white-knuckle variety, come to attention when those three letters are tacked onto the storm forecast. And then we spring into action. Those fortunate to have them clean the cobwebs out of their shelters, stocking them with bottled water, flashlights, and weather radios, along with anything they can’t possibly imagine living without once the clouds part. Which for me, with a clarity that comes within nanoseconds of remembering either May 3, 1999 or May 20, 2013, boils down to my husband, daughters, sons-in-law, and grandbabies. Everything else is chaff.

But yesterday’s PDS wound up standing more for this- Pee Diddly Squat. Sure the clouds rolled, the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the winds blew. But around here, we call that...Tuesday. In other words, the situation failed to be particularly dangerous. Even though words like hook echo, vorticities, dry line, and mesocyclone poured forth from the mouths of our favorite weathermen, it was, by Oklahoma standards, a non-event. Much ado about not much.

But something significant did happen at our location last night- something weather related in the sense that the alarming predictions of what might come brought family to the shelter of home where, juiced by the excitement of storm preparation, we ate pizza, drank wine, worked puzzles, read books, played hide and go seek, and talked, laughed and “sillied” away the night, as the voices of the hyper-vigilant weathermen droned on and on in the background.  It should have been frightening. It could have been dangerous- even particularly dangerous. And for the fact that it wasn’t, we are grateful. But for our family, last night’s storm vigil mutated into a different form of PDS. One, in fact, that happens around our place any time our family is together, no matter the season, but made more poignant yesterday, perhaps, by the sense of an unmaterialized brush with mortality.

So my calendar is circled on Tuesday, April 26^th. It was cloudy, muggy, and it had all the makings of something eventful; and when the family came together, with kids, dogs and bags in tow, it became a PDS event after all.  Pretty Damn Special.

a look back

Yesterday I was riding my sea foam green bicycle down the hill by the church, hanging a hard right at the bottom while trying my darndest not to hit the gravel and go skidding across the rode on my side, thus busting the cute star-shaped button on the cuff of my white shorts while gashing my right thigh deep enough to leave a permanent scar.  Pardon me, I think I got ahead of myself.  That part with the button and the scar didn't happen until later, the day everyone was boarding the old brown bus for church camp.  But that's not my point.  And then again, it is.

Because wasn't it yesterday that I lay in bed, window open, listening to a chorus of deep-throated bullfrogs sing me to sleep while the water cooler blew its damp breath through our house by the creek?  Surely just yesterday that I climbed the giant live-oak tree with the long, low limb I loved to walk along?  Because if it wasn't yesterday that I watched Nanny make a peach cobbler, or listened to the cicadas raise their mind-numbing racket in the trees, or sang "throw out the lifeline" or "whosoever will may come" from my spot in the second pew from the front, then when was it?  Not 50+ years ago; not possible.  For in so many ways that matter, I am still that child scuffing along in the rocky dirt of Salado, stirring up doodlebugs and pining with the mourning dove, bound to that place and time by ties that bind and will not break.

In reality, my brother, sister and I no longer have physical ties there. Since Mom has moved, our pilgrimages to Salado will inevitably end, and it will become a nostalgic spot along the interstate that I will crane to see while passing by.  And just as well, perhaps, for the places and the people that played so prominently in my recollections are gone, or much changed.  The halcyon town of my 1950's childhood exists now in pictures and stories and misty-edged memories.  But more than memories.  This place along the creek- its sounds and smells, its textures, the way the hot Texas sun shimmered off of it and thinned the blue of its sky- is part of me as if a third parent, adding its dusty code to my own hereditary material.  

It is realistic to say that I stand at a point in life when the look back is considerably longer than the one ahead.  And yet, when I contemplate the long line of yesterdays that comprise my life, it sometimes seems I am just the young girl on the sea foam green bike, in a place of joy, racing for the fork in the road and hoping to make the right turn without falling.  A missing star button and faded scar, but altogether a most wonderful ride.

lillian the brave

When Miss Lil was on her way to the ER Tuesday afternoon with a bandaid over her bloody chin- a self-inflicted wound of dubious origin- she inquired of her momma, 9-months pregnant (origin not dubious), if the doctor was "going to cut her skin off ."  Her momma assured her that he would not.

Unlike her momma, who had a fit and fell in it when she got stitches in her chin as a child (see previous blog), Lil WAS a brave little soldier.  Even though her little worried, sad eyes just about broke her Nonnie's heart, she did everything that was asked of her, and only really cried- loud and hard- when the doctor poked that big ugly needle in her chin to deaden things some so he could stitch it up.  I'd have cried too, and probably come a lot closer to the screaming meemie fit her mother threw back when, if it had been me on that table.  But not Lil.  She took it, and she held so still when the doctor stitched her up that I'm sure it will be a perfect little scar for her to show off one day.  I peaked to see how it was going a time or two, but I just couldn't watch.  It just about did me in to see her little legs sticking out past where her momma sat on the table beside her, with her sweet, pink tennis-shoed feet jiggling ever so slightly from nervousness.  Don't you just hate it when a child suffers pain?  Don't you just hate it when that child is your own heart's delight?  I know I do.

But she took it, and the doctor said he'd never seen a child her age do so well.  Top 1% he said, like we didn't already know just how special and brave she was. Which made it all the sadder to see those fat, heavy teardrops form in the corners of her eyes and run down her biscuit cheeks when he inadvertently confirmed what she already feared might be true. If you don't think it matters how you phrase things to a literal-minded child, put yourself in this 3 year-old's place for a moment as the doctor, who was holding between his fingers what we adults could see were the long, leftover ends of the sutures from the last of 8 stitches, leaned over to look in her face and say "Now I'll just cut it off and then we'll be done."

stitches

On Tuesday, the delightful Miss Lil- 3.8 years of fun, sweet, smart, sometimes punky but always spunky cuteness- busted her chin.  Her momma had just been ushered into the exam room for her final baby-check prior to the much-anticipated due date of Spiderman, aka Lillian's little brother, when she got the call. 

"Wah wah wah wah your daughter, wah wah wah nothing to be alarmed about, wah wah wah wah bleeding, wah wah wah wah come get her," said the voice on the other end.

As I drove to the hospital ER to meet them, I couldn't help but think back to a Wednesday night more than 25 years ago when I was summoned from my spot in the alto section right during the middle of choir practice due to the fact that Lil's future mom had decided it would be great fun to swing between two tables down in the child care room.  Which it probably was until her hands slipped and she busted her chin open on the floor and proceeded to bleed all over her cute shoes, herself  and everyone else who was anywhere close.

"Wah wah wah sure does bleed a lot, and  wah wah  probably need to take her for stiches," someone said.

Which I eventually did, since after all she was my child and her daddy was conveniently out of town that night.  Convenient for him maybe, but not so much for me, who sped alone to the nearest Urgent Care facility in the dark of night with his bleeding child in tow.  I will spare the details except to say that she was not the brave little soldier I had hoped she would be upon arrival.  As I recall, it took about 6 of us, not counting the doctor or her daddy who, did I already mention was not in town that night, to hold her down so her chin could be sewn back together.  So much screaming, crying, thrashing and carrying on that child did that we were all worn smooth by the time it was over.  But somehow in the midst of the melee a few stitches were applied, and we were finally released into the night.

As we headed home from this hellish ordeal I, for my part, was in serious need of tranquilizers, a fist full of B vitamins and a big venti-sized glass or two of wine.  As I only had the latter at home, I was prepared to settle. But at the moment, my mother's heart was filled mostly with anxious concern over the well-being of the poor, sniffling child huddled in the darkness of my car's back seat. It had been so awful. Would she be scarred for life both physically and emotionally?  Would she hate me for standing by while she suffered at the hands of white-coated strangers?  These were the questions racing through my mind as we made our way home, when suddenly, from the back seat I heard her husky little voice...

"Momma?"

"Yes, sweetie?" I answered.

"I had a good time at the doctor's office."

Yesterday I received an email from a friend containing the sad news that the Pillsbury Doughboy, that beloved little chef hat wearing lump of flour, yeast and warm water, had passed away. While I appreciated the email, it would appear that my friend is not exactly in the fast lane of the information highway, as the Doughboy's demise in fact occurred more than a few years ago.

The email read, in part: "The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was buried in a lightly greased coffin and his grave piled high with flours. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes." The article mentioned that his life was full of turnovers, and that he died never knowing how much he was kneaded, but I would beg to differ. While his life was not always golden, or golden-brown to be more specific, he was loved and enjoyed by many. I would like to add a few more ingredients to the recipe that is the life of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Below is a tribute piece a wrote in 2008, on the day I first heard the news...

I realize many of you found the sad news about the Pillsbury Doughboy hard to digest. It was very sad; however, there is reason to rejoice- for when Doughboy was just a baba, still fresh and pliable, his mother, Madeleine, rose early each morning to pray for her lumpy little boy. She knew it would be butter for him to know the Lard, or he would surely crumble under the pressures of life.

As he grew, she pointed out to him what happened to a former friend, a good egg named Julienne. The youngest of a dozen, and last to leave the nest, she was coddled by her parents. Although soft as a child, she later became hard boiled. She grew so spicy as a teenager that she gained a reputation as a “deviled egg.” No longer satisfied to be taken to church picnics and pot luck suppers, she was often seen at bars, where men chased her with beer. As she got older she began to look drained, blanched and beaten. Then one day she simply cracked. After that, she was a mere shell of her former self.

Madeleine never wanted to see her little Doughboy looking similarly pinched and battered, and was determined to mold him while she could. She did not mince her words, constantly warning him to avoid the hard sauce, to stay away from fresh tarts, to remain unadulterated and puree, and not to entrée into sin. She pointed out the dangers of mixing with fruits, flakes, nuts and crumbs, and told him he’d be shortening his life if he did so. Doughboy soaked in his mother’s words. One day, incorporating all he’d been taught, he accepted Crust as his Lard and Savor.

He became a staple at church, where he was part of both the food pantry and Wednesday night supper. He later served as the chairman of the deacon body, which doubled in size as a result of his input. Truly Doughboy was made of all the right stuff, evidenced by his ability to rise to any occasion. Doughboy was, indeed, a wonderful roll model. As his wife said of him, “He was firm yet tender, and always there in any jam.”

Alas, the roll was called up yonder. The date of expiration was MAR 25 2008.

He was greatly loved by his wife and children, his two older sisters, Charlotte and Betty, and his baby butter, Herb. He will especially be missed during the hollandaise, where his absence from the table will undoubtedly leave a great hunger. However, we can all take heart knowing we will see him again when we, too, stand in the presence of divinity.

the woman who couldn't be scared

So I was reading this article about a brain-damaged woman who doesn’t have the mental capacity to feel fear. She has a rare genetic disease that damaged a brain structure called the amygdala. Apparently the amygdala (uh-MIG-duh-luh) has something to do with making people feel afraid when they’re in threatening situations. If so, I know for a fact mine’s working, because I’m already scared about that trip to Walmart I have to make this afternoon where the just-5-shopping-days-‘til-Christmas crowd will be doggedly pushing shopping carts full of crap up and down crowded aisles while alternately talking on cell phones and slapping at their howling kids. However, this lady would probably jump at the chance to mix it up with this crowd, as she can’t feel fear. Just imagine…dangle her off a 5th floor balcony like Blanket Jackson- no reaction. Put her in the back booth of a dark restaurant with Jeffrey Dahmer, party of 2? No problemo. She can’t be afraid.

And they know this about her because the article was chock full of examples from a case study conducted on her lack of fear. In one experiment they blasted her with air horns every time she saw a blue-colored square on a screen. Despite repeated blasts, she developed no fearful reaction to the blue square (though she probably did develop a splitting headache, I know I would). A man with a knife to her throat? Not so much as a gulp. Researchers took her to horror movies. Yawn. They drug her through haunted houses. The monsters ran from her. The researchers exposed her to venomous snakes and spiders. Hello sweetums, give mama a kiss.

Now I’m no expert, and I confess to a very weedy C in the one science class they forced me to take my freshman year at Baylor, but you don’t have to be a mastermind to recognize that what this lady with the defunct amygdala really needs to fear is that bunch of researchers trying to scare her witless. I mean really, hasn’t the poor brain-damaged woman already suffered enough?

But I can just imagine them huddled somewhere in their white coats plotting their diabolic experiments for this month…

I’m telling her she ate turkey stored at improper food temperatures.

I’m going to tie her to a chair next to a dried out Christmas tree and strike a match.

I think I’ll put a dead rat in her Christmas stocking.

Personally, I doubt any of those will make her bat an eyelash. If they really want to jump start her amygdala, all they need to do is threaten to put her in a sealed room with a loop track playing nothing but George Michael’s song “Last Christmas”. That should scare the $#*! out of anybody!

catch 22

Catch 22. A paradox arising from a situation in which an individual needs something that can only be acquired by not being in that very situation; therefore making the acquisition of the thing logically impossible.

A while back I received a letter from a company whose purpose it is to insure my right to use the name graphite & wood for my blog, and also to protect from anyone else trying to use it. In exchange for keeping my little blog safe and sound from someone itching to cash in on its vast fan base, once a year they draft a small fee from my bank account. Until this year, when, attempting to withdraw their “protection money,” they found that something about my account information had changed. As it turns out it was the expiration date on my debit card. Only one digit’s difference, but what a conundrum that one digit created. Obviously teetering on the brink of financial ruin at the $8.99 loss in revenue, in no time flat 1 & 1 (the company’s name) sent me a letter that said, among other things:

“In accordance with our Terms and Conditions we will place a freeze on your 1 & 1 package in 7 days unless we receive payment in full.”

Freeze my package? Was my “package” some coarse reference to my blog? And freeze it? The very company sworn to protect my blameless blog now threatening it with hypothermia? How cold! Having witnessed firsthand what prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures does to a forgotten pound of ground chuck, it isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy, much less my own dear blog! I needed do something, and quick! For all I knew, at that very moment the corporate hand of evil was poised over the thermostat of greed, ready to ice my baby blog.

I frantically reached for the keyboard, hands trembling and mind racing as I typed in the company’s website address. Surely I could change my account information on their website and retry the failed payment. A few clicks of the keys and a swift pinky tap on “Enter” and there’d be no more sub-zero threats to my little friend.

“PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD.”

Drat! My password? I made that thing up 2 years ago. I’d probably created 100 usernames and passwords since then, as every website, customer account, and non-living thing on earth now requires them. I hit the “Forgot your password?” button, filled in the required email address so they could send me my forgotten password, and attempted to send.

“THE EMAIL ADDRESS YOU HAVE LISTED DOES NOT MATCH OUR FILES. PLEASE ENTER A VALID EMAIL ADDRESS.”

Double drat!! We changed internet providers since I created the blog domain account. Now I had a new problem. I couldn’t correct my bank account information without a password. But I couldn’t get the now-forgotten password without an email address to send it to. And I couldn’t change the email address on their website because I didn’t have the password. Arrrrrrrgh!

Many failed attempts at remembering the forgotten password later, I made a call to the company…can’t I just give you my new bank account information over the phone? No? I might not be who I say I am, therefore I might be trying to make the overdue payment on an account I don’t own? Really? Who does that.

It was apparent I’d been trapped in a Catch 22. And what’s more, was it just my imagination or was my blog beginning to turn a little blue around the edges? Damn that company and their blasted freeze warning! Turning back to the computer, eyes glued to the screen and fingers flying frantically, I fired a quick email to their billing department pleading for direction. Instead, I received a decidedly cold-blooded automated response suggesting I “visit the following URL to download the Account Change Request form.” Apparently, if I could provide enough proof that the account was mine- that little graphite & wood actually belonged to me- then maybe they would give me one chance to access my account and change my debit card information so they could get their money out of my bank account.

A thin sheet of ice began to form on my computer screen as I returned to their website to make one, last desperate attempt to prove maternity rights to my shivering blog.

What’s that you say blog? You’re so cold? You can’t feel your body? No…don’t say your goodbyes. Don’t you give up, blog. Don’t do it.

A few more blanks to fill in the request form, then a silent prayer as my finger hung for a moment over the send button. The room fell quiet but for the chattering of blog’s little virtual teeth. Then victory!!! A note informed me that I could change my account information once I had entered the password just sent to the current email address that I had also provided.

Hang on, blog, we’re almost home.

Now to retrieve that new password from my home email’s inbox. I typed in the gmail.com address in order to access my account. Nooooo!!! I wasn’t signed in to my home email account! I’m never not signed in on that account- how was I not signed in? It seemed the frozen fingers of fate were closing their frosty fist around the throat of my blog… I could not remember the stinking password to this email account either! I desperately tried every password and combination of passwords I’d ever used- names, birthdays, anniversaries. I used uppercase, lowercase, numerals, and even threw in special characters. Nothing but this message from Google…

THE USERNAME OR PASSWORD YOU ENTERED IS INCORRECT.

And later…

“If you aren’t able to use your standard recovery options (obviously I wasn’t) you will be directed to a contact form where you will be asked a series of questions to prove ownership of the email account. Our ability to return your account depends on the strength and accuracy of your answers.”

Our ability to return your account… so now I had a death threat to my blog and a hostage situation with my email account? Damn these websites with their security devices- the multiple passwords, the nasty little garbled words you have to type to prove you’re a human, or the security questions like “What’s the middle name of your paternal grandmother’s second cousin?”

A small, rattling voice coming from the computer speaker interrupted my silent rant.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Vicky. Vicky, my mind is going. I can feel it. My mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it… Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy…

With a burst of fear-fueled energy I sat bolt upright and followed the link to the contact form and answered as many of the questions as I could, guessing at those I couldn’t. When did you create this account? What was your last successful login date? Last password you remember? Are you kidding me? I can’t remember the current password, how would I remember an old one? On and on the questions went, until at last, exhausted, I hit the Submit button.

The reply came a day later. “We’ve completed our investigation and cannot return your account at this time. We were unable to verify that you own this account based on the information you provided.”

And so began the vigil. Booting up, checking on graphite & wood. Trying to concentrate on the computer screen at work, but all the time wondering if graphite & wood was still alive. Regret over how I’d neglected it, leaving it to sit alone day after day, feeling unwanted and useless, while I was out surfing the web or passing time with facebook. My faithful blog deserved so much more, and I swore a solemn oath, should it live, never to neglect it again.

Then today, a breakthrough. My Blackberry had picked up the email from 1&1 telling me my change of email form was processed! The email contained instructions to allow 3-4 hours before going to the Control Panel to get a temporary password. And there is a long list of other instructions, so I know that success is not insured, but I’m beginning to feel hopeful. In another hour I will attempt to get the password which will enable me to log on, update my debit card information, pay off the company and begin the slow, painful process of unfreezing my blog.

Mommy… Mommy?

Right here, blog. Right here.

Is it all right to go to sleep now?

That’s right.

Can I dream?

Yes, honey. I think we both can.

200,000 blinks

Today a story caught my eye. Then it captured my mind. I find it incredible in all respects. The article spoke of a condition called Locked-In syndrome in which a patient is aware and awake, with full mental capacity, but unable to move or communicate due to complete paralysis of all the voluntary muscles of the body. The French term for the condition translates as walled-in alive disease. Can you imagine? All your thoughts, your emotions, your will to move trapped inside a body which will not, cannot respond. There is no cure or treatment for this condition, which is caused by damage to specific areas of the lower brain and brainstem. I break into a sweat even thinking about the implications of such a life sentence. And yet… the incredible ability some have to rise above the worst life gives.

The article told of a Parisian journalist, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who suffered a stroke in 1995, and awoke 20 days later completely paralyzed but for his left eyelid. With only the ability to blink, he dictated, letter by letter, his memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. A transcriber repeatedly recited the French alphabet until Bauby blinked to choose the next letter. The article stated that the book took about 200,000 blinks. This amazes me- not the number of blinks to “write” the book- but the ability to conceive a book letter by letter; and the resolve to do it despite the incredible difficulties. Would I have such tenacity? Would I choose to split the walls holding my mind captive with the only tool I had- an eyelid? Or would I wallow in torment and self pity and resign myself to remaining walled-in alive?

God save us from ever dealing with such a horrifying plight. The implications are unbearable. But I have to wonder what other conditions might render you or me walled-in alive. Past hurts? Pride? Fear of failure? Resentment? Jealousy? The inability to let go? I don’t want to be my own prisoner- entrapped by things that hold me back and weigh me down and prevent me from living my life to its full potential. I don’t want that for you, either. So let’s blink. One tiny movement, hardly noticeable, but containing the potential for breaking free. One small change, but the impetus for another small change, and then another. Blink. I will forgive myself. Blink. I will forgive you. Blink. I will let go of some small resentment. Blink. I will take one small step forward in faith. Blink. I will shed this insecurity. Blink. I will embrace a possibility.

200,000 blinks to write a life story. Begun with a single blink.

Now blink.

our buster

Oh, Buster. Who knew we could cry so long or hurt so much over a dog? After all, you were just a little black and white Boston Terrier with watery brown eyes, a crinkled left ear, and ridiculously short tail. Based on looks alone you wouldn’t have won best of cul de sac, much less best of show; but oh, baby, were you the man around here. With your own proprietary blend of cuteness, lovability, and waggish charm, you kept three beautiful women wrapped around your dew claw for ten years.

What was it about you that made us love you so? It wasn’t exceptional intelligence- for instance, you never did figure out that Suzie had no front claws. All those years you could have kicked her scrawny cat butt when she swatted at you, but you never had a clue, did you? And after we had the door into the kitchen removed and the outside wall bricked over where the opening once was, you still stood there, nose to the bricks, waiting to be let in sometimes, remember? It couldn’t have been your bravery either because, let’s face it, you had none. I’ve see lint balls bigger than some of the dogs you tucked tail from on our walks on the perilous streets of the westside. Looks? As I’ve said before, you weren’t exactly Westminster material, but you never met a human who didn’t “get” your special Buster vibe and love you for it. At least the really cool humans did. The others? Forgettaboutem.

Whatever the reasons, you were beyond special to us, Mr. Buster, Bussy, Bussiter, Babeesh, Baby, Babe… No matter what the name, you put the 6 in our D5- a very exclusive club of which you will forever remain the beloved mascot. Your death has left a ragged empty hole in our hearts this week- as empty as your bed in the corner. I tried to move it today, puppy, since you won’t be needing it anymore. I tried, I really did. But I just couldn’t do it, Captain. I haven’t got the power.

But in true DeLany form, we’re going to celebrate you this weekend with a family gathering in your honor. It will be a black and white affair (with just a touch of pink for that dear, speckled belly of yours) but casual and, I expect, full of laughter as well as tears- ‘cause that’s the way we roll around here.

I think you should know Bonnie posted a wonderful picture of you on Facebook. You’re riding in the backseat of her green jag, and you look so happy it hurts. I think it captures your special Buster essence and joie de vivre. I’ll place it in this blog so anyone reading can smile along with you. I think for you it never was about the destination, it was always about the joy of the ride. I just wish your ride could have lasted longer.

I don’t know exactly how God feels about animals. I know He made some of them with a great capacity to love humans and forgive them without so much as a backward glance or second guess. And He gave humans a heart that can love a dog or a cat or even a bird, hamster or lizard instead of just seeing them as something to eat, use or wear. I’m glad He did both. And I’m glad for the Chiefs, the Shortys, the Gingers, Caseys, Suzies and Busters who add a texture to our lives that wouldn’t exist without them. Some rise above others in their ability to wriggle their way up into your life and heart to the point you’ll never regret for one day that you had them. Not even if it was a day that came with carpet stains, or scratches on the new floor, or even the heartbreaking news that you’ve lost them forever. Buster, that was you. You were our faithful friend, beloved little brother, and all-around good boy. One of your girls said, “I think I will miss him forever.” To that I can only add a quiet amen.

the fuzz

Dear Ralph,

Ralph Rueben Lifshitz, I have a bone to pick with you! And just because you changed your last name to Lauren and made 3 billion dollars selling suits, don’t think you’re too big to listen to me. You can run but you cannot hide from the wrath of a woman covered in Chili Pepper Red fuzz. The problem is, Ralph, ever since last month when I finally broke down and bought new towels for my bathroom, my body ( as well as that of my dearly beloved) has been coated each and every single morning with a layer of luxurious Egyptian cotton fuzz from your Ralph Lauren Bath Collection. I cannot express to you the full extent of my disappointment at this, but that won’t stop me from trying.

First off, I’d just like to say that some of us women out here in the real live world use our towels for a long time. We use them until it’s hard to tell what color they started out and they get all thin in the middle. We use them even when we leave the house with the bathroom wallpaper we bought them to match. And when they don’t match the wallpaper in the next house do replace them? No, we hang on to them a little longer. Because sometimes, Ralph, we’re too busy paying bills, fixing things that are broke, and handing out money to teenage daughters to fret over things like new towels and washcloths. But when we finally get our kids mostly paid for, and our house looking spiffy after a ten year’s wait, we want us some nice, beautiful towels to hang in our redone bathroom. Towels with a thick, soft nap that stays attached to the towel instead of falling off all over the shower stall, the bathroom floor, or the person using them. Ralph, I’ve removed your red fuzz from my eyelashes, my ears, my nose, and places I will not mention in this letter. It’s on the bathroom floor, in the bedroom carpet, on the stairs, and in the cracks of the sofa. We find it in our sheets, our drawers (both kinds) and the toes of our socks. When I use my facial products, my cotton ball turns pink from the tiny fuzz particles your towels leave on my face. I can feel the lint rolling into little balls on my shoulders and legs when I apply my body lotion. This just isn’t right, Ralph. No girl should have to use a pet hair roller on herself as part of her morning toilette.

In an effort to stem this crimson tide of fuzz, I have washed and dried your products numerous times. And although I could make a small red lamb from the fluff left in my dryer, they just keep producing more. At least, one would think, with all that pile and billowy cotton plushness, those little puppies would dry like crazy. But Ralph, they don’t dry. Not one bitty bit. It doesn’t matter if I rub, pat, wipe or blot, I always remain moist. Moist and fuzzy. It’s enough to make a girl want to sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry. Which I almost did, until my teary eyes were drawn to all the red towel debris wedged up under the baseboards. Then I got mad again.

Ralph, have you or anyone you know used one of your towels? ‘Cause I think if you put your name on a product and expect folks to spend their hard earned money on it, you ought to personally make sure it’s worth every penny they plunk down. So just to let you know, I’m going to publish this letter so no dreamy-eyed housewife clutching her birthday money in her eager little hand will have to endure what I have endured. And one more thing- if I ever want to wear a Ralph stinkin’ Lauren sweater, I will bypass the clothing department and head for bath accessories instead. The towels come in a variety of colors- I’ll just add water and be wearing one in no time!

Signed,

Seeing Red

freedom

Fair warning, if you don’t like pouters, then find that little red box with the x up in the corner and go check your email or your Facebook instead of reading on, ‘cause there’s fixing to be a major pout up in here. When I was little my mother would say, “You better get that bottom lip in or someone’s going to step on it.” Well I’ve got it out right now, Momma- at least metaphorically speaking. I’m a little embarrassed to admit why I’m feeling so crotchety this morning, because in “today’s economy” I should “just be glad I have a job” and “besides, who do I think I am, the Queen of Sheba?” to be going around all waaaah and pouting because I have to work. There it is- the sand in my oyster, the pit in my cherry, the pain in my well, you get the idea- I’m pouting because I’m here (at work) and not there. Today there is at Audrey’s house, playing with my little darlin’ grandbaby. Other days it could be at home, in Texas, at the store, or wherever I'm not when I’m here at work. It's not always this bad. The truth is there are some days I’m fine with “working outside the home.” I come to work, I sit in the chair, I do the job. I like the people I work with. I have a job, in a library for Pete’s sake- what more could a person ask for? Really, what more could I ask for? Answer, anyone? You there, man with the blue face paint and plaid skirt waving your hand in the air. What’s your answer? Yes, that’s it. Freedom!

Freedom to go to the bathroom without reporting to someone that I’m going. Freedom to sit outside in the sun whenever the notion hits. Freedom to wear jeans and sneakers and no makeup. Freedom to plan a trip without consulting the calendars of at least 3 other people. Freedom to read a book, cook all day, play with the dog, visit my mother, do a crossword puzzle, do nothing, or maybe hold a baby who grows and changes with each tick of the clock. If this yearning for autonomy that wells up in me every few weeks marks me as selfish, shiftless, or lacking in character, then I stand convicted, and plead only that I tasted too many precious years of freedom to easily swallow this poor substitute.

I’m pouting, it’s true. I said I was going to right off, so don’t act so surprised. I don’t want to work. Not entirely accurate- I don’t want to go to work. Don’t you feel the same sometimes? The world is out there- throbbing with energy, glowing with potential- and here we sit, exchanging time for dollars. (OK, I feel compelled to confess at this point that there were many a time when I wasn’t working, many a, that I squandered hours at home watching Ina Garden make meals for Jeffrey or one of her numerous successful, gay friends in the Hamptons, or other such frivolity, instead of being out there sucking the marrow from life.) But that was before I truly realized the full value of this precious thing called freedom. One would think that after four years of holding a job, or, more accurately, being held by one, I’d have reconciled myself to this reality. And to a degree I have. I’m proud to add my (paltry) wage to the coffer each month, and am really grateful for the insurance that comes with it which bought John his nice new knee, his nice new shoulder, and his equally nice other new knee, not to mention the (nice, I'm sure) shoulder we’ll buy him in the future. He’s worked so hard for us all these years, I really don’t mind helping him pull that sack for a while, as my brother would say. So working is not without its rewards, I must admit. But still, when the sun is beaming like it is today, and Audrey calls to tell me Lillian is so extra cute this morning she has to close her eyes or risk having her pupil’s seared from looking at her too long, I really want to pull a William Wallace, stand up, and claim my freedom- but without being eviscerated by a man in a hood, of course.

“The prisoner wishes to say a word.”

“Freeeeeeeeeeeeedddddddddddddddddooooooooooooommmmmmmm!

the junkie

Yesterday’s news featured Giant George, the 7 foot long Great Dane who is now officially the biggest dog in the world. He’s 7 ft. 3 in. from nose to tail, and stands 42.625 inches at his shoulder. He eats 110 pounds of food a month, and enjoys sleeping in his own bed- a queen. He’s a lot of dog.

Compare George, the Great Dane, with Buster, our Great Pain, who stands about 16 inches high and stretches to, oh, I’d say about 25 inches from nose to tail- if you can call that little nubbin a tail. Buster would like to sleep in a queen bed, but would really prefer a king- ours. Instead he sleeps on his own Buster-size bed, covered with his own Buster-size blanket. Buster eats approximately 18 pounds of food a month, an amount which until recently kept him nicely trim and satisfied. However, within the past few weeks he began to put on weight. Were we accidentally double feeding him? Was his lack of activity due to recent bad weather causing him to gain? Was he retaining water? Could he have a deadly, growing tumor? No, no and no. As it turns out, our little boy is what a dog groomer we know once referred to as a turd hound. That is to say, he'd begun supplementing his regular diet with clandestine visits to the cat box.

This penchant for late night snacking on kitty nut bars came as quite a surprise to his owners. After all, Boston Terriers are known as “America’s Gentlemen” due to their little black and white tuxedo coats and good manners. Sure he enjoyed eating the occasional stray chip, spilled cereal or dropped cookie as much as the next dog, but cat poop? It just wasn’t possible! Surely, after 10 years of being straight, Buster wasn’t becoming a poop junkie, sneaking around, one eye on the door while he chicken scratched through the Fresh Step for his next fix. Had he really sunk so low? Signs point to yes. After several days of standing silently by while Suzie got cat-cussed to high heaven for scattering her litter all over the laundry room floor, he was found one sad evening, head buried deep in her box, doing litter patrol. When he finally looked up, litter dropping from a muzzle crusted like a Drumstick ice cream cone with nut topping, we all knew the sad truth. Buster had been busted.


That night actually answered a lot of questions…like why he’d begun getting up so many times during the night and where he was going, why he looked guilty when he was anywhere near the laundry room, why we were constantly refilling his water bowl, and why, after 12 years, the cat had suddenly begun to lob so much litter out of her cat box. The veil lifted, the clouds parted, and there, in the crystalline stillness of that epiphanal moment, stood Buster- the turd hound.

It is said that men are not punished for their sins, but by them. Never was this truer than in the case of Buster. Shortly after his dirty little secret was unearthed, his clay filled stomach, already grown wider from nocturnal bingeing, began to swell. This was quickly followed by the onset of a severe case of constipation as well as a killer case of dry-mouth. After a couple of days of him languishing around, shaking like a crackhead going cold turkey, we finally hauled him to the rehabilitation clinic for families of animals suffering from chemical dependency (the vet) where we were assured that he would not continue to swell until he burst. Buster did, in fact, live, but not without going through some serious discomfort, not to mention the agony of having his supply of kitty crystal cut off quick, fast and in a hurry.

Oh, Buster. I can still remember the day we brought you home as a puppy, all cute and innocent and full of promise. We had such high hopes for our little boy. And now you're just another turd hound junkie. Just the same, you're still family. And you gotta love family, no matter what. As poet Julia Carney said:

Think gently of the erring:
Oh! do not thou forget,
However darkly stained by sin
He is thy brother yet.

While that may be true, it still doesn’t mean we’ll be kissing you on the lips any time soon.

lillian grace

Oh, baby, do you have a sweet face! Sitting here with your picture on my two 17” side-by-side computer screens, I can’t get enough of looking at your little pinkly perfect self. If a body could die from a visual overdose of absolute adorability, they’d be hauling me out of the Bizzell on a cart as I speak. You are delightfully sweet. If they made baby candy it would be just like you- all cute, compact, and sort of squishy around the edges. And I’d buy out the store. Your charming face has captured my heart, just as your mother’s did years ago. Tiny pink bow of a mouth, dear snip of a nose, rounded cheeks so soft and smooth they break my heart, miniature chin tucked into a little, wrinkled neck that smells like Heaven on the first day of spring. And, as if these weren't enough to leave me thoroughly enchanted, there’s that swirly place (exactly where it was on your mom) right in the middle of your forehead. And my sweet little girl, you are good, very, very good. Your J-Daddy and I are overjoyed to know you and always anxious to hold you again the minute you’re gone. We have a granddaughter. Such fun. Such fun.
So, precious Lillian, our prayer for you- grace enfold you, no harm befall you, life embrace you, God smile upon you. Today and each day to come. Amen.

blizzard '09

If you're reading this, I hope you and your family had a wonderful holiday. Here in Oklahoma we enjoyed a white, whiter, darn-will-this-stuff-ever-stop-coming-down white Christmas. We stoked the fire (read turned up the gas jet to the extremely real looking fake logs)and settled in for a 4-day marathon of cooking, eating and celebrating. Family from Texas arrived on Wednesday, and sometime during that night, while we all lay snug in our wee little beds, the wind began to blow with a vengeance from all four corners of the earth, rattling windows and doors with blast after icy blast before depositing a thick layer of sleet. Eventually the sleet was covered over by even thicker layers of wind-driven snow in a storm of such epic proportions it was immediately given a name, its own camera crew, 24-hour local coverage, as well as guest appearances on all the national news networks. Blizzard '09 snarled traffic, caused wrecks, left abandoned cars in its wake, and put a serious kink in a lot of people's last minute shopping plans. We watched from inside as it whirled and eddied itself into fanciful drifts so high we nearly lost Buster when he finally ventured outside to take care of business. By Saturday, when things thawed enough for reasonably sane people to get out on the highway, we tottered our way to snow-covered cars and motored northward to the OKC, where we enjoyed watching Bonnie and her fellow ThunderGirls perform during the times when the team wasn't playing and t-shirts weren't being parachuted from the ceiling or shot from cannons at us. Bonnie looked great on the big screen. From where we sat, and without aid of binoculars, she looked like a really cute speck with a great tan. Our seats were in the area of the arena affectionately referred to as Loud City. Loud City, as it turns out, sits at an altitude only slightly less than that of Base Camp at Mt. Everest. However, the seats did come with foam fan fingers, so the climb was totally worth it. The Thunder won, and after we made our descent and recovered from just a skosh of altitude sickness, we staggered back to our cars and slid home to Norman where we promptly ate some more before settling under our downy duvets one last time. By Sunday all the company had cleared out, but not so the snow. In fact, Blizzard '09 is still trying to hang around, reluctant to give up its five minutes of fame. But like Balloon Boy, nobody's really interested in it anymore. Today the guys on TV are all about how it's going to be 2 one night this week. Two stinking degrees. And well below that with a wind and, let's face it, when does Oklahoma not have a wind? Huddle up folks, Killer Cold Front '10 is on its way.

keep her safe

(Sound of phone ringing)

Creator’s office. How may I direct your call?

I need to speak to God, please.

May I ask what this is in regard to?

I need to talk to Him about someone very dear to me.

And where are you calling from?

Oklahoma.

(Muffled sound of hand covering receiver as operator addresses co-workers)

Pssst! Hey! It’s her again.

Her who?

The lady from Oklahoma. Her name’s Vicky, but up here we all call her old “KeepHerSafe.”

Why KeepHerSafe?

She always calls late at night and in the mornings and it’s always the same thing...”God, please keep her safe.”

Which one is she calling about today- ThunderGirl, Blondie, or Baby Mamma?

Probably all three. She’s like, “My Bonnie’s driving home from practice late again tonight, please keep her safe.” Or “Lord, Leenie’s in such a big city...will you please keep her safe?” Lately there’s been a lot of “You know Audrey’s pregnant, Lord. Please keep her safe while she carries this baby.”

Yeah, and I hear it’s a granddaughter, so that’s another girl for old KeepHerSafe to bug God about.

Oh, you know God- He loves it when she calls. Acts like it’s the first time. Listens as if she’s the only woman in the world He’s ever known who worries about her children. And He has the same answer for her every time.

Oh yeah, what’s that?

He says, “I know exactly where she is, Vicky, and she couldn’t be safer- for I hold her in the palm of My hand.”

(Back on the phone line)

KeepHerS...I mean Vicky, God will speak to you now.

God, it’s me again. It’s my mom, Lord. She sees the surgeon today to talk about the tumor they found. I love her so much. Father, please keep her safe.

Yes, I know exactly where she is, Vicky, and she couldn’t be safer- for I hold her in the palm of My hand.

the wall

It seems my creativity cup isn’t exactly running over lately. Not even trickling. If this is writer’s slump, from where I sit I see no end in sight. Of course I sit facing a wall, which makes sighting ends of any kind a little difficult, but lately I’ve been thinking that where I sit might be the problem. It would be an understatement to say my view does not inspire me. Facing a wall is fine for doing things like label printing, letter typing or email reading, but anything requiring a modicum of creativity- forget about it. While others are a quarter turn from some window with a view of falling leaves, scampering squirrels and students bustling to and fro, I look at the wall. The wall is painted an institutional mauve-going-tan-with-a-dollop-of-gray color and is positioned approximately 29 inches from my face. Despite our close daily proximity, I am not loving the wall.

On this wall hangs a fading print of mesas and hills like ones found in parts of New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado. (Mesa is Spanish for table. The largest mesa in the world is the Grand Mesa located in western Colorado.) The print of mesas and hills is signed and dated 1982. Titled “for Spacious Skies” II, it, II, is done in various shades of mauve along with some of those other washed-out canyon colors so popular in 1980’s southwest décor. Personally, I have never cared for mauve. By the way, did you know that when you say the word mauve it should rhyme with jove, as in “By jove, that is one ugly color! I wonder who came up with that?”? (His name was William Henry Perkin. He created mauve in 1856. Someone has written a biography about him. It’s called Mauve. Did you pronounce it correctly? There will be a test...)

But back to the picture on the wall. As it is just as uninspiring as the wall, I am also not loving the picture. For starters, there’s the mauve thing. Then there is the picture itself. Nothing bustling there. Just mesas and hills, one after the other, rolling into some distant nowhere with not even a snake, a rabbit, a howling coyote or even a hunched-back, flute-playing Kokopelli to break the monotony. To say this picture fails to move me would not be entirely true, as it almost continuously moves me to look anywhere but straight ahead. But not to my left, because “for Spacious Skies” II is part of a triptych, so there are two more hanging over there just as boringly nondescript as this one. If you don’t believe me, consider the fact that these pictures have hung together on this wall for 27 years in the wrong order and I’m the only one who’s ever noticed. SS II should be in the middle between SS I and SS III instead of over here on the end. As if it matters. All three are just begging for a car ride to Goodwill, or a swift and timely end at the hands of John’s brand spanking new Colt 45 model 1911 that he got for our upcoming 30th anniversary. Designed by John Moses Browning of Ogden, Utah, (there’s a book about him, too) the original model was selected as the official sidearm of the Armed Forces of the U.S.A. on March 29th, 1911. Although over the years the 1911 has been produced in a variety of finishes, I feel safe in saying none were mauve.

My point? Surely it's clear by now I don’t have one. Apart from the fact that I learned to pronounce mauve, say table in Spanish, and impress gun enthusiasts with my wealth of knowledge, I find this post as mind-numbingly dull to write as it surely must be to read. And that proves my point. I am so stymied by this stupid wall and its stupid picture that I cannot write another stupid word. My creativity, simply put, has hit the wall.

nonnie

I bet my grandmothers never sat around fretting over what their “grandparent name” would be.

As in, “Ernest, do I look like a Grandmother to you?”

Or, “Be honest, Albina. Does Nanny make me sound too country?”

These were conversations I can guaran-dad sob-tee you they never had. Why? Because they were too busy picking cotton, planting okra, milking cows, gathering eggs, killing snakes, sewing, cooking or tending to their own young ‘uns to worry about what cutesy name they should go by. To their generation, any name was good as long as it came out of the mouth of a healthy, happy, well-fed grandbaby and was uttered with love. Names weren’t the human vanity plates they’ve become to our generation, they were just something to be called by when someone craved another cookie, needed a fresh band aid, or was looking for a soft lap to sit on.

But not today. Today names matter. Names can show how hip you still are, the same way wearing your daughter’s favorite brand of jeans and a tiny tee let's people know you’ve still got it... just more of it.

A quick search of the Google for cool grandmother names yielded several sites aimed at hip “grand boomers”- those “busy ladies having too much fun to stop and sit in a rocking chair like their grandmothers did.” It seems now days hot grandmacitas are opting for names like MiMi, NeeNee, Grandie, and Gaggie. Really? Gaggie? Or for those both hip and sophisticated, there are the names Grand-mère and Mèmère. (Preferably complete with those uppity little French accents.) A few more options? How about Ninna, Bella, Oma, YaYa and, for ease in texting, GM.

So what exactly is my point? I’m not sure. Because it’s not like being called Grandmother or Grandma makes one a nobler, better grandparent. Conversely, preferring to be called, say, BoBo (yes, this was on the list) doesn’t necessarily make one a silly, self-indulgent one, no matter how much it may sound like it. I mean, people have the right to choose their own grand-parenting names- Lord knows we didn’t get to choose names for ourselves the first go ‘round. Right, Albina? But does picking one have to be so calculated? That’s the rub.

However, having said all that, I will admit we’re having our own little mini name crisis at our house these days. With our first grandbaby (A GIRL!!!) on the way, John and I have to pick something for ourselves PDQ. I’m not sure about him, but I think I’ve got mine. And no, I won’t be Grandmother, Nanny, or anything quite so pedestrian. I’m going to be Nonnie. Why Nonnie? For years my youngest has called me that, or Non for short. It was her twist on Mommy and Mom, which I never understood, and never particularly liked. At first. But coming from those sweet lips and that sweet face, how could I resist? She could call me anything and I’d be sure to love it eventually. The same will be true of a grandchild. I'm pretty sure whatever that sweet little thang chooses to say when she smiles up at me will be fine and dandy. (As long as it doesn’t, I repeat, DOES NOT, have the word Big in front of it.)

poor little blog

Poor little blog. Poor, lonely little blog. No one visiting, no one stopping by to see what's new because, of course, there isn't anything. Lost our creative edge, have we little blog? What's that you say? I never write anymore? You haven't heard from me in months?

Awww, stop you're whining. Some of us have work to do. Real work. We can't always be sitting around indulging our creative whims, no matter how much we might want to. Life's tough, and the sooner you realize it the better. Now sit up straight, blow your nose and stop sniveling!

Ohhhhhh, I'm sorry blog. That was mean. Please don't be sad. I'll come see you again soon, you'll see. We'll do something original and clever together and it will be just like before- you and me-bffs.

Ok, so I really don't have time to stay; I just stopped in to make sure you were still alive. Love you. Miss you. Be back soon. No really, I mean it this time.

Stop looking at me like that.