Debbie and Her I-Phone 5

Debbie gets her I-Phone 5.

Clearly Debbie is very happy!

It is her first big-deal phone

since she gave up her little flip-phone
which she has had
since she
finally
got rid of her
Princess phone.

The one with the twisty cord
and the pink handset.

Debbie is something of a

technological fossil. 

Still, she is happy!
Envision villagers dancing
peasants rejoicing
and small bluebirds
winging across the sky.

While she's notsomuch
into the disco-hippie
orange case
Debbie knows she will
get used to it.
She's pretty sure.

Then Debbie gets home and realizes she has

no clue how to use her new phone.

Debbie is

clearly

befuddled.

Debbie perseveres

discovering

her sweet little I-Phone 5's ability

to take photos

ROCKS!

She snaps photos

hither and yon

here and there

out and about

all around the town.

For about three days.

When all of sudden

there arose such a clatter....

well not really a clatter....

but she did spring up from her sofa

to figure out what was the matter.

There is a great disturbance in the I-Phone force.

Say it isn't true!!!!!!!!

Debbie can no longer take pictures!!??

Or dowload

anything.

Nope.

Nothing.

Because her phone says

it's storage is full.

Which is weird

because it's a new phone

and she barely knows how to use it...

...could she REALLY

have filled it?

Already??

She visits her Verizon store for answers.

Verizon guys say

Debbie

your storage isn't full

but we can't fix it.

Debbie turns to her online BFF

only to find disturbing news

about her I-Phone 5.

In .44 seconds Debbie finds

over three MILLION

places to visit on the subject of

"My I-Phone says the storage is almost full."

Only to find

a plethora

host

and virtual

stampeding herd

of I-Phone 5 users

are having the same problem.

And the only way to fix it

is to visit the Apple store.

And she'll end up doing this

more

than 

once.

Ohhhhhhh.....

Debbie is not so happy with her decision now.

She goes to sleep thinking

Debbie should have kept her flip phone

Debbie should have kept her flip phone

Debbie should have kept her flip phone

ZZZZZZZ

sniffle

ZZZZZZZZ

snifflev sniffle sniff

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

ZZZZZZZZZZZ

They All Lived to See Another Day

When my first son was small, he dropped his pacifier to the floor.

I quickly picked it up, washed it with soap and hot water and gave it back to him. When my second son was small, he dropped his pacifier. I picked it up, dipped it in my iced tea glass to give it a rinse and gave it back to him. When my daughter was born, she dropped her pacifier. I picked it up, stuck it in my mouth to clean it and gave it back to her.

All three of them lived to see another day.

I once let my toddler daughter crawl into her bed with a face and jammie’s covered in peanut butter. 

She was tired. I was tired.

She lived to see another day.

My son dropped a dish on the kitchen floor when he was around 8 or 9 years old and it shattered.

 He looked at me with eyes wide, worried he was in trouble. There was a pile of dishes on the counter at the time and I just looked at him, swept my arms down the countertop and pushed every single one of them onto the floor ~ where most of them shattered into pieces, next to the dish he broke. And I just grinned at him and laughed. “Dishes don’t matter, we can always get new dishes. Accidents happen.” We never, ever ran out of dishes. But my son grew up and eventually, I ran out of time living at home with him as his mama.

We swept up the broken glass and laughed that day.

We lived to see another day.

I sent one of my sons to the first day of Kindergarten with his shoes on the wrong feet.

We didn’t notice it until years later when someone pointed it out in the “first day of school” picture we posted during his graduation party. 

He lived to see another day.

And nope, he doesn’t even walk funny.

I did lie to my kids about one thing when they were growing up.

When we drove by a summer pond full of cows cooling themselves in the water, I told them those cows had no legs and every morning a kind farmer brought a crane out and lowered them, one at a time into the water to float for the day. Of course, my kids figured out those cows had legs. 

We still called them floaters when we saw them.

And they all lived to see another day. 

When my three kids were really little, we once spent the entire day together in the bedroom, on the bed in our pajamas, watching TV and eating popcorn.

When it got dark, we just pulled up the blankets and went to sleep in a bed that was kind of full of kernels. I’m pretty sure a random cat or two were snoring in there, too.  It was the only room with air conditioning. It was hot out. We slept like rocks that night.

They all lived to see another day. 

She had a lunch box, but more than once I sent my daughter to school with lunch in a brown paper bag. The sandwich was shaped like a sandwich. The potato chips had salt on them.

The Oreos were double-stuffed.

She thrived and grew.

She lived to see another day.

My kids went to half-day Kindergarten and didn’t learn to read until long after Mrs. Ihde introduced them to The Letter People. They all read just fine now.

They all lived to see another day.

My children will tell you they got spit baths on the way into church many Sundays. I dispute this twisted reporting of family history but it’s three against one. 

One fact remains: 

They all lived to see another day.

When I was a busy mom, if I mopped the kitchen floor once a month, I was doing good. There were usually baskets of unfolded laundry sitting around. Our cats favorite place to sleep in the afternoon sun was on the kitchen table, right about where the main dish would sit a few hours later during supper. The toilet paper roll was usually empty.

No one except mom seemed to understand the mechanics of it. 

We cheered the big fish they caught even though Dad sprained his ankle running to help reel it in, camped out in woods during a thunderstorm even though our sleeping bags got ruined and stayed up late to watch Dr. Who with them even though we were really, really tired. 

They grew up wayyyy faster than we ever wished.

And they all lived to see another day.

Through the years, my kids came home with pockets full of rocks, random bugs, naked lady playing cards and baby bunnies. On bulk trash day they came home with cracked hamster habitats, old televisions, aquariums and cement lions from the neighbors curbs. Into our autumn front yard they dumped bags of leaves to make a big pile to hide in, after raking up all the neighbors yards.

"Weren’t they so nice to let us do that, mom?”

They played in mud puddles, caught earthworms on rainy nights and sold them from the back porch, kissed our dogs, dressed up our cats and ate the occasional sandwich smeared with full-on-fat mayonnaise that was a week past the expiration date.  

I should have checked expiration dates more often.

I could and probably should have used more Lysol.

I definitely could have spent more time sweeping.

I could’ve stayed up just a little later to sort all those socks, too..

I didn’t. I was pretty lazy.

Honestly, it was just more fun to hang out and not take life too seriously.

Guess what?

The coolest thing happened. 

They all lived to see another day. 

Forgiveness Heals.

New Road. Different Bumps.

Feel free not to answer

he said

but do you mind me asking

would you ever get married again?

We're dear friends.

Like,

the best ever.

Have been for years.

We've rolled up and down

plenty of lifes hills

on parallel roads.

Would you?

After all those years

and after all these years alone

knowing what you know now

would you?

Oh heck yeah.

I didn't even have to think

about my answer.

Absolutely.

My sweet daughter

who is also a dear friend

and of the 

sworn-never-to-marry mind

expressed incredulity

when I told her the same thing?

WHAT?

You would?

Even after going through a divorce

and all the tough stuff 

you've been through?

People change, mom.

You know you can't ever predict

how people change.

You'd do it again?

And then she thought about it for a minute.

Her older and wiser thought process

kicking into gear.

Or is it because you feel like

you've learned some things

along the way.

Yep.

That's it.

And yeah

to my lifelong buddy

the one who is less-than-happy

and occasionally envies me just a bit

in my aloneness

even as I occasionally

envy him a bit

in his marriedness.

I'd do it again.

In a heart beat.

Because I've learned some things.

About me.

About life.

About others.

I'm older.

Wiser.

I've learned a few lessons.

Tough ones.

My ex-husband and I
were together for over 25 years.

We remain great friends.

He's been happily remarried

for many years.

I liked being married.
I'm ok single.

But everything is just better
when you share it with someone
you love.

Again?
Oh yes.
In a heartbeat.

The Coveted Medallion

The meticulous and oft-tedious nature

of sorting through a lifetime of another persons stuff

will grey the hair and melt the shoes right off

the most determined

most organized

most prepared.

Guaranteed.

Perhaps your parents

unlike ours

realized they would not live forever.

Perhaps they sorted through their own

accumulations

and lightened up their lives

so you wouldn't have to do it after they were gone.

Not mine.

No, the only way I can make sense of the 

flotsam and lifetime of accumulation my parents left

to be addressed by my sisters and myself

is to believe they just figured

they were never going to die.

In which case

someday, yes

they would have possibly needed those 85 baby food jars again.

They'd wear the faded, threadbare short-sleeve shirts again;

or the flannel ones with the elbows worn through;

the ones still brilliant in color on one pocket

because the vinyl pocket-protector

did...well....

exactly that.

Orange plaid is still

after all those years

and just on that one pocket,

orange plaid. 

If your parents were pack rats

and mine were among the pack rattiest of them all

(so I know something of which I speak)

you will find beyond the grief of their passing

challenges

which will

at various times

If you're anything like me

the wonder and mystery of

diving into the closets and drawers

and garage attics

of people you thought you knew so well

will very quickly find you calling your local

dumpster guy

and having him deliver 

the biggest empty box 

he can fit into the driveway.

And you'll fill it.

Three times, maybe.

You'll fill it

with all that wonder

and mystery

and those fabric napkins, too..

(the ones with the big cherries on them)

still in their plastic packages

from when your mom purchased them

in 19-something-or-other

for a special occasion

that apparently never happened.

It'll all be piled there under the old lamps with rotted cords

the sixty-three pairs of black socks

all alike

and woven picnic baskets

non-working vaporizers

and half-used jars of Icy Hot.

If old issues of

Good Housekeeping and 

Readers Digest and

Family Circle and

the Farmers Almanac

were worth a nickel

on EBay

you'd be planning an exotic vacation.

But they're not.

So you'll likely just be dreaming

of the day the dumpster is filled

for the last time

and vacation will simply be

never having to look at any of the stuff

again.

When it's finished

it's a big day.

A very big day.

Ice cream

or your particular vice of choice

will be

on this day

entirely appropriate.

Then comes the paperwork.

If you're lucky

like me

you'll have a sister

who dives in

elbows deep

and takes responsibility

to make sure all the

i's are dotted

and t's are crossed.

She'll call you

and tell you 

we must all meet at the bank

and we must all sign papers.

Important papers.

They'll tell you

papers of this sort require

more than a notary.

They require something

called

a medallion guarantee.

We've never heard of this before

but visions of such important

medallion kind of things

will dance in our heads.

A medallion, huh? 

Shiny?

Sort of Presidential.

Ohhh, we'll feel so important!!!!

Great Job! In Gold!

Well heck yeah,

plowing through 60 years of accumulated stuff??

I'd call that a GREAT JOB!!!!

We've EARNED the medallion!!!

Sounds fancy!

Frankly, we couldn't wait to see it.

It seemed sort of appropriate

the piles of paperwork

endless phone calls

dotting ALL those i's

and crossing ALL those t's

would end up being the

yellow brick road

that led us to our reward,

this elusive medallion.

So.

You can imagine

our collective disappointment when

all lined up

like dutiful little chipmunks

across the desk

from

The Important Bank Person

that she pulls from her desk

a little ink stamp

like something your

librarian

might have used to check out books

back in the day.

No gold.

No glitter.

Green ink.

Not shiny.

No GREAT JOB, LADIES!

Not even

a little hurrah.

The Medallion Guarantee

turns out to be

a very important exercise

but very

unexciting.

Kind of like

the fourth week

of hauling your folks

hoarded mysteries

to the dumpster.

Life Events Stress

It's been stressful. Mildly.

You know how it is.

Life happens.

Sometimes it happens fun and sometimes it happens not-so-fun.

But my house didn't collapse under a mudslide after an earthquake.

Neither did my family disappear in the brilliant explosion of a terrorist bomb.

My business wasn't looted by thugs during an uprising.

I'm not worried about being dragged from my home in the night by rebels.

I've never had reason for a chemo needle.

Life is

by most of the worlds standards

very

very good.

I have access to clean water.

I've never gone hungry for lack of food.

I can carry my Bible and read it anywhere, any time I please.

I take walks along safe sidewalks around pretty parks and lakes.

My kids are all healthy, happy and gainfully employed.

My grandchildren are brilliant sparks of possibilities, kindness and talent.

There is music.

There are good books.

And I have a long list of friends

who reach out to me when I need them.

So it is with clear perspective I even agreed to take the Life Events stress test 

suggested to me by a friend.

"You've been through some stuff...."

"Well who hasn't. I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. You're always fine. But I'm worried about you anyway."

So I took the test.

Because I love my friends and I know they love me.

The test is a run down of a whole bunch of life events....not necessarily negative events, either....but events which are purported to have an effect on the level of stress a person is bearing....and how that level of stress may be correlated to the possibility of serious illness.

It is by no means an indication of surety

rather one of those little tools

which can be effectively used

as Oprah would say

for perhaps

an Ahhh-Haaa moment.

Well.

I have no health insurance.

That's one heck of an ahhh-haaa right there.

I guess, if for no other reason, I should at least see whether the 

statisticians think I'm going to stroke before Christmas.

It's the debilitating genetic gift of choice.

My people end up in hospitals

with half their face not working.

We're still quite loveable.

We just don't talk well at the end.

Which, if you know me

is going to be a serious problem.

So I took the test.

There are just a little under a zillion life events listed.

Loss of Spouse?

Fired From Job?

Serious Illness?

Time Spent in Jail?

And to each life event is attributed a point value.

I skated through on the events hovering around drug addiction and incarceration.

Feeling pretty confident, having never been fired from a job.

But then I hit MY life events

and my points started to add up.

Rather than detail it all out 

in all it's yawn-worthy glory

I'll just say my test

looks a little something like this.

I'm not that brunette anymore

other than in my memories

and old photos.

But those are sort of my shoulders.

And just a few of my life events.

Here's how it all adds up.

There you have it.

Apparently I've got one foot down in the ground

for a dirt nap.

Stay tuned.

If my posts all of a sudden stop.

And you see a sickly-sweet smelling

bouquet of gladiolas appear in the 

header of my page.

And you hear my kids arguing about

who gets my Buzz Lightyear lamp.

Well.

I guess I'd suggest you

take the test

and figure out how to get rid of all the stress.

Or I'll save a seat for ya up there

and we can finally relax and just sit back and chat about it all.

I'll be the one with a bottle of Baileys

a glass of ice

and a straw.

And I'll be laughing and grinning

thinking back

and telling everyone

I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Worth the Wait

Therapy.

 

Spring break

offered hours and hours

of unscheduled time

for projects in process

presently focused

on the forthcoming

critter-theme show

at a favorite

grooming shop.

 

While their business

revolves primarily

around dogs

and I'm working on

doggy pieces

today my mind is on my cat

who ate my bird this week

and is sitting

highly precariously

on the cliff of my heart.

You might say she is

balancing there

in a most miraculous way.

 

I loved that little bird.

I cried when I found

the little clump

of yellow feathers

one skinny leg

and a teeny tiny

beak

on

the dining room floor.

 

Of course

Chuck

guardian of my bedside nights

is not talking.

 

 

I get it. He's no snitch.

So I'm just

choosing

to move on.

 

 

Color and getting messy

always helps me feel better.

Throwing around

materials

and slopping them

with glue

and paint

and momentary

odd choices

in media

is more than my

chosen form of

therapy.

 

It's the only therapy that works for me

dialing my soul back

to a happy place

and reminding me

it's all about the moment.

 

Not yesterday.

Not tomorrow.

The moment. 

 

 

Works in progress.

You'll notice

maybe

some spaces

still drying.

 

Over my little

break yogurt

I'm smiling

maybe actually

laughing a bit

at how much

I think my mom

would like

the colors

and the use of her fabric

and the reckless abandon

with which

I've buried

her neatly-appointed

sort of French-country

living room

in

creative debris.

And I'm feeling better.
Not perfect.
And I honestly
really
truly
don't like this cat.

But I'm better.


Coincidences.



Three Seasons.

 

 

Love never gives up

never loses faith

 is always hopeful

and endures

 through every circumstance.

 

I Corinthians 13:7

Ratty Old Blankets

You might not guess it

but these

are my people.

 

They show up in

trucks and cars

on weekend mornings

from spring through fall

rain or shine

to sign in for a

bidding number

and position themselves

before the auctioneer

begins to call the sale.

 

 

I love

estate auctions

where you can find

anything from a nested set

of metal measuring cups

to a cardboard box

full of old Tinkertoys.

 

I'm nearer the

having-my-own-estate auction

stage of life

these days

but

many many fine weekends

in years gone by

I stood in rain

slogged through mud

baked in the sunshine

and squinted my eyes

against blowing dust

waiting

for the auctioneer

to get to things

which caught my eye.

 

I like old stuff.

I like used stuff.

I like stuff that had a life

before it met me.

Old stuff can tell you a story

if you listen really carefully.

 

I bought this ratty

quilt at an estate auction

maybe thirty years ago.

 

 

It was tucked into a stack

of unremarkable but cozy-warm, fun blankets

and was pretty much in perfect condition.

I bought the whole stack for five bucks

on a cold and rainy day in

rural Illinois.

 

My kids slept under the cozy-warms

we wrapped up in them

on winter nights

in front of the woodburning stove.

They served us well.

 

My quilt

full of memories.

 

 

 Beautifully

exquisitely

worn threadbare

through years and years

of storytelling.

 

 

It's old and ratty now.

Hand-stitched on white

with so much care

by someone whose name

I've never known.

 

Finally

it's reached that perfect stage

something along the line

of the Skin Horse

who was loved so much

his fur rubbed off.

 

I adore ratty blankets

because they wrap you

in a story.

I think being wrapped

in a ratty old blanket

with a story

is the perfect way

to fall into

a really lovely sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 



Praise As Acceptance

 

When I was a teenager

I bought a little

paperback book

that changed my life.

 

I read it over and over

underlining passages

and highlighting points.

 

Somewhere along the way

of raising a family

and all the frenetic

activities clustered

around the project of

growing older

the little book was lost.

 

I found it on Amazon

this month

and ordered a used copy.

 

I've been digesting it

like the finest of meals.

It's texture and flavor

so familiar

even after

all these years.

 

The meat of it

still so very satisfying

in reminding me

God has a plan

and he hasn't forgotten me

and he always keeps his promises

and I'm not alone

in these things

over which I trouble

and worry

and wonder.

 

Thankful I live in a

technological world

where amazing things

like ordering a favorite book

( a dear old friend}

can be done in a few

short minutes

in an evening

and be delivered to my

front door

days later.

 

For a couple bucks plus shipping.

Awesome!

 

Thank you, God.

For this little book

which speaks to my soul

in such a personal way

at a time when I

really really

need it.

 



Bailey's Bargain

Well now.

This is sad.

Just plain sad.

 

All those dang Irish

early-birds

got to the

Bailey's-on-sale

before I even

knew

there was a price

worth dancin' for.

 

NOT to be deterred

I drove all over town

to three different

grocery stores

and to Walgreens

asking them to price

match.

 

Which they would not.

Whaaaaaaaat?????

Doesn't EVERYONE

price match?

 

Apparently not.

 

Finally found my sale bottles

after likely

eating up the entire

amount saved

in gas.

 

Whatever.

 

I can justify it.

NOT because I like

a little taste of

Irish Crèam

now and then.

 

Ohh no.

My bottles have an important mission

every morning.

 

I use them to hold my pita pockets

after they come out of the toaster

steaming hot

so they'll

cool and crisp

into a

sweet little pocket.

 

 

Into which

I neatly tuck

my morning

egg salad.

Sometimes

stuffed up

with spinach leaves

too.

 

Mmmmmm.

Mmmmmm.

 

The second bottle?

Well.

I do like a little taste y'know.

Just a sippy bit of a taste.

Every now and then.

Not necessarily

in the morning.

 

 

 



Trusting Our Instincts

 

I knew so many things

when I was younger.

I just knew them.

 

But I didn't trust

what I knew.

 

My instincts hadn't

been tested yet.

I wasn't sure

of my inner voice.

 

I had yet to learn

to listen

and trust it.

 

 

One of the gifts

of experience;

of climbed mountains

and stormy seas

navigated.

Of getting wet

but not drowning;

growing weary

but not giving up.

 

The gift of just knowing.

And trusting what it is

you just know.

 

Trusting it enough

to do

and to say

and to believe

and to act

and to prepare

because

you just know.