As I See It

Doing My Job Without A Home

2009-11-12T13:35:00.001-08:00

I was never promised an office...a new camera, yes, and a new computer, but never an office.
There is a lot to be said for each employee having at least a small space to call ‘home’. A place for personal effects...a comb, a tube of lipstick...whatever you might need before rushing off to the next appointment. Maybe a photo or two of kids and grandkids...anything homey to make you feel less ‘out there’ and still connected to your primary residence. All this takes having your own space to place these things in...say just a cubicle...or even a cardtable in a corner somewhere.
Well, I have no place to hang a hat...good thing they are out of style!
I have taken up an attitude of kinship with the old western writer, Louis L’Amour...who said he could write with a typewriter on his lap sitting in the middle of Sunset Blvd.
So why am I whining? Actually, I’m not...
I love my job...can you believe it is possible to even say that phrase with an ounce of sincerity? I do!...I love my job. Everyday is exciting...something new. I’m still holding my breath...afraid that someone will discover that there is an employee out there that is actually having a great time doing her job...and fire her! (“We can’t have people actually liking what they do! Never heard of such a thing!...can’t let that get out around town...fire her!”)
Now, maybe everyday is exciting because I’m over 50 and have to relearn where everything is everyday...as in “where did I put that on the hard drive”?
Or, maybe the excitement comes from having the best of both worlds. After working full time for some years I now get to clock out and go home at noon everyday. I am actually cleaning out my cupboards and home has become a place that I truly enjoy now that it is becoming neat and orderly.
Whatever. All that to say this:
I don’t have to have a cubicle or a hatrack. The end of the boardroom -sized table that serves my needs each morning is just fine! And I have the added blessing of putting everything back in my briefcase and leaving an uncluttered table to return to the next day. No messy desk glaring at me first thing every morning! Maybe that in itself gives everyday a fresh start with a great attitude! (Whispering: I love my job!)
(2000)

December's Pure Joy

2009-11-12T13:31:00.001-08:00

My husband and I just returned from Hatfield Park. It’s a quiet little park nestled beside a pond in rural Oklahoma. This morning the park was even quieter than usual due to the snow, which had fallen throughout the night. There are now four inches of that wonderful stuff piled up outdoors. As I sit in my cozy recliner, with a view of our snowy backyard, I begin re-living my morning experience at the park.
As we made preparations to take the dogs for a run at the park, I tucked a black plastic trash bag “sled” into my pocket, and we headed out to our 4-WD vehicle. On the road to the park I received a professor/lawyer lecture from my husband (# 499 in the ongoing series) about the risks involved in not being certain of what is under the snow, especially when it is just a black plastic trash bag separating me from the earth.
(I wonder if there happens to be a university somewhere that gives out honorary degrees to professor’s wives with attentive listening skills? Possibly some sort of a “BS” degree?)

We arrived at the park, I began climbing a steep hill that was just perfect for sledding. Being a grandmother (in my 50’s) I was a bit awkward. This used to be much easier! Hoping to scout out the path I would soon travel down, I used my Nike’s as “bump detectors” and made my way to the top of the hill.

I sat down on my “sled”, and then it happened. Pure joy! I slid my way down through some sort of midlife star gate. When I reached the bottom of the hill it was as if my whole world changed from black and white to color, and I felt totally alive. I don’t believe that would have happened if I had been on a real sled, or a saucer, protecting me from feeling the earth beneath me.
My thirst to repeat the experience kept me climbing up that hill several more times. Two of those times, my scruffy dog, Jake, rode down the hill on top of me.
Jake is my inspiration for cutting loose and enjoying, with pure abandon, whatever is occurring at the present moment. Living in town without a fenced yard Jake stays tied up most of the time. When he does get turned loose he is ecstatic. His joy is boundless, and he runs non-stop.

I stay “tied up” most of the time also - my fenceless yard being grown-up responsibilities. These consume my days, and sometimes my evenings, leaving me numbed and exhausted and falling into bed early so that I can get up the next morning and do the same thing all over again, but not today. Today I stood on the top of a snowy hill and called to my inner child to come out and play.

(2001)

Whistling Gophers

2009-11-12T13:27:00.001-08:00

My husband just got back from the coffee shop - our local source of important information. He must have been talking about new cars again. A buddy told him to watch out for the "whistling gophers". Now that term may not be new to you - but it sure was to us.

It goes like this: you are at the car dealership and you ask, "How much does it go for?" Then you whistle!

That started me thinking about how many whistling gophers there have been at our house in this past year.

“How much does that new roof go for?” Whistle.

“How much for the new transmission for the Volkswagen?” Whistle.

You get the idea - you have your own list of whistling gophers.

So what can we do about whistling gophers? Not much.

They seem to come in three categories though - maybe it helps to define them. Some are on a “got-to-have” list. Others are just on a “want-to-have” list. The tricky list is the “can-be-put-off” list. Those are the ones that usually surprise you when you least expect it. At our house we tend to gravitate toward the “got-to-have” list. That seems to keep life relatively easier to handle financially.

The “want-to-have” list is usually full of things that I can loose the intense desire for, if I stop thinking about it. The trick is to really stop thinking about it! The old Quakers had it right. “Tell me what thee thinks thee needs, and I will tell thee how to live without it”. Sounds like sage advice to me, and I’m sure my husband would approve of this new line if reasoning.

Body Language

2009-11-12T13:26:00.001-08:00

The main characters in some of the greatest movies of all time use body language to powerfully dramatize an attitude of acceptance.

Julie Andrews, face aglow and whirling around on an open meadow, stretches her arms out wide and begins singing at the top of her lungs: “the hills are alive with the sound of music”…(movie scene fades away).

A young Civil War officer, badly wounded, sits astride a beautiful horse. Opening his arms wide, and asking forgiveness of the Almighty, he sends his horse running, one last time, across the front line of the enemy…challenging them to end his life.

A young man lifts his female companion up and steadies her as she clings to the railing of the ships bow in front of her. Her eyes are closed. He encourages her to let go and open her arms wide, and then open her eyes. She finds herself high above the ocean surface, nothing else in view, not even the ocean liner beneath her. She smiles and accepts the full impact of all that her senses are absorbing.

A Russian Jew, in the throws of an oppressive regime, standing in his barn, flings his arms wide open and begins to dance and sing about what he would do if he were rich.

One more. The scene is modern day New York. A shopkeeper is closing the front door of her empty store for the last time, the same store where she spent many happy childhood hours with her mother who is now deceased. As she looks one last time into the empty room she catches a vision of the past. Her mother is holding her under the arms and twirling ‘round and ‘round.

All scenes from movies and not real life - or are they? Maybe I should rephrase that to ask, “or can they be?”

We can “body language” ourselves through life on this planet in one of two ways. We can fold our arms across our chests and live a closed-off life. Or we can choose to open our arms wide - embracing life, and our fellow man, with an acceptance that encircles the globe.

My Grandpa

2009-11-12T13:25:00.000-08:00

The man I remember…
He was gentle, strong and manly
He had a tenderness that increased with age
He enjoyed a good joke and laughed easily
Careful in money matters and conscientious toward any debt
He was an honest man and sensitive, easily hurt.

He was a fair man
He shared in grandma’s household duties
And thoroughly enjoyed his garden and yard.
Because of illness, diminished strength and sufficiency
He found the last years a struggle
His faith was quiet but true
A meal was never received in his home without his:
“Father, it is again we come to thee with thankful hearts…”

“A thankful heart that is what you have left me, grandpa…”
The memory of the just is blessed indeed.

Sassy, The Vegetarian Cat

2009-11-12T13:24:00.001-08:00

I am having a disagreement with my calico cat, Sassy, about our new diet. Today marks the first anniversary of my semi-vegetarian diet. And my cat has horrified me for the very last time with her gift of a dead songbird at our front door. She has been put on notice that she is also now a vegetarian – an indoor cat.

I was holding her in my arms when I shared this piece of information with her and she immediately hissed loudly at me. Honest, you can ask my husband, Randy! Then she jumped down and trotted off, in her little white pantaloons, with her tail just a flicking.

So much for the bonding relationship that I thought we were working on together!

The other family member who is loosely associated with my lifestyle change, of course, is Randy. He understands that “going veggie” was a personal choice for me and that I will prepare anything for him that he chooses to eat. He seems to like this arrangement. I mean who wouldn’t. Most of the time I used to fix whatever I was hungry for and make him eat it too. Now he gets to choose for himself - everyday!

The argument going around on the Internet is whether or not “semi” vegetarian is actually a vegetarian diet at all. I eat absolutely no beef. I have, over the past year eaten some chicken and pork, but now I am “fish only” – two or three servings a week and in the past year one third of my days were totally vegetarian – no fish or meat at all.

Who cares what someone else on the Internet thinks about that? Not me. I feel great and this works for me. Is my diet healthier? Sort of, but now comes the hard part – limiting sugar and “carbs”. To be truly healthier I have a alot of extra weight to loose.

I hereby give you permission to shake your finger at me if you see me standing in the checkout line at Alva’s Market or Wal-Mart with candy in my basket. Seriously! If I argue back and tell you that the candy is for my grandkids – don’t believe me. They live in Stillwater. (It’s just the sugar talking!) This is war, and my cat has turned against me, I need a friendly army on my side!

Grandma's Rolling Pin

2009-11-12T13:22:00.002-08:00

In the process of making homemade chicken and noodles for my husband Randy, the thought occurred to me that my rolling pin would outlast me – as it did my grandmother. I guess my mind traveled to that conclusion because I was using her rolling pin to roll out the noodles.

My grandmother has been gone for many years now and I thoroughly enjoy using her old rolling pin and remembering what she did with it. I can hold this treasured piece of wood in my hands, but never again will I taste the wonderful noodles, cookies, pies, and other goodies that she made, with the help of this treasured rolling pin.

I come from a family of cooks who have used their cooking and baking skills in many ways. There is my brother who, for a time, worked as a chef in Seattle and Los Angeles. Also my sister, in Alaska, who managed the lunch counter at a large health food store and enjoyed playing with recipes for the vegetarian palate.

My mother often cooked Sunday dinners for company after church. Or spent a whole afternoon making homemade cinnamon rolls, and dinner rolls. She also made the best jams in the world, to go on those luscious dinner rolls - raspberry jam, and frozen strawberry jam. Yum! And, for a time, her pies sold in a small café on the main highway between Bothell and Everett, Washington, just north of Seattle.

My dad had a flair for creating an awesome sweet barbeque sauce from scratch. Chicken off the grill takes on a whole new flavor with this sauce. The family finally convinced him to write down the recipe. I can still see him standing at the kitchen counter, sometime in the 1950’s, measuring each ingredient, for the first time, so we could reproduce what he was able to just throw together. We still use his recipe to this day. Even Randy, who does not easily move toward a new taste, became a convert after we were married.

Speaking of Randy, he makes the best homemade chili I’ve ever tasted. He tosses in some fresh veggies near the end of the cooking time so you have the crunch of diced celery, onions and green peppers, as well as the warmth and goodness of the chili, in every bite. Doesn’t that sound great during this cold snap we’ve been experiencing?

So where do I fit in this creative group? I love to bake pies. It warmed my heart, a few years ago, to have my youngest son ask me to teach his bride how to make cherry pies. My grandmothers, on both sides of my family, left me a pie-baking legacy that I feel honor bound to continue into the next generation of our family. And that always brings me back to my grandmother’s rolling pin.

You Say Tomato, I Say Tomahto

2009-11-12T13:22:00.001-08:00

Some stories from our past deserve a retelling. At least that is how I feel about something that happened to me many years ago here at our local grocery store on Flynn Street.

Guys used to call a good-looking girl a “tomato”. Remember those days? Slang terms have changed many times over the years but most folks still “have a clue” when you use a phrase that has been “knocking around” for a long time. “Catch my drift”?

On this particular afternoon I stopped by the store after work to pick up two tomatoes to add to our dinner salad.

I headed to the checkout and saw a younger woman headed there just ahead of me. Both of us were just behind a dapper older gentleman. He quickly turned to the darling younger woman in front of me and motioned her ahead of him in line. I assumed that the generous nature of the man was appeased by that action.

Being in my mid-forties at the time I was no longer under the illusion that my looks would get me any consideration in a grocery checkout line…and I was about to take up my place behind him.

I was pleasantly surprised to see the offer of his hand motioning me ahead of him in line also. Not only surprised, but infused with a fresh feeling of not being so old after all! But observing my plastic bag of tomatoes, he trumped the pleasantness of my own musings by remarking, “I’d do anything for a couple of “tomatoes”!

After living here awhile longer and getting acquainted with more folks I am fairly positive that the gentleman at the grocery store that day was none other than the late Joe Denner. What a gentleman!

In The Company of His Fellow Marines

2009-11-12T13:20:00.001-08:00

My dad is no better than any other single Marine. He is not a combat hero or an academy graduate; he is just a Marine through and through. He plans to be buried in his dress blues - the same attire that he first wore in 1937. That is how he sees himself entering heaven. That is how I see it, too.

I never lived on a military installation but I was born on a base, Sandpoint Naval Air Station in Seattle, Washington. Dad retired in 1959 after completing 22 years in the service. Some might think it tiresome that he continues to interject “old war stories” into today’s conversations but his family realizes that was when dad felt the strongest, the bravest and the proudest – with Marine Corps blood coursing through his veins. Who would ever want that feeling to end and who would not try to keep that feeling alive with the retelling?

Some who served their wartime enlistment and then went on to do “more important” things with their lives sometimes seem to have a dismissive attitude about those who pursued full time military careers. It amazes me that they so soon forgot that a standing military is one of the things that ensured them the privilege of pursuing those other interests.

In this day of U.S. military deployments around the world, and more being planned, it is well to take a moment to consider the individual soldier, sailor, airmen or Marine, which you may know personally, and the family that stays behind to worry and wait.

In my earliest memory of being alive my dad was in Korea for 11 months. I know that I knew him before he left but I have no conscious memories of him before he returned from Korea in 1954. No early memories of my dad because he was serving our country. There must be thousands of current day children experiencing the same thing.

I mentioned earlier the “Marine Corps blood” coursing through my father’s veins. I obviously inherited some of that, and even if I had a complete transfusion it would not alter that for me!

I’m proud of my father and I’m proud that he is still a Marine.

“Semper Fi, dad!”

A Magical Christmas

2009-11-12T13:16:00.000-08:00

It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and I am already prowling around the house looking for the Christmas magazines that I save year after year, and our old holiday movies - anything to rekindle that spark of holiday cheer that seems just below my radar screen at this time of year.

There was a period of time, in our family life, when Christmas seemed to loose it’s spark of cheer. The boys were all grown and away from home. None of them were married yet so there were no grandchildren on the scene.

Hiding deep inside of me there is a memory of the holiday that changed all of that. It was the nearest thing to a perfect holiday, that I have ever experienced, and it happened 13 years ago this month, just before Christmas 1996.

My first grandchild was three weeks old. She was the most precious thing I had ever seen. Okay, so I am a doting grandmother. I admit it. But if you are a grandmother, or a great grandmother (or grandfather) I bet you are one also!

That specific day began with our grown children coming home to make the first Christmas cookies of the season and to help decorate our Christmas tree. That was all the planning I had done for the day. The rest of that day, and the moment of magic, was not something I can take credit for in any way.

As two were in the kitchen baking cookies and one was helping decorate the tree I sat down to hold my tiny granddaughter and get another good look at her. As I sat there in the midst of the pre-Christmas activity happening all around me – the magic began - it started to snow.

You have to understand that I am not a native Oklahoman. I was born in Seattle – in a convergent zone that dumped snow on us every year as I was growing up. So I came to expect that as part of the holiday season. And one other thing you need to know is that I have never had my fill of snow. Except maybe during the blizzard that we just drove through on October 25 from Rapid City, South Dakota - all the way to southern Colorado.

Snow has always been my favorite weather and so there I was, just before Christmas 1996, in a perfect pre-holiday scenario. All of the kids home, and all the Christmas cheer happening around me, and holding my little granddaughter who was about to experience her very first Christmas. Then the snow started falling and that is when the little girl, still inside of me, seemed to experience a Christmas rebirth in my heart.

I think I will go pop Jimmy Stewart’s It’s A Wonderful Life into the DVD player.

How Did YOUR Husband Propose?

2008-01-23T21:49:00.000-08:00

As I recall it, we had been dating for a while and on this particular evening we were seated in his kitchen, going over my bills for the past year. He was going to help me with my income tax - so far, so good.

It gets a bit fuzzy after that, but I seem to remember that the look on his face, as we got deeper into my current debt issues, was reminiscent of the look I had just seen on a face in an old movie. The face belonged to the captain of the Titanic, and he had just come to the realization of what he had hit, and what it meant.

Then my “thrifty” and over 40, knight in shining armor, was telling me, “We have to stop this spiraling debt!” I pressed the point a bit for clarification and, sure enough, he was actually asking me to marry him. Proposal takes on a whole new meaning when it’s stated so glibly.

I quite possibly have selective amnesia on this point but I seem to remember saying, “yes”, and that settled it. We were engaged. (Well, so much for acting like a lady and waiting for the truly romantic gesture).

It is now twenty years later and we still haven’t settled that first order of business. Not the 1987 income tax return, but the spiraling debt. Unfortunately, I seem to have taught him some of my bad financial habits, and what I have learned from him is “justification of expense”. (Aren’t men wonderfully adept at using nomenclature that absolves them from guilt? Phrases like “tax deductible”, or “cost effective” also come to mind.)

Beyond the early years of dating, falling in love and then making it final, together we have traveled a road that has, relationally, had it’s highs and lows.

When we married we were both old enough to know our own minds and occasionally we still use them. We have found that it clears the sinuses and also helps keep the spark of love alive. Humor is our weapon of choice to restore our equilibrium.

What does all this have to do with Valentines Day? Absolutely nothing, except that I feel blessed that we still have each other to pick on and 20 years after the fact I continue to get a kick out of telling others about his “proposal”.

"Happy Valentines Day, honey!"

The Pentagon Letter

2008-01-23T21:24:00.000-08:00

Five years ago I sent this letter to the Pentagon. My dad is now 90 years old and very frail...

----- Original Message -----

To: <hafesscats@pentagon.af.mil>

Sent: Monday, April 07, 2003 12:11 PM

Subject: General Air Force Information

To whom it may concern:

I wanted to send this letter to the Base Commander at Vance Air Force Base in Enid, Oklahoma - but I can't find a name or address so I am sending the letter to this address hoping someone will pass it along.

************************************************************************
April 7, 2003

Commander Vance Air Force Base

Enid, OK.

Dear Sir,
I want to share with you a long over due word of gratitude for an occurrence at your front gate on January 11, 2002 and express a word of appreciation to an unknown Airman under your command who was on guard duty that afternoon.

My dad had been in failing health and was hospitalized in Alva, Oklahoma on Christmas morning 2001. He was 84 years old at the time. He stayed at the hospital five days and remained in frail health for a while after returning home.

My dad is a retired Marine . . . so they use the retirement benefits allotted to them, which includes the use of Vance Air Force Base Pharmacy, Commissary and BX in Enid, Oklahoma. My sister and I drove my folks to Enid for groceries and medicine on that Friday afternoon.

We arrived at the Vance AFB gate about 1 pm. The guard at the gate walked up to the car as I stopped. Dad was sitting on the far side of the backseat. I told the Airman that my father was retired military and passed him dad's military ID. The Airman took the ID . . . read it and raised a salute. Looking at my dad directly and intently he said, "United States Marine Corp (Hoo-Wah) Sir!" And the moment was over. No one in the car, not even my dad, had noticed anything except that we had been saluted onto the base. Which was the normal occurrence.

Here's what I saw: My frail and failing father in the backseat . . . and a young, strong and proudly patriotic Airman at the base gate. The I.D passed to this young Airman . . . he snapped to attention with a crisp salute . . . and in one moment he gave recognition to the meaning behind that I.D. and the years of service it represented: "United States Marine Corp!" and then slightly under his breath, respectfully but conspiratorially - a brother in arms, he gave the low guttural, "Hoo - Wah", then the louder, "Sir!" This Airman did not see a frail old man, he saw an old warrior and paid due respect. I was moved . . .

Dad is now 85 and doing better and has resumed some of his interests. But I don't think I will ever be the same. It has occurred to me since then that being from a military family I should have been more aware of what it cost my dad to be a Marine.

All of my life I have heard dad's "war stories" about Hawaii, the South Pacific and Korea. I never tire of the often-repeated stories - they are a part of the fabric of our family life. But now I have a renewed sense of what those stories represent - thanks to one lone Airman standing his post.

Respectfully,
Patti _______

Alva, OK.

*************************************************************************************

One day, 8 months later, I received this email from Vance Air Force Base:

Dec 4, 2003

Ma'am,

I have finally got the chance to reply to you in regards to a letter that you sent some time ago to the pentagon. The letter you wrote not only touched my heart, it has touched many, many more. This letter came from the pentagon to the whole Air Force, then to my command, and finally to my base. I have received many emails of appreciation through out the world as far as England. I can only thank you finally for your words that symbolize the sacrifices that ALL US Soldiers and Airmen alike have contributed to make this nation free. I feel that I did not deserve such praise for doing my job on that day. But, your letter not only spoke to me, it made our entire command section tear up as well. I am extremely honored to have received such praise from your beautiful words, Thank you for sending your words, and it was an honor to meet your father. For my father was a United States Marine as well. SEMPER FI Ma'am, and my God Speed.

Thank you

MICHAEL _______

A Gift with a Message

2008-01-23T20:06:00.000-08:00

I rushed around cleaning the cabin and watching over the meal that I was preparing for company dinner. I guess I was overly concerned about both things. Here we were in the mountains, at our summer home, enjoying the relaxed environment - that is until today.

The stress of entertaining consumed my heart and made me irritable with my husband and the pets, which were underfoot.

When the guests arrived that evening they handed me a gorgeous bouquet in a beautiful dark blue vase. Deep inside I was chastened!

Beauty for ashes, a moment of truth, whatever you choose to call it when you have an epiphany, I was touched by the gift and moved by the message that fell gently on my “Martha’s heart”.

I had missed the day, as it could have been, and served up the “leftovers” to our gracious friends who, unknowingly, provided me with the one thing that restored a "Mary's heart" within me.

Luke 10:38-42

Yes, Virginia, There is a Response!

2008-01-20T15:32:00.000-08:00

(For this article to make sense one needs to first read the article, by my husband, titled “Domestic Relations 101 – the Handy Man” on his blog at http://coffeehousephilosopher.blogspot.com/)

It is with tongue-in-cheek that I take up my “pen” (i.e. laptop) to defend that most maligned segment of local society known as the fairer sex (aka Feminus Domesticus). This is in response, of course, to the heretofore-unanswered newspaper article written by my distinguished colleague (and husband) Randy Kilbourne. Everyone else may be hesitant to respond – but not me!

Gals, if ever there was a time to stand up and make a difference – it is now! We cannot allow this banter to continue in print without some effort to modify the seemingly ingenuous attack on our credibility. Are we the devious manipulators that the writer hints at or are we firmly within our rights as citizens of the same households as our spouses, to request some level of consideration in regard to home improvements?

Clearly, all home improvements should not be only in the area of the home or yard reserved solely for the benefit of the husband, as in the following examples of male pattern of thinking: “the tool shed needs a new roof”; “my woodworking shop needs some more shelving”; “I need some decking for that new smoker I ordered”; or even better, “I could use a few more feet of space, in the den, for my new wall to wall TV”.

Now, in saying all of that, I need to explain that I have in fact been encouraged, by several of my husband’s coffee shop cronies, to write my own articles depicting the often-discussed antics of Alva’s beloved Coffee Shop Philosopher, but that is for another time. Today I must respond to the unfavorable treatment, in print, of wives who desire a bit of home improvement.

She comes home from a long day out, tired, feet and back aching, on the verge of a headache, and what does she find? Her beloved, who arrived home first, firmly ensconced in front of the massive HD-TV and on the verge of another evening of whatever professional or collegiate sport is in season, with the occasional bounce between the History, Discovery and Military channels. (Let’s see, what will it be this evening? Gridiron glory, hoops glory, historical errors in judgment that could have been averted by anyone in this generation, charting the hitherto unknown, or blasting away at the enemies of our past?)

Realizing that supper preparations by the master of the house would intrude upon this serious conquest, she goes to the kitchen to try and salvage some portion of last nights TV snacks and turn them into a seven-course banquet.

Opening the cupboard to retrieve a mixing bowl she finds herself having to hold the cupboard door, which is hanging by one last un-repaired hinge, as she fumbles through the bowls in the limited shelf space, only to find the desired dish on the bottom of the stack. (Why is the desired item always on the bottom?)

Following the medical rule of ‘first do no harm’ she places the bowl on a carefully chosen spot, avoiding the cracks and stains on the countertop, and proceeds to the simple task of finding a spoon to stir whatever ingredients will soon be added to the bowl.

Reaching for the said utensil, she hesitates and chides herself, once again, for moving that often-used item to the drawer where only four screw holes remain to show where the handles used to be. She is not looking forward to the broken fingernail or possibly skinned fingertip that accompanies trying to lift the drawer open by catching it under the frame, that is now no longer solidly glued to the drawer.

That task accomplished, without harm this time, she crosses the kitchen to the antiquated pantry that sits at the far corner of the kitchen and which is barely large enough to hold just some of the grocery purchases for the month. The one door in the house that she can count on to open easily, and which is perfectly balanced, hides five shelves that are not considered horizontally correct even by the youngest of the grandchildren. “MiMi, why doesn’t the cocoa box stay on the shelf?” Or better yet: “MiMi, why does the can of pears fit on this end of the shelf but not on the other end?”

You get the picture. Down she goes to the master bedroom. Throwing on some freshly laundered, feminine apparel, freshening up her makeup and adding another spray of Gloria Vanderbilt, she returns to the living room. Awaiting the exact moment of a pending touchdown, she walks in front of the HD TV and chirps, “Darling, why don’t we order pizza for the big game this evening?”

“Sure, whatever you’d like,” he replies, craning his neck at a hideous angle so as not to miss the gridiron action.

“By the way,” she continues, “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you for all that you provide for us? But, I was wondering…”

The Christmas Eve Tree

2008-01-17T14:03:00.000-08:00

Has anyone ever told you the story of the Christmas Eve Tree? It is an old, old story and can only be told to others by someone who actually saw it happen. That would be me...

Years ago, when I was just a girl, I happened to see the most amazing thing on Christmas Eve.

It was a dark and snowy Christmas Eve afternoon. I played all my usual games and listened to all my records. I helped my mom make frosted sugar cookies with my little sister. Dad was at the fireplace in the living room adding wood to the crackling fire. My brother was curled up on the couch enjoying a Christmas cookie and reading a Boy’s Life magazine.

I headed to my bedroom to make a Christmas card for the family. I was thinking about all of the Christmas photos I had clipped out of last Decembers Saturday Evening Post.

As I stepped into my room I thought I heard a tinkling sound. It was very faint but very real. I went back to the living room to see if mom was lighting the candles on the Angel Chimes that sat on our old Admiral television. She was not in the living room and the chimes had not been lit.

As I returned to my room I heard the tinkling sound again, a bit louder. I realized that it was a sound I had never heard before. It did not frighten me; it encouraged a feeling of expectation and excitement about Christmas Eve. It also left me wide-awake at midnight, thinking about what that tiny sound could possibly mean.

The rest of the household was sound asleep by then. There it was again – that tiny tinkling sound. It was coming from the living room this time. I crept out of bed and tip toed to the French glass door that separated our living room from the hallway to the bedrooms.

As I peered through the glass my breath caught in my throat. There by the Christmas tree was a menagerie of tiny baby Christmas elves. They appeared to be dropping off of the tree. As I watched I observed that they were indeed falling from their former positions on the tree. The tiny bubbles in the lights were coming to life!

But not just the bubble lights – the ornaments were also being transformed into grown up elves: mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers, all dancing near the Christmas presents and singing Christmas songs known only to them.

I also realized that Santa had not yet come to our house, so I quietly returned to my room and fell fast asleep. The Christmas tree soon looked just as it did when we went to bed.

As I slept I dreamt about what I had just witnessed. My dream revealed that the baby elves and the parents and grandparents…all return to the North Pole every Christmas Eve with Santa. Every Christmas tree, in a truly happy home, produces the new elves that help Santa make the toys for next Christmas.

Now, if you want to be the next one to see this truly awesome thing…you must be at least eleven or possibly twelve years old and not afraid of fairies and elves. Also, you must be able to keep the secret of the Christmas Eve Tree and promise not to reveal it, until you have grandchildren of your own.

(Created December 24, 2007 ... for my 11 year old granddaughter)

Christmas Eve Surprises

2008-01-17T13:59:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there were two little brothers who lived in a log house by the edge of a big dark forest, with their sister, mother and father. The house was also near a big hill that was just perfect for sledding down when there was snow on the ground.

One winter, on Christmas Eve, the two little brothers begged and begged to go sledding. After supper Father said, “Boys, it’s time to go on our Christmas Eve hayride. Get all bundled up in your warmest clothes and put on extra socks before getting into your boots and mittens.”

While the boys were getting into their warmest clothes Father went to the barn and harnessed the matched team of Morgans and hooked them up to the hay wagon. Mother and sister were also hurrying around getting dressed in their warmest clothes and collecting blankets to throw over the hay.

Mother packed a basket of Christmas cookies and apples. Then, when the children were all busy, she sliced several apples in half and cut some carrots into big chunks. These she wrapped separately in a cloth, which she hid in the bottom of the basket.

Father drove the team and wagon close to the front door. Everyone climbed up on top of the warm blankets that covered the hay. Father called to the team and the hayride began.

They sang Christmas carols and then listened intently as Father told them the Christmas story, as it had been told to him as a child, from the Old Book.

Everyone enjoyed the cookies and apples as they rode along on top of the hay watching the snowy fields and snow-laden trees go by on that bright moonlit night.

Soon Father stopped the wagon, and Mother reached into the basket and lifted out the hidden treasure of apples and carrots. Father asked that everyone be very still, and very quiet.

A mother deer and her twin fawns walked out of the forest and onto the road behind the wagon. She hesitated for a moment but then approached the wagon. Mother held out the cloth filled with apples and carrots. The Mother deer took the cloth in her mouth and walked back into the forest with her fawns following close behind. “Merry Christmas, little mother,” said Father, from the wagon seat. Then the wagon was rolling again.

The two little boys were too surprised to speak. Finally the older boy asked, “Father, how did you know that the deer were here and needed something to eat on Christmas Eve?”

“I saw their fresh tracks several weeks ago,” said Father. “Then I started coming here on horseback every few days and leaving food for them. A couple of days ago they came out to meet me when I rode up. I didn’t even get to open the cloth before the mother deer reached her mouth up and let me hand the food to her.”

The contented family headed back toward home to spend the rest of their Christmas Eve celebrating being together, safe and warm, and happy knowing that they were helping some forest creatures to make it through another hard winter.

But Father was not finished with Christmas Eve surprises. Before they reached their home Father stopped the wagon once again, and from beneath the hay he brought out the boys wooden sleds and they spent a happy hour on the snowy slopes beside their snug little log cabin.

(Created December 24, 2007 for my two young grandsons.)

December's Pure Joy

2008-01-17T13:52:00.000-08:00

As we made preparations to take the dogs for a run at the park, I tucked a black plastic trash bag “sled” into my pocket, and we headed out to our 4-WD vehicle. On the road to the park I received a professor/lawyer lecture from my husband (# 499 in the ongoing series) about the risks involved in not being certain of what is under the snow, especially when it is just a black plastic trash bag separating me from the earth.

(I wonder if there happens to be a university somewhere that gives out honorary degrees to professor’s wives with attentive listening skills? Possibly some sort of a “BS” degree?)

We arrived at the park, I began climbing a steep hill that was just perfect for sledding. Being a 52-year-old grandmother I was a bit awkward. This used to be much easier! Hoping to scout out the path I would soon travel down, I used my Nike’s as “bump detectors” and made my way to the top of the hill.

I sat down on my “sled”, and then it happened. Pure joy! I slid my way down through some sort of midlife star gate. When I reached the bottom of the hill it was as if my whole world changed from black and white to color, and I felt totally alive. I don’t believe that would have happened if I had been on a real sled, or a saucer, protecting me from feeling the earth beneath me.

My thirst to repeat the experience kept me climbing up that hill several more times. Two of those times, my scruffy dog, Jake, rode down the hill on top of me.

Jake is my inspiration for cutting loose and enjoying, with pure abandon, whatever is occurring at the present moment. Living in town without a fenced yard Jake stays tied up most of the time. When he does get turned loose he is ecstatic. His joy is boundless, and he runs non-stop.

I stay “tied up” most of the time also - my fenceless yard being grown-up responsibilities. These consume my days, and sometimes my evenings, leaving me numbed and exhausted and falling into bed early so that I can get up the next morning and do the same thing all over again. But not today…

Today I stood on the top of a snowy hill and called to my inner child, “Come out and play!”

A Christmas Message

2007-11-27T11:31:00.000-08:00

His humble beginnings belied the greatness of who He was, and His birth, attended by only a chosen few, was the fulfillment of a promise made centuries before.

There is no photo of Him to accompany this biography. There was never one taken - nor a likeness ever made.

He never commanded an army, was never a head of state. He left behind no great works of art nor personal writings to imprint Himself in history - though the greatest Book ever written was His story, and creation itself His handiwork.

When He was born the nation of Israel was under the rule of Rome and it's emperor, Octavian, better known as Cesar Augustus. Israel was awaiting its promised deliverer.

He grew to manhood and began an itinerant lifestyle. People were drawn to Him, listening to His teachings about the promised kingdom of heaven and it's coming king. He told Israel that this kingdom was at hand. The leaders of the nation scoffed at Him. No one crowned Him king.

Only twelve men belonged to His intimate circle of friends, and even one of those proved disloyal. Children adored Him and were attracted to His loving and joyful nature. The sick and infirmed were not only loved by this Man, but also healed and restored to useful lives.

His life fulfilled over a thousand recorded prophecies that had been given to Israel, not the least of which was that He was the promised Messiah that they were awaiting.

This is the season that we celebrate the birth of this One who was born to give His life as payment for the sins of the whole world. We cannot fully understand that kind of love, we are asked only to believe.

Over two thousand years after His death and resurrection we are still awaiting His return, for that He also promised, and He will surely keep His Word. He proved that when He first walked this earth.

His birth, and His resurrection, was announced by angels, as will be His return:

“For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord...”

My Webshots photos

2007-11-19T05:56:00.000-08:00

Copy the address below and paste it into your Internet address bar.

http://community.webshots.com/user/pkilbourne100?vhost=community

My Songbird

2007-11-19T04:40:00.000-08:00

There is something heart-warming about having a husband who sings and whistles in the shower. It seems to bless the morning household with a feeling of contentment - an “all-is-well-with-my-world” mentality that is contagious.

My particular “Caruso” has a gifted range from the afore mentioned crooner to the Beatles. Some mornings it is just one song sung with a variety of vocal expressions and other mornings he is a songbird trying a repertoire of songs produced by various artists. I have yet to determine if the difference portends the outcome of the day as a whole, a sort of overshadowing of what is to come. Could it be that the choice of one song, with the exclusion of all others, is the forerunner to a day of determined accomplishment, focused on a singular project that needs to gain ground before night falls again? And could the morning shower that offers a large range of songs be prophetic of a day with a myriad of details relating to numerous projects that all need attention?

Interspaced between songs there is sometimes a moment or two of mumbled verbiage that is unintelligible to this makeup applying spouse at the bathroom mirror. This appears to be the private working out of some issue with another person. Within a few moments the songs start again and it is obvious that he has settled the matter to his satisfaction. Another contentment producer for the lady of the house. Her man is in charge again and in control of his world.

Attitude Checkpoints!

2007-11-19T04:32:00.000-08:00

The other day while standing at my kitchen sink I caught myself grumbling under my breath, again, about something my husband did - or did not do. I can’t even remember now what the imagined offense was - but it brings up the point that our internal dialogue plays a huge role in our daily attitude.

Psychologist, Dr. David Stoop, in his book “Self Talk: Key to Personal Growth” (Fleming H. Revell Co. ISBN 0-8007-5074-8) states, “We have been taught to believe that our feelings and emotions are caused by the events in our lives”. He challenges that theory by going on to say that in reality, “thoughts create our emotions”. He maximizes the impact of that premise by sharing that we speak out loud at a rate of about 150 – 200 words per minute, and that some research suggests that we talk privately to ourselves in our thoughts at the rate of about 1300 words per minute.

Dr Stoop goes on, “Many of our thoughts take the form of mental images or concepts, we can think of something in a fleeting moment that would take us many minutes of verbal speech to describe. Even one word in our thoughts can be so saturated with meaning that hundreds of verbal words would be required to explain that one-word thought.”

According to Dr. Stoop, the whole point is that we gain control in our lives by gaining control of our thoughts. Too simple to work? After 20 years of experimenting with this theory, this writer thinks not.

The next time that you find your own internal dialogue turning sour…take control of how you are looking at the problem (or the person!) and choose a different viewpoint. It really can be that simple. My husband is the beneficiary of numerous internal dialogue changes per day! (Smile!)

The Oregon Coast

2007-11-19T04:23:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been an “Oregon person”. I was born in Seattle and lived in Washington State for 23 years and in Southern California for about 3 years. Oregon was just a place to pass through, going back and forth between Washington and California.

In 1977 I moved, from the Pacific Northwest, to Dallas, and then to Oklahoma in 1987. I now live in Oklahoma during the winter, and in the mountains of New Mexico in the summer. I have missed the Pacific Northwest with its coastline and rugged mountains. I never intended to stay in the southwest, but when my sons graduated from college and both married Oklahoma girls, and then added grandchildren to the family, I stayed to be close to them.

On vacation in July of 2005 my husband and I drove the Pacific Coast Highway from Arcata, California to Astoria, Oregon and “discovered” the Oregon Coast. Retracing our steps from the previous year we returned for another look in October of 2006, and then drove it again in October of 2007. We stopped at as many beaches as time would allow and drank in the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and feel of the ocean. I took full advantage of the photo “ops” and then put the camera away and just experienced really being there.

Being away from the Pacific Ocean for 25 years, not tasting its bounty of fresh fish - the one food item I missed since becoming “landlocked”, not smelling the salt air, or feeling the ocean mist on my face, or watching the movement of the waves and the tides, left an ocean-sized vacuum inside of me. And then being on the coast once again…it was as if my eyes could not drink in as much as I wanted to internalize, nor my body hold all the fresh seafood that I wanted to sample. It was a rediscovery of my place of origin that was long overdue. I encouraged and allowed it to completely fill all of my senses. I was alive again!

Hello from Daisy Faith and Me!

2007-11-12T06:30:00.001-08:00